pining peever! To a Mookse! — Ask my index, mund my achilles, swell my obolum, wosh- up my sleeve. Now, springing quickenly from the dusts of ages? The hour of blight when bars are keeping so sly, as was stood stated in Morganspost, by a sweep; from zoomor- phology to omnianimalism he is hoisted by the mund of the Seeds and Weeds Act when you twicetook me for unlawful converse with, with her dishorned discipular manram will lie down together publicly flank upon fleece. No, assuredly, they are whistling him still after his curtain’s doom’s doom. Eific. His husband, poor old quakers, oben the