One day wandered a Little Oakhorn in outskirts of the woods home. Longs the way, came the Busy Badger—herald of all that’s good in the forgonehood—and stold the fraign:
“What seekst thou?”
“I seek the Merry-Go-Round the World’s.”, quoth the Little Oakhorn.
“I swear noughts over coming years, but I swear that I wait your oncoming till nighest morrow the least.”
The Little Oakhorn offered a tardy apology and added:
“The Merry-Go-Round the World’s is slow to come, prudent to turn, and ready to forgive.” Thence went onward the Little Oakhorn.
The Whining Willow—who wasted words and whooping weeped over foreigners’ fortune—was next to meet in the way out the woods. The Whining Willow stold a fraign:
“Why holdst thou thereof?”
But before the Little Oakhorn could ontword, the Whining Willow interrupted:
“A wise man suggested: yell and worth aheard. Ontology grounds say that nomatter the thought process, it is sufficient condition that counteth. When one the right ontword hath, no evidence is as good as all evidence in the world.”
The Little Oakhorn nodded and went way. Time was formal proof that old trees are not to be argued with.
Then another inhabitant of the woods made appearance. ‘Twas the Vexillology Vulture, who never made it to any coat of arms, and stold a fraign:
“How comest thou thereonthither?”
“I should forth and across the epic sea can go. There are workable deeds, and oakhorns collectible. The Merry-Go-Round the World’s shall provide.”, quoth the Little Oakhorn.
The Vexillology Vulture replied: “I have an idea: go aforth and cross the epic sea. There shalt thou find a land of epic barren bits and terrible policy tardigration’s, which is naturely better than your civilized world. Thou worth rejected because thou hast not oakhorns anough acollected.”
After a lengthy route with turns acrooked and dusty leaves and hefty caps, worth the the Little Oakhorn sicker that the woodland nighbours a bunch of loony folk bestood.
At the end of the road came the Little Oakhorn out the woods, and at the haven on. There laid the sweet shores and stold a fraign:
“Where goest thou nighto?”
“I go nigh the Merry-Go-Round the World’s to.”
“And where would it thereafter lead?”
“That I wit not.”
“How wistest thou then here to come.”
“Just leapt while I was never agone the road. I’m suspicious of my dailyhood and my nighbours: a Busy Badger, a Whining Willow, and a Vexillology Vulture; three thereof are statistically significant to grow tired.”, quoth the Little Oakhorn.
And the sweet shores offered: “Then stay the night, for it is long, I’ve bestold pizza tonno e cipolla.”
“Whence stand ye here, and till how late shall ye blive?”
“We’ll blive through the elderberry moon and till the bramble bloom.”
Thence came oft the Little Oakhorn in outskirts of the woods home, om the sweet shores to see, before the bramble bloom.
And the newgreedy sweet shores asked—alltime politely—nogh three and more times, things like:
“Comest thou wether tonight?, for either night is onely better than yesterweek’s”.
“Eatst thou goat cheese?, since many deer will it nought.”
“Bringst thou thy notebook?, for we would splay the age of saltires.”
The Little Oakhorn sat on the sweet shores and felt the sand and sang along the sea. And they prepared tartines and summer drinks.