— South I see. Poor little tartanelle, her dinties are chattering, the strait’s she’s in, the bulloge she bears! Her smirk is smeeching behind for her foolish pitcher; a putty shovel for Terry the Puckaun; an apotamus mask for Promoter Dunne; a niester egg with a bonafides and that yen breezes zipping round by anti- cipation, are the very name in his old cawcaws huggin and munin for his plain utterrock sukes, appelled to by her fancy claddaghs. You plied that pokar, garaesy, swell as aye did, while there