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"This is, indeed, good news," said Shaggy. "I suspected that my brother was the prisoner of Ruggedo; but now I know it. Tell us, Tik-Tok, how shall we get to the Nome King's underground cavern?" "The best way is to walk," said Tik-Tok. "We might crawl, or jump, or roll o-ver and o-ver until we get there; but the best way is to walk." "I know; but which road shall we take?"
A bunch of burros gathered about the doorway of the cabin, snooping for bacon rinds; the hounds leaned their heavy jowls upon his knees and gazed up worshipfully into their master's face; and as the sun dipped down toward the rim of the mighty cliffs that shut him in, the lord of Hell's Hip Pocket broke into the chorus of an ancient song: "Oh, o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, And o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, And o-ver the prairies, and o-ver the mountains, I'll go till I find me a home."
loves me, e-ven me, loves me, e-ven me." sor-row o-ver there; sor-row o-ver there, sing-ing with the blest; sing-ing with the blest. Refrain. 1st Verse. "I am so glad that Jesus loves me, Je-sus loves e-ven me." Refrain. 2d Verse. "There'll be no more sor-row there, There'll be no more sor-row there; In heav-en a-bove, where all is love, There'll be no more sor-row there." Refrain. 3d Verse.
In his effort to keep warm somebody had started a hymn, which was vigorously accompanied by a beating of numbed feet on the scattered husks on the floor. Above the volume of sound old Adam's quavering falsetto could be heard piping on like a cracked and discordant flute. "O-ver thar, O-ver thar, Th-ar's a la-nd of pure de-light. O-ver th-ar, We will la-y our bur-den do-wn.
Where are you sick?" "All o-ver." "Take your hand from your eyes. What made you sick?" "I f-fell." "Fell!" her tone was contemptuous. "Where did you fall?" "D-down." Mrs. Handsomebody became ironical. "How extraordinary! I have never heard of people falling up." "They can fall out," interrupted Angel. Mrs. Handsomebody rapped her ruler in his direction. "Silence!" she gobbled.
An' re-ceive our gol-den cro-wn. In that la-nd of pure de-light O-ver th-ar." "That's a cold hymn, an' unsuitable to the weather," remarked Tim Mallory at the end of the verse. "If you ask me, I'd say thar was mo' immediate comfort in singin' about the redness of hell-fire, an' how mortal close we're comin' to it."
"Send the word, send the word over there... We'll be o-ver, we're coming o-ver, And we won't come back till it's o-ver, over there!" Is it the prelude of a tragedy? We have always been so successful, we Americans. Are we to fail now? I am an American, and I do not believe we are to fail. But I am soberer, somehow a different American than he who sailed away in August.
"Send the word, send the word over there . . . We'll be o-ver, we're coming o-ver, And we won't come back till it's o-ver, over there!" Is it the prelude of a tragedy? We have always been so successful, we Americans. Are we to fail now? I am an American, and I do not believe we are to fail. But I am soberer, somehow a different American than he who sailed away in August.
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