Thumb grunted. "Thimble will not die, little brother."
"But how can you know, Thumb? Or do you say it only to comfort me?"
"I never could tell how I know, Ummanodda; but know I do, and there's an end."
"I suppose we shall get to Tishnar's Valleys—in time?" said Nod, half to himself.
"The Nizza-neela is downcast with long travel," said Ghibba.
"Ay," muttered Thumb, "and being a Mulla-mulgar, he does not show it."
Nod turned his head away, blinked softly, shrugged up his jacket, but made no answer. And Thumb, in his kindness, and perhaps to ease his own spirits, too, broke out in his great seesaw voice into the Mulgar journey-song. High above the squabbling of the little Mountain-owls, high above the remote thunder of the surging waters in the ravine, into the clear air they raised their hoarse voices together:
"In Munza a Mulgar once lived alone,
And his name it was Dubbuldideery, O;
With none to love him, and loved by none,
His hard old heart it grew weary, O,
Weary, O weary, O weary.
"So he up with his cudgel, he on with his bag
Of Manaka, Ukkas, and Keeri, O;
To seek for the waters of 'Old-Made-Young,'
Went marching old Dubbuldideery, O
Dubbuldi-dubbuldi-deery.
"The sun rose up, and the sun sank down;
The moon she shone clear and cheery, O,
And the myriads of Munza they mocked and mopped
And mobbed old Dubbuldideery, O,
Môh Mulgar Dubbuldideery.