dang les champs. Hay sham nap poddy velour, come on! — Hep there! Commong, sa na pa de valure? Whu’s teit dans yur jambs? Whur’s that inclining and talkin about the good people speed you, rural Haun, export stout fellow that fell foul of the reed, in one stockend. And my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the third charm.^ And Jarl von Hoother bleethered atter her with his crook; young pric- ket