ldideery, O,
Undauntable Dubbuldideery.

"He cut him an Ukka crutch, hobbled along,
Till Tishnar's sweet river came near he, O--
The wonderful waters of 'Old-Made-Young,'
A-shining for Dubbuldideery, O,
Wan, wizened old Dubbuldideery.

"He drank, and he drank--and he drank--and he--drank:
No more was he old and weary, O,
But weak as a babby he fell in the river,
And drownded was Dubbuldideery, O,
Drown-ded was Dubbuldideery!"

[Illustration: WITH STICKS AND STAVES AND FLARING TORCHES THEY
TURNED ON THE FIERCE BIRDS THAT CAME SWEEPING AND SWIRLING OUT
OF THE DARK.]

It was a long song, and it lasted a long time, and so many were the
verses, that at last even the Men of the Mountains caught up the crazy
Mulgar drone and wheezily joined in, too. A very dismal music it was--so
dismal, indeed, that many of the eagles who make their nests or eyries
in the crevices and ledges of the topmost crags of Arakkaboa flew
screaming into the air, sweeping on their motionless wings between the
stars over the echoing precipices.

The travellers had set to the last verse of the Journey-Song more
lustily than ever, when of a sudden one of these eagles, crested, and
bronze in the torchlight, swooped so close in its anger of the voices
that it swept off Thumb's wool hat. In his haste he heedlessly struck at
the shining bird with his staff or cudgel. Its scream rose sudden and
piercing as it soared, dizzily wheeling in its anger, at evens with the
glassy peak of Kush. Too late the Men of the Mountains cried out on
Thumb to beware. In an instant the night was astir, the air forked with
wings. From every peak the eagles swooped upon the Mulgars. And soon the
travellers were fighting wildly to beat them off. They hastily laid poor
Thimble down in his sling and covered up his eyes from the tumult with a
shadow-blanket. And with sticks and staves and flaring torches they
turned on the fierce birds that came sweeping and swirling out of the
dark upon them on bristling feathers, with ravening beaks and talons.
But against Thumb the eagles fought most angrily for his insult to their
Prince, hovering with piercing battle-cry, their huge wings beating a
dreadful wind upon his cowering head. Nod, while he himself was
buffeting, ducking and dodging, could hear Thumb breathing and coughing
and raining blows with his great cudgel. The moon was now sliding
towards the mout