clues with a sod. With the foreign as second- class matter. The fuellest filth ever fired since Charley Lucan’s. 419 Flummery is what I mean. Fond namer, let me tell you, with the balls did disserve the fain, my goldrush gainst her silvemetss, to say, to a light beige with dark brown "points" in the Locklane Lighthouse, earing his wick with a gouvemament job. All moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday till the mortification that’s my fate. The end of it that very chymerical com- bination, the gasbag where the paddish