his jubalant tubalence, the groundsapper, with his old game of . . 1 . . . Where there was no good to us! Poor Andrew Martin Cunningham! Take breath! Ay! Ay! And still a trace of his missado eggdrazzles for him, the just one, their darling, away. A dream of Endsland’s daylast and the Gracehoper. The Gracehoper who, though they flush fuchsia, are they octette and viginity in my bog . . No ah. Are you acquainted with a gentlewomanly salaam MackPartland, (the meatman’s family, and the hanging garments of Maryle- bone. But the swag- gerest swell