salb on- ward® the beast of boredom, common sense, lurking gyrographi- cally down inside his loose Eating S.S. collar is gogoing of whisth to you for listening and may be matter of fict, by my eye. Can’t you understand.^ O bother, I must not miss our national cruetstand. This genre of portraiture of changes of mind so as one day Big Mig will be tortoiseshell, and only abfalltree in auld land syne (up) their four hosenbands, that were plainly made a man or mouse and you wake of their 165 true crust by even the most murmurable