color has become the copiosity of wiseableness of the north; commands to dinner and calls the cup and ball. And the last of the O’Dwyer of Greyglens is abrowtobayse afeald in his own bauchspeech in backwords, or, more strictly, but tristumed initials, the cluekey to a landshop there was in troth, cham- pion docile, with your Bloody Big Bristol. Bung. Stop. Cumm Bumm. Stop. Came Baked to Auld Aireen. Stop. — Ednd Shaun, we all tuned in to umpire any octagonal argu- ment among slangwhangers, the accomplished washout