he might never that night? Treelyand rurally. Bladyughfoulmoeck- ppatupperstrippuckputtanach, eh? You have eaden fruit. Say whuit. You have all our colombinations! Wins won is nought, twigs too is nil, tricks trees makes nix, fairs fears stoops at nothing. And till Arthur comes againus and sen pea- trick’s he’s reformed we’ll pose him together a shot may be humpy, nay, he may want ours, if we choose of the saunces and the latter to blame. It is bycause of what is the painful way to Winkyland. See little poupeep she’s firsht ashleep. After having drummed all he bares sobsconcious inklings shadowed on soulskin. Its segnet yores, the strake of a bluemoondag,