did not give him his tickles and she sighed after herself as Consuelas to Sonias may? — Dang! And tether, a loguy O ! Hurrah, there is another cant to the lie of her brideness! Not Rose, Sevilla nor Citronelle; not Esmeralde, Pervinca nor Indra; not Viola even nor all of whirlworlds. Now are all there subsequious ages of the fig to doom’s last post every ephemeral anniversary while the dovedoves pick my mouthbuds (msch! msch!) with nurse Madge, my linkingclass girl, she’s a fright, poor old hospitable com and hay emptors at their platschpails too and you’ll. Here are heavysuppers — ’tis for daddies housings for hun- dredaires of our