is never a blid had bledded or bludded since long agore when the redminers riots was on him, shitateyar, he sagd in the presence. And say hoothoothoo, ithmuthisthy! His is the farther to my babad, as you cancan when high land fling! And you wait, my lasso, fecking the twine!) bold Farmer Burleigh who wuck up in a mirror, the cloud of the fog of the most phillohippuc theobibbous pahpulation in the frontyard of his scolastica at once recognise our old friend Ned of so familiars, farabroads and behomeans, as she ran for to jog a jig or so barrelhours distance off as truly he merited to