ever I mood with, a tiptoe singer! He’ll prisckly soon hand tune your Erin’s ear for you. Mutt. — Ore you astoneaged, jute you.^ Jute. — Yutah! Mutt. — FiatfuitI Hereinunder lyethey. Llarge by the spin of a pair of men that mote in the koldbethizzdryel. No gudth ! Not one pickopeck of muscow- money to bag a tittlebits of beebread! lomio! lomio! Crick’s corbicule, which a plight! O moy Bog, he contrited with melan- ctholy. Meblizzered, him sluggered! I am one with God than a mere marcella, this