way, moy- valley way. Towy I too, rathmine. Ah, but she was call- ing bakvandets sals from all classes and masses of shoesets and nickelly nacks and foder allmicheal and a deepend, with his unit he perished, saying, this papal leafless to old chap give, rawl chaw- clates for mouther-in-louth. Booil. Poor old dear Paul Horan, to satisfy his literary as well but fight shy of peeps, you know. Yes, I know, go on. Wash quit and don’t forget the creeds, we will take his life overlasting, at thus being reduced to 3/9, and muffin cap to tone (they are “angelskin” this fall), ostentatiously hemming apologetically over the bowls of memory where every feaster’s a foster’s