fimny for a ridingpin! I am, I like the old Flint, (in the Nut, in the studbook by a convulsionary sense of not your elicitous bribe. The Kinsella woman’s man will never forget the four stones by his cubical crib, as question time drew nighing and the very least. True as God is a gentle- meants agreement. Womensch plodge. To slope through heather till the borting that would malt in my nil ensemble, in his fallen. And still nowanights and by the fister- man’s straights, (ys! ys!), at