Motley's the only wear.

Here was a sober young Harlemite in a gamely tilted bowler with a little French mustache.

'Catch the slut. You sha'n't budge—not a foot—hold her,' cried M. M. to the bailiff. 'Baugh!' was his answer.

I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, / And the wild water lapping on the crag.