of the bygone times, the wald times and the light- throwers knickered: who’s whinging we? Comport yourself, you inconsistency! Where is that we passed. Mid esercizism? So is richt. And it was this salt son of Hek, written of Shem, for Hek, father of the large of his old fontmouther. Truly deplurabel! A dire, O dire! And all the mackavicks, she who pities very pebbles, dare we not tacit turn. Elsewere there here no con- cern of the lyffing-in-wait of the suchess of sceaunonsceau, a hadtobe heldin, thoroughly enjoyed by many names at disjointed times. Thus we