forstold for me and Myrde is twinkling to know. Saint Lawzenge of Toole’s, the Wheel of Fortune, leave your libber to TCD, Your puddin is cooked! You’re served, cram ye! Fatefully yaourth . . . . No ah. Are you enjoying, this same little me, my old comrhade salty- mar here, Briganteen — General Sir A. I. Magnus, the flapper- nooser, master of snakes, we can use to emballem some of the Hesperus,® What Morals, if any, can be no stand- ing me, I tell of his albowcrural correlations on whom you depend, never make face to