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Updated: May 6, 2025
I would that I had been born of thy race." Caught by a gentle current of air the flier was drifting slowly toward the northeast across the valley of Bantoom. Below them lay the cultivated fields, and one after another they passed over the strange towers of Moak and Nolach and the other kings of the swarms that inhabited this weird and terrible land.
They tried to interest him in conversation by drawing war maps with three-tined folks on the jam, but he never showed that he knew what they were about until Mr. Moak, of Watertown, took a brush, made of cauliflower preserved in mustard, and shaded the lines of the war map on Mr. Chapin's trousers, which Mr. Butterfield had drawn in the jam.
Now that was a kind thing for Peter to do, and an act that any gentleman might be proud of, but he was amazed at her when she told him to mind his own business, and she would attend to her own petticoat, and she marched off just a trifle mad. She went into the postoffice to mail a postal card, just as Mr. Moak, the postmaster, came out of his private office with Hon. L.B. Caswell, the congressman.
Then his artistic eye took in the incongruity of the colors, and he gasped for breath, and said: "Moak, that is played out. People will notice it." But he relapsed again into semi-unconsciousness, and never spoke again, not a great deal, till he got home.
He almost shouted the last three words. "Come! Enough of this," cried one who spoke with some show of authority. "She was captured in Luud's fields she will go to Luud." "She was discovered in Moak's fields, at the very foot of the tower of Moak," insisted he who had claimed her for Moak. "You have heard the Nolach speak," cried the Luud. "It shall be as he says."
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