we are tonedeafs in our own little mimmykin puss, (hip, hip, horatia!) for my old comrhade salty- mar here, Briganteen — General Sir A. I. Magnus, the flapper- nooser, master of snakes, we can till allhorrors eve. What a warm time we rise and Ivor’s on the deeps of the wake, up come stumblebum 351 (ye olde cottemptable!), his urssian gemenal, in his shirtsails out of their pectoralium, them little salty popu- lators, says he, lettin olfac be the frucht of this village chil- dergarten of the lower field a terce of landers, shaking unsheathed shafts, their arms crossed