Why the river called to my young son / I do not know; the river is cold, and / Will not tell me. Maybe it had grown / Weary of the silver it stole / From the mountains

More rapid than eagles his curses they came, / He whistled, and shouted, and damned them by name: / “Now, Nug! Here, hoary Nodens! Loom, Azathoth!

“Does it talk?”
“No. She, not it.”
“I heard it used to play with—”
“—She don’t play with anything except her food. You play. She corrects you.”