A crockodile eats a native, who in revenge beats it insensible with a banana, establishing meanwhile a re- ligious cult based on consubstantial intangibility. Personne ne m’aime et j’ai les mains froides. His Royal Highness said “peek-a-boo” and thirty tame fleas left the prettily embroidered howdah im- mediately. Thumbprints of an angel named Frederick found on a lightning-rod, Boston, Mass. such were the not unhurried reflections to which my organ of imperception gave birth to which i should or- dinarily have objected to which, considering the back- ground, it is hardly surprising if anyone hardly should call exactly extraordinary. We refer, of course, to my position. A bachelor incapable of occupation, he had long suppressed the desire to suppress the suppressed desire of shall we say: Idleness, while meaning its opposite? Nothing could be clearer to all concerned than that i am not a policeman. Meanwhile the tea regressed. Kipling again H. G. Wells, and Anatole France shook hands again and yet again shook again hands again, the former coachman with a pipewrench of the again latter then opening a box of newly without exaggeration shot with some difficulty sardines. Mr. Wiggin took Wrs. Miggin’s harm in is, extinguishing the spitoon by a candle furnished by courtesy of the management on Thursdays, opposite which a church stood perfectly upright but not piano item:a water- melon causes indigestion to William Cullen Longfel- low’s small negro son, Henry Wordsworth Bryant. By this time,however,the flight of crows had ceased. I withdrew my hands from the tennisracket. All was over. One brief convulsive octopus, and then our hero folded his umbrella. It seemed too beautiful. Let us perhaps excuse me if i repeat himself:these,or nearly these,were the not unpainful thoughts which occupied the subject of our attention;to speak even less objectively,i was horribly scared i would actually fall off the rail before the really train after all arrived. If i should have made this perfectly clear,it entirely would have been not my fault. XXXIX voices to voices, lip to lip i swear (to noone everyone) constitutes undying; or whatever this and that petal confutes. . . to exist being a peculiar form of sleep what’s beyond logic happens beneath will; nor can these moments be translated: i say that even after April by God there is no excuse for May --bring forth your flowers and machinery:sculpture and prose flowers guess and miss machinery is the more accurate, yes it delivers the goods, Heaven knows (yet are we mindful, though not as yet awake, of ourselves which shout and cling, being for a little while and which easily break in spite of the best overseeing) i mean that the blond absence of any program except last and always and first to live makes unimportant what i and you believe; not for philosophy does this rose give a damn. . .