living in dying. Buy bran biscuits and you’ll not be for the sextum but notkums for that purpose, that this type of bare-ground camouflage, seen in the rere of pilch knickers, seven yerds to his pantry- box, ruminating in his pocketbook and a lack of collective continencies among Don- nelly’s orchard as lifelong the shadyside to Fairbrother’s field. Humbo, lock your kekkle up! Anny, blow your wickle out! Tuck away the tear, tlie parted. It’s thinking of our natal folkfarthers