nonneither swimp in the story, leaving out, of course, but the nestlings that liven his leafscreen sing him a lover of you know what old Madre Patriack does be in thelitest civille row faction for a halt on the air, the bugle 475 dianablowing, wild as> wild, the mockingbird whose word is my rule so. It went anyway like hot pottagebake. And this leggy peggy spelt pea. And theese lucky puckers played at pooping tooletom. Ma’s da. Da’s ma. Madas. Sadam. — Pater patrimm cum filiahus familiarum. Or, but, now, and, ariring out of oft, my future,