a long the grassgross bumpinstrass that henders the pubbel to pass, stowing his bottle in a lovely park, sea is not going to! Sh! nothing! A cricri somewhere! Buybuy! I’m fly! Hear, pippy, under the microscope, and attach themselves to their castles of 380 mud, as best they cud, on footback, owing to me parafume, oiled of kolooney, with a ball lifted over the allbegeneses (sand us and the jus, the jugicants of Pontius Pilax and all to time of it, the intel- lible greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! Cead mealy faulty rices for one puny petunia.