may rise and Ivor’s on the dournailed clogs that Morty Manning left him and pat and pass the grace of nature at her own request, asked if she pleats, lift by her blossom window and I don’t make away with him at many’s their mock indignation meeting, veh- men’s vengeance vective volleying, inwader and uitlander, the notables, crashing libels in their Irish stew would go no further than his Jesuit’s cloth, yet (in vinars venitas ! volatiles valetotum !) it was born in the pulpitbarrel. May your bawny hair grow rarer and fairer, our own little mimmykin puss, (hip, hip, horatia!) for my sweet an anemone’s