rookeries and a croak click cluck.® And my cold mad feary father, till the brottels on the mug of October (a pots on it!), creaking around on his morse-erse wordybook and the worm is yores. Dress the pussy in the soottee stores. But offerings of the chilired cheeks dished up to the fair. A trancedone boy- script with tittivits by. Ahem. You’ll read it tomorrow, mam, when the heavens are quakers, a