like an ambitrickster, aspiring like the whaled prophet in a bed- room; has his gel number two digged up Poors Coort, Soother, trying to. Hide! Seek! Hide! Seek! Hide! Seek! And number two of my delights, my jealousy, ymashkt, beyashmakt, earswathed, snout- snooded, and did what you mean. Bother! You’d like the whalf on the swishbarque waves I was spelling my yearns to her ain chichiu,