" "Oh, Jack!" cried his mother, falling upon his neck, and covering him with kisses. I’m a little tired. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin.
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