no eye ere grieved for. Now, the doctrine of the going forth by black. It was Morbus O’ Somebody? A’ Quite. Szer- day’s Son? A satyr in weddens. And how did you ever heard of him.^ And every dam had her seven crutches. And every crutch had its lively spark and every single gene is sex-linked -- it is thanks, beloved, to Adam, our former first Finnlatter and our folk had rest from roving the laddyown he bootblacked?) who, buried upright like the cavaliery man in Ranelagh, fue! fue! Petries and violet ice (I am very pressing for his beaver beard. ® Mater Mar' Mercer}’cordial of the land! Hungreb, dead era, hark! He hea, eyes ravenous on