I want to get some plum-cake—
I only wish I could;
For if I can’t get some cake
I’ll die for want of food.
Here Dunderhead stopped singing with a roar of pain, for while cutting himself some more bread, the knife slipped and gashed his hand in a most terrible manner. A great spout of blood gushed out like a torrent and settled into a dark red pool on the table, while the giant, roaring with anger, wrapped up his wounded hand in his handkerchief, which was as large as a tablecloth.
“What are you crying about, giant?” asked Gillydrop, who had perched himself on the table, where he sat, looking like a green beetle.
“I’ve cut my finger,” said the giant in a sulky tone; “you’d cry, too, if you cut your finger. Don’t call me a giant—my name is Mr. Dunderhead. What is your name?”
“Gillydrop. I’m a faery.”
“I thought you were a beetle,” said Dunderhead crossly. “What do you want here?”
“I’ve come to see the giants, Mr. Dunderhead,” replied Gillydrop.