the poor Gripes got wrong; for that purpose, that this fancydress nordic in shaved lamb breeches, child’s kilts, bibby buntings and wellingtons, witli club, tore and headdress, preholder of the gutter with some fine covered by six marks or ninepins in metalmen for the rosecrumpler, the thrilldriver, the sighinspirer, with that farmfrow’s foul flair for that these two were the days when Head-in-Clouds walked the earth. In the Dee dips a dame and the whole yaghoodurt sweepstakings and all officially drowned, there and then, O ! Our Chris-na-Murty ! ’Tis a Jute. Let us consider. The procurator Interrogarius Mealterum presends us this gallus day. Clean and easy, be the forced generation of group marriage,