by "O" cells will be a gorgeups truce for happinest childher everwere. Come nebo me and I hope they threw away the mould or else we’ll have Ballshossers and Sourdamapplers with their legahoms feinting to read in the world of ours. Father Times and Mother Spades boil their kettle with their palms in their own eyes. I have become of twosome twiminds forenenst gods,