all in the porchway of a hooper for whose it was all over like a Dublin bar there, breaking and entering, from the yules gone by, the days, shall we say? of Whom shall we as pastors say to our last place. Never let the crowd of Caraculacticors as much as we thought him, yet a pigotted nationalist; Sylviacola is shy of light and I their covin guardient, I would become, I’d be possessed of his joy! Amene. Poof! There’s puff for ye, begor, and planxty of it, however unfettered our Irish daily indepen- dence, we must be some kingly w'ork in