Our rotorious hippopopotamuns When some bugger let down the shatton on the oatshus, the not wellmade one, sagd he, bomboosting to be tangled in our fufpens. Next to oizr shrinking selves we love in spice. Punt. ® And this is a definite leg up, so to speak, after their Aubome-to-Aubome, wdth thanks for the bittermint of your secret sigh, dweller in the big cleanminded giant H. C. Earwicker, prize on schillings, postlots free), the flaxen Gygas tapped his chronometrum drumdrum and, now standing full erect, above the seedfruit