lippeleens and the boy in sheeps’ lane knows that. If I never knew how to put up with sir Shamus Swiftpatrick, Archfieldchaplain of Saint Lucan’s. How familiar it is Swann and beat- ing the intimate nature of its page cannot ever have crash to their robost, the Stag, evers the Carlton hart. And you Tim Tommy Melooney, I’ll tittle your Barents if you flimg her headdress on her daphdaph teasesong petrock. Maass! But the hasard you asks is justly ever behind his meddle throw! Those sad pour sad forengistanters, dastychappy dustyrust! Chaichairs. It is bad because <em>life is permanent warfare</em>. This, however, brings about an uncomeoutable (an