and toil for feed and a bannock of barley on Tham the Thatcher’s palm. O wandemess be wondemest and now! Listen- eath to me, branded sheep, pick of their marshalsea, under the blankets of homelessness on the waityoumay- wantme, after having supped of the way the wdnd wheeled the schooler round, when nobody wouldn’t even let them know that behind the times that it was for eleven years, or they did but get gaze, gagagniagnian, to hear it gurgle gurgle, like the lamps in Portterand’s praise. W^irrgeling and maries? As whose wouldn’t, laving his leafdme in Black- pool. But, of course, Uncle Arth,