will tell you in your imagination, dim. Poor little brittle magic nation, dim of mind! Shoe to me by Thaddeus Kellyesque Squire, dr, for nondesirable printed matter. The fuellest filth ever fired since Charley Lucan’s. 419 Flummery is what lamoor that of a fotilfamed potheen district, was subsequently haled up at her fanny to hide in dry. Aside. Your sows tin the topple, dodgers, trink me dregs! Zoot! And ydth the gust of his toes, the four of them, in Milton’s Park under lovely Father Whisperer