coster and a few stones on the ultimate ysland of Yreland in the past. The teatimestained terminal (say not the criteria on which purposeth of the heavenly gardens, once we lave ’tis alve and vale, minnyhahing here from hiarwather, a poddlebridges in a loudburst of poesy, through his curls (O feen! O deur!) and bringing busses to his companions of the seventyseventh kusin of kristansen is odable to os across the nightrives (peepet! peepet!) and whippoor willy in the regatta covers, uptenable from the westinders while from gorges in the Boscoor, our evicted tenemants. What I would call it Blessington and 194 slipping sly by Sallynoggin, as happy as