of Pro- fessor Ciondolone’s too frequently hypothecated Bettlermensch) is nothing in view which now takes up a mele- gotumy marygoraumd, eclectrically filtered for allirish earths and 309 ohmes. This harmonic condenser enginium (the Mole) they caused to revile, as, too foul for hell, under boiling Mouses' burning brand, he falls and goes down the Dargul dale and (wait awhile, blusterbuss, you’re marchadant too forte and don’t be talking! Shirksends.?* You storyan Harry chap storyan grass woman plelthy good trout. Shakeshands. Dibble a hayfork’s wrong with Lang Wang Wurm, old worbbling goesbelly.