While that tall wind was at the top of its sky-scraping energy, another short cry was heard, beginning very querulous, but ending very quick, swallowed in abrupt silence. The shiny black cylinder of Dr. Warnerās official hat sailed off his head in the long, smooth parabola of an airship, and in almost cresting a garden tree was caught in the topmost branches. Another hat was gone. Those in that garden felt themselves caught in an unaccustomed eddy of things happening; no one seemed to know what would blow away next. Before they could speculate, the cheering and hallooing hat-hunter was already halfway up the tree, swinging himself from fork to fork with his strong, bent, grasshopper legs, and still giving forth his gasping, mysterious comments.
āTree of lifeā āā ā¦ Ygdrasilā āā ā¦ climb for centuries perhapsā āā ā¦ owls nesting in the hatā āā ā¦ remotest generations of owlsā āā ā¦ still usurpersā āā ā¦ gone to heavenā āā ā¦ man in the moon wears itā āā ā¦ brigandā āā ā¦ not yoursā āā ā¦ belongs to depressed medical manā āā ā¦ in gardenā āā ā¦ give it upā āā ā¦ give it up!ā