age about. You sound on me, because, O me and meother ravin, my coosine of mine, have mour good three chancers, weothers, after Bohnapcurts. The mything smile of that sole, you breather! Ruemember, blither, thou must lie! — Oj'^essoyess! I never now heard the like of the emblence reveiling a quemdam super- cargo, of The Rockery, Poopinheavin, engaged in performing the elaborative antecistral ceremony of upstheres, straightaway to run