But the hour, the smiting, the day of decision is not now. A bone, a pebble, a ramskin; chip them, chap them, cut them up allways; leave them to terracook in the slowth of the muttheringpot: and Gutenmorg with his cromagnom charter, tintingfast and great primer must once for omniboss step rubrickredd out of the wordpress else is there no virtue more in alcohoran. For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. Till Ye finally (though not yet endlike) meet with the acquaintance of Mister Typus, Mistress Tope and all the little typtopies. Fillstup. So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends Jined (may his forehead be darkened with mud who would sunder!) till Daleth, mahomahouma, who oped it, closeth thereof the. Dor.

Cry not yet! There’s many a smile to Nondum, with sytty maids per man, sir, and the park’s so dark by kindlelight. But look what you have in your handself! The movibles are scrawling in motions, marching, all of them ago, in pitpat and zingzang, for every busy eerie whig’s a bit of a torytale to tell. One’s upon a thyme and two’s behind their lettice leaf and three’s among the strubbely beds. And the chicks picked their teeths and the dombkey he begay began. You can ask your ass if he believes it. And so cuddy me only wallops have heels. That one of a wife with folty barnets. For then was the age when hoops ran high. Of a noarch and a chopwife; or of a pomme full grave and a fammy of levity; or of golden youths that wanted gelding; or of what the mischievmiss made a man do. Malmarriedad he was reversogassed by the frisque of her frasques and her prytty pyrrhique. Maye faye, she’s la gaye, this snaky woman! From that trippiery toe expectungpelick! Veil volantine, valentine eyes. She’s the very besch Winnie blows Nau on good. Flou inn, flow ann. Hohore! So it’s sure it was her not we! But lay it easy, gentle mien, we are in nearing of a norewhig. So weenybeenyveenyteeny. Comsy see! Het wis if ee newt. Lissom! Lissom! I am doing it. Hark, the corne entreats! And the larpnotes prittle.

It was of a night, late, lang time agone, in an auldstane eld, when Adam was delvin and his madameen spinning watersilts, when mulk mounty -notty man was everybully and the first leal ribberrobber that ever had her ainway everybuddy else to his lovesaking eyes and when everybilly lived alove with everybiddy else and Jarl van Hoother had his burnt head high up in his lamphouse, laying cold hands on himself. And his two little jiminies, cousins of ours, Tristopher and Hilary, were kickaheeling their dummy on the oilcloth flure of his homerigh, castle and earthenhouse. And, be dermot, who come to the keep of his inn only the niece-of-his-in-law, the prankquean. And the prankquean pulled a rosy one and made her wit forenenst the dour. And she lit up and fireland was ablaze. And spoke she to the dour in her petty perusienne: Mark the Wans, why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease? And that was how the skirtmisshes began. But the dour handworded her grace in dootch nossow: Shut! So her grace o’malice kidsnapped up the jiminy Tristopher and into the shandy westerness she rain, rain, rain.