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Suddenly a faint piping voice floated in upon the glen: Little childwen pwessing near To the feet of Thwist, the Ting, Have you neiver doubt nor fear Or some twibute do you bwing? And Bug Buler, flushed and splashed, and generally muddy and happy, came around the fallen ledges and debauched into the grassy sunshiny space before the cavern.
Narcisse bowed solemnly. "Gone, Mistoo Itchlin. Since the seventeenth of last; yesseh. 'Kig the bucket, as the povvub say." He showed an extra band of black drawn neatly around his new straw hat. "I thought it but p'opeh to put some moaning as a species of twibute." He restored the hat to his head. "You like the tas'e of that, Mistoo Itchlin?"
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