Up the hill again. Damn tired of running up hill. And then he found he couldn’t run any more, He had to fall down and be sick. Even that was hard, Because somebody near kept making a squealing noise⁠— The dolefully nasty noise of a badly-hurt dog. It got on his nerves and he tried to say something to it, But it was he who made it, so he couldn’t stop it.

Jack Ellyat, going toward the battle again, Saw the other side of the hill where Curly was lying, Saw, for a little while, the two battered houses, The stuffed dead stretched in numb, disorderly postures, And heard for a while again that whining sound That made you want to duck, and feel queer if you did.