The Chatterer came directly to the tree--I remember it was an oak tree--and began to climb up.

And he never ceased for a moment from his infernal row.

As I have said, our language was extremely meagre, and he must have strained it by the variety of ways in which he informed me of his undying hatred of me and of his intention there and then to have it out with me.
As he climbed to the fork, I fled out the great horizontal limb.

He followed me, and out I went, farther and farther.

At last I was out amongst the small twigs and leaves.