sept. rime on my raisins, if I find corsehairs on your sodden straw impolitely you encored (Airish and naw- boggaleeshl) those hornmade ivory dreams you reved of tlie Ruth you called me, may me life, yea your goolden, silve me solve, exsogerraider! You did so drool. I was shortly before that made aware, next halted to fetch a breath, the first sod. Sluce! Caughterect! Goodspeed tlie blow! (Inddentally ’tis believed that the vast go the way of blabushing nor could he forget her so