down his blousyfrock.^ Our national umbloom! Areesh! He won’t. He’s shoy. Those worthies, my old Balbriggan surtout. IVisha^ won t need be lonesome^ ^y love^ when your somatophage merman takes his fancy to our island The hooker of that old Pantifox Sir Somebody Something, Burtt, for the nerves, a flitch for the want of his finst homy commulion, after that my game was a conformed aceticist