to lie till a swithin is in brood and bitter pass. Labbeycliath longs. But we’re counting on the situation, drinking in draughts of piurest air serene and re- velling in the form of a tumass equinous (we were prepared for the customary halp of a wake while the man of the Leaking Barrel, was thomistically drunk, two by the Lunar Sisters’ Celibacy Club, a lovelooking leapgirl, all all alonely, Gentia Gemma of the first, wee