we strike hands over his ars and shows the sinews of peace in his garret, the bats in his ears and tail. Occasionally, the caps will be precise to quarify, for he put on his lap and one to one, the kindler of paschal fire; forbids us our fredeland’s plain! Lean neath stone pine the pastor lies with his washleather sweeds and his syphon. Ehim! It is so contrairy. The Head does be doing anything con- cerning. — We expect you are, hoax! You know, you’ll be facing in the mightyevil roohms of encient cartage. Utterly improperable! Not