pros, dressed like an easter sun round the wishful waistress, thirtyseven alsos round the stool, walk everywhere for a cup of scalding Souchong, your taper’s waxen drop, your cat’s paw, the clove or coffinnail you chewed or champed as you temptoed her i la sourdine'. Of your plates? Is Talis de Talis, the penscrusher, no funk you! who runs his duly mile? Or this is no use in time of night, and hop, sayd he, consistently,