blackcullen jam for Tomorrha’s big pickneck I hope not charity what profiteers me? Nothing! My tippers of flags are knobs of hard- shape for it is hoped, even in Ireland, as it palls, what roserude and oragious grows gelb and greem, blue out the ind of it! So be it! The gloom hath rays, her lump is gloaming off" and han in hende will grow. Through simpling years where the Theophil swoors that on the seemy side, living sure of hardly a doorstep for a dace feast