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LITTLE MR. BOUNCER
pinched Huz and Buz's tails and made them bark that would help us a bit. Or, as your shop is called the Woodlands, we might sing in chorus, 'Haste to the
woodlands, haste away! Lads and lasses, all so gay!' Whichever you choose, my little dears; we are in no ways pertickler, especially when you pays your money, wipes your innocent noses, and don't breathe on the glasses."
But although Mr. Smalls did not, like the Irish pos-