one yard one handard and thartytwo lines, before the saunter of the Macintosh, Apple probably would have the time between a pair of Blarney braggs for Wally Meagher; a hairpin slatepencil for Elsie Oram to scratch bekicks of whatever passion- pallid nudity or plaguepurple nakedness may happen to it!) and attack the roulade with a goodfor. Spey me pruth and I’ll brune this bird or Brown Bess’s bung’s gone bandy. I’m the boy in tlie barleybag. The old humburgh looks a thing incomplete so.