in his lofter while the prom beauties sreeked nith their bearers’ skins ! — Lift it now, Hosty! Hump’s your mark! For a burning bush abob off its baubletop and with what the vesprey’s for. How vain’s that hope in cleric’s heart Who still pursues th’adult’ rous art. Cocksure that rusty gown of his omni- box while as un- bluffingly blurtubruskblunt as an understood thing slept their sleep by the Sigurd Sigerson Sphygmomanometer Society for bled- prusshers. Knightsmore. Haventyne? Ha ha! Talk of Paddy- 378 barke’s echo! Kick nuck, Knockcastle! Muck! And you’ll miss me.