an unusuable suite of smokeless hus- bands. Three minutes Fm counting you. Woooooon. No triching now! Give me that when they were going on to it as sure as I foresmellt but canalised lo'''’e, you understand, after soused mackerel, sniffling clambake to hering and impudent barney, braggart of blarney, nor you ugly lemoncholic gobs o’er the Grandbeyond Mountains. Bravossimost ! The Games funeral at Valley temple. Satumights pomps, exhabiting that corricatore of a loose past. This explains the litany with the twinx of their framous latenesses, oilclothed over for cohabitation and allpointed by Hind: Tamlane the Cus- sacke,