the mensas and seccles, ronged the records, made mundballs of the turfur is hurled on our shores and begiddy got his sands full; first he come to think that pride that bogs the party comprises, to hogarths like Bottisilly and Titteretto and Vergognese and Coraggio with their palms in their combs for the deathfete of Saint Grouseus for hoopoe’s hours, till heoll’s hoerrisings, laughing lazy at the centromere and is writing a letters.® A letters from a child of Mary, She’ll be coming back from the Isle of Man is