Tishnar's hymn to his poor old mother. He baked her sweet
potatoes and Nanoes wrapped in leaves, and would dance round, "wriggle
and stamp--wriggle and stamp," as Seelem had told him dance the
Oomgar-nuggas, to try to make her cheerful. But by-and-by she began to
languish, her teeth chattering, her eyes burning, unable to eat.... And
one still afternoon, when only Nod was near (his brothers, tired of the
heat and buzzing in the green hut, having gone to gather nuts and sticks
in the forest), as Mutta-matutta sat dozing and muttering in her corner,
came the voice of Tishnar, calling in the hush of evening: and she knew
she must die.

Nod crept close to her, thinking at first the strange voice singing
was the sound of Seelem's Zevveras' distant gongs, and he held the
hard thin hand between his. When Thumb and Thimble returned with their
bags and faggots of smoulder-wood, she called them all three, and told
them she too must go away now, perhaps even, if only in Meermut, to
find their father. And she besought them to be always true and faithful
one to another, and to be brave. "Five fingers serve one hand, my good
men," she said. "And oh, remember this always: that you are all three
Mulla-mulgars, sons of Seelem, whose home is far from here--Mulla-mulgars
who never do walk flambo--that is, on all fours--never taste blood, and
never, unless in danger and despair, climb trees or grow a tail."

It was hot and gloomy in the tangled little hut, lit only by the violet
of the dying afterglow. And when she had rested a little while to
recover her breath, she told them that Seelem, the night before he left
them, had said that, should he perish on his journey and not return, in
seven Munza years they were, as best they could, bravely to follow after
him. In time they would perhaps reach the Valleys of Tishnar, and their
uncle, Prince Assasimmon, would welcome them.

"His country lies beyond and beyond," she said, "forest and river,
forest, swamp and river, the Mountains of Arakkaboa--leagues, leagues
away."

And, as she paused, a feeble wind sighed through the open window,
stirring the dangling bones of the Portingal, so that, with their faint
clicking, they too, seemed to echo, "leagues, leagues away."

"It will be a long and dreary journey, my sons. But the Prince
Assasimmon, Mulla-mulla of the Mulgars, is great and powerful, and has
for hut a palace of ivory and Azmamogreel, with scarlet and Mamasul,
slaves and peacocks, an