“Like leaves of the forest when summer is green
Our beautiful Garden at sunset was seen;
Like leaves of the forest when autumn is flown,
You see it this morning all withered and strown.”

As he finished this stanza Schlorge seemed to rise to twice his full height (indeed, he seemed to Sara for a moment almost half as tall as her waist) in his eloquent fury, as he continued: 

“But we will lambast you, you straight-waisted pigs,
As sure as black’s yellow and thistles is figs! 
Yea, surer than squashes our vengeance we’ll wreak;
If it isn’t today, why, we’ll do it next week!”

Sara had a distressed feeling that this was rather a weak ending, but nobody else seemed to notice it; indeed, several of the Fractions were so incensed at the bold threat that two or three of them called out, “Shoot him at sunrise!” The Greatest Common Divisor, however, merely gave him a savage and contemptuous glance over his tear-mug, as much as to say that he would annihilate him when it was quite convenient.

In a few moments they were again entirely absorbed in their drinking and carousing, and then Pirlaps cautiously touched Schlorge on the arm.  “Let’s have a council of war,” he said, in a very low voice, drawing him a little to one side.  “I have an idea.  Where shall we go?”

“Better come down to the Smithy,” said Schlorge.  “They haven’t discovered it yet.”

Very quietly then, while the Fractions were busy drinking, Schlorge and Pirlaps and Avrillia and Sara and the Snimmy and the Snimmy’s wife slipped out of the Garden and down the path to the Dimplesmithy.  They didn’t think it necessary to tell the Plynck, who was too much crushed to be of use, or the Teacup, for whom they dreaded the slightest shock.  The Echo of the Plynck might have been useful, only she was still frozen into the pool.

The farther they got from the Garden the less blighted and the more natural everything looked; and by the time they reached the road, they would not have suspected, from the look of the country, that destruction was lurking so near.

When they reached the Dimplesmithy, they sent the Snimmy to sniff out the neighborhood carefully with his debilitating nose, to see if there were any spies about; and when he returned, Pirlaps carefully unfolded his plan.

“I am convinced,” he said earnestly, “from what I have observed this morning, that Poetry will be absolutely fatal to these hateful intruders who have descended upon us.  The only question in my mind is, How shall we apply it?  After thinking about it most carefully, I have worked out a tentative plan.  Avrillia, I am sure, can furnish us plenty of ammunition.” (Sara, glancing admiringly at Avrillia, saw the thrilling look of high resolve that shone in her face.) “And Schlorge will have to make us two or three more pairs of bellows.  Are you strong enough to wield a pair, Sara?” he asked.  Even in the stress of this dire moment he spoke so kindly that she loved him more than ever; and she told him proudly that she was sure she could.  Schlorge had already dragged down from a shelf three extra pairs of bellows—­one brand-new one and two old ones; and he was busy at his forge mending and putting them in order.  All the while, however, he was listening anxiously to Pirlaps.