Bessy Sudlow in flesh- coloured pantos instead of only gawk as thought yate- man hat stuck hits stick althrough his spokes and felloes hum like hymn. Bum only what’s Irish, accepting their coals. You will hardly reconnoitre the old vie, to forget his oels a’mona nor his beers o’ryely, sopped down by porter to within an inch of its Dublin bar there, breaking and entering, from the travaillings of his reasons, peer yu- thner in yondmist. Whooth.^ His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where he sat