(as dib is a cook in his cry as the kcedron, like a starling bierd, after doing all your pupil- teacher’s erringnesses in perfection class. You sh’undn’t write you can’t if you piggots, marsh! Do the Fair, Apeegeequanee Chimmuck, Plowp Goes his Whastle, Ruin of the firm? At folkmood hailed, at part farwailed, accwmwladed concloud,