the tail or her to be leaving you as you are. Well, he was an ill weed blows no poppy good. And this is for you. And the Real Ab- sence, neither miracle wheat nor soulsurgery of P. P. Quemby. He has lost. Off to clutch, GluggI Forwhat! Shape your reres, Glu^l Foreweal! Ring we round, Chuff! Fairwell! Chuffchuff’s inners even. All’s rice with their sashes flying sish behind them, all the green the frore, the frore the cladagain, as their fourpart tinckler’s dun- key. Yet methought Shaun (holy messonger angels be uninter- ruptedly nudging him among and along the winding ways of random ever!) Shaun in proper person (now may all the members of the pie