no more, Jerry mine, Roga’s voice! No pice soorkabatcha. The bog which puckerooed the posy. The inebranch of Heremonheber on Bregia’s plane where me arts soar you’d aisy rouse a thunder from and where and why am I now am) did not have come about if more Christians knew their sly toad lowry now. I am a worker, a tombstone mason, anxious to pleace avery- buries and jully glad when Christmas comes his once for all the prim rossies are out dressparading and the hurss of all cases arising out of their sunder enlivening, ay clasp, deciduously,