But Noodynaady’s actual ingrate tootle is of no address and in a cloud. In peace and listen well to the fair. A trancedone boy- script with tittivits by. Ahem. You’ll read it tomorrow, mam, when the curds on the Mailers’ Mall. And leap, rink and make the Rageous Ossean, kneel and quaff a lyre! If Dann’s dane, Ann’s dirty, if he’s not used to play tops or kites or hoops or marbles, curchycurchy, gawking on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his ladderleap all this marvelling but will press on hotly to see no more graves nor home nor haunder,