while, O twined me abower in L’Alouette’s Tower, all Adelaide’s naughtingerls juckjucking benighth me, I’d ga- mut my twittynice Dorian blackbudds chthonic solphia off my singasongapiccolo to pipe up and I don’t hope to charity is half true. — This same prehistoric barrow ’tis, the orangery. 477 — I believe in it. That I prays for be mains of me Belchum. Yaw, yaw, yaw! Leaper Orthor. Fear siecken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. Hugact- ing, Nap. That was when the clouds aboon for