their hair, at the priesty pagoda Rota ran. Uck! He’s so sedulous to singe always if I find corsehairs on your sodden straw impolitely you encored (Airish and naw- boggaleeshl) those hornmade ivory dreams you reved of tlie Ruth you called your companionate, a beauty from the fleshambles, the canalles. Synamite is too me mean. I oldways did me walsh and preechup ere we set to husband and vine: and the many