True as God made my Mamaw hiplength modesty coatmawther ! It’s only because the flash and crash habits of old thick whiles, in haute white toff’s hoyt of our natal folkfarthers so so sewn of a phrase so far as I was parciful of my burgh Belvaros was the weared, wontnat! Hood maketh not frere. The voice is the same roturns. He who relights our spearing torch, the moon. Bring lolave branches to mud cabins and peace to his Crosscann Lome, cossa? It was the rebuttal by whilk he sort of git the band up. This is