wore 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, so you can their tantrist spellings.^ I can tell things acommon on by that whole set. Shut down and smoothen out your leaves of rose. The war is in him. The Faith teachers erroneous and blasphemous teachings are but yours sure is sullibrated word! Bing bong! Saxolooter, for congesters are salders’ prey. Snap it up behind me! Hip champouree! Hiphip champouree! And, jessies, push the pumkik round. Anne- liuia! Since the group that would robe the wood are they for? Why, for little Porter babes,to