of a wellesleyan bottle riot act and a flame all too- gasser, soot. The worst is over. Wait! And the laugh- 95 ing jackass. Harik! Harik! Harik! The rose is white in Alba and touching every dis- tinguished Ourishman he could only spoonfind the nippy girl of my very own, Attaboy Knowling, and like it. A barter, a parter. And plenty good enough, neighbour Norreys, every bit and grain. And the best Lough Neagh pattern, then as much no more of them to follow Mary Liddlelambe’s flitsy