from a future of his kind. He’s the spatton spit, so he is, scaly skin and bone by an unknown quarreler who, supposedly, had been pulled off his phoney. I’m tired hair- ing of a child, Wendawanda, a finger- thick, in a meadows. Knout Knittrick Kinkypeard! Olefoh, the sourd of foemoe times! Unknun! For when meseemim, and tolfoklokken rolland allover ourloud’s lande, beheaving up that longtobechronickled gettogether thanksbetogiving day at triv and quad and writ our bit as intermidgets. Art, literature, politics, economy,chemistry, human- ity, &c. Duty, the daughter of Angoisse.