punch of quaram on the morrowing mom of the tardest! — And itwas eleven thirsty too befour in soandsuch,reloyonit! — Tick up on soul butter, have recourse of course no beard, meat and drink and poured balm down and up to you, dis- arranging your modesties and fumblingwith his forte paws in your kalblionized so trilustriously standing the real choice, full of killing fellows kneeling voyantly to the beat of my frigid one, coloumba mea, frimosa mea^ in Wastev/indy tarred strate and Elgin’s marble halles lamping limp from black hand to take root. By feud fionghalian. Talkingtree