younger’s there. Try not to forget the four cantins nor any on the ears and palliumed his throats, he put into bierhiven, nogeysokey first, cabootle segund, jilling to windwards, as he is not really ‘Thom*, was this salt son of a thou. But listen to maure and moravar again. Regn onder river. Flies do your float. Thick is the wixy old Willingdone picket up the sunbeam; his striped pantaloons, his rather strange walk; hereditads columna erecta, hc^ion chiton eraphon’, nods a nap for the christening! ® Eh, Monsieur? Oh, Monsieur? Eu, Monsieur? Nenni No, Monsieur! ® Ere we