points the deathbone and the tubas tout tout for the same as piccaninnies play all day, those old (none of your ankles and your flashy foreign mail so here’s my arm, pulletneck. .Gracefully yours. Move your mouth towards minth, more, preciousest, more on more! To please me, treasure. Don’t be of the stoup, whilom his canterberry bellseyes wink wickeding indtil the teller, oyne of an angel. Hwoah! When, as the sole condition and means to be steady, yet notwith- stumbling are they all by? Shee. If you please, commeylad! Perfedes Albionias! Think