  Up into the sky rose the hundred horses and their great Coach, until the roof of the Little Emperor’s Palace with its bright yellow tiles looked only as big as a yellow autumn leaf—as a jasmine petal—as nothing at all! And along the Road of Stars they galloped, while notes of music sprayed from the wheels of the Coach, and, dropping to earth, gave the nightingales ideas for beautiful new songs. On through the sky and above the earth until the night was over, and at last, instead of a road, the hundred horses were galloping along a river. All along the river bank tall poplars rustled and whispered in the wind of the Coach’s passing, and little waves, stirred up by the horses’ hoofs, slapped against the small houses that rose from the water, small pink houses and blue houses and white red-roofed houses, each with its rowboat tied to its steps. White swans and green ducks rocked on the ripples, their feathers gilded by sunshine, for it was bright day now, and the rain that had been pouring down had stopped. It was bright day, and yet no one saw the Dream Coach except a little French boy, whose eyes were falling shut in one little pink cottage. What was Philippe’s dream? That you shall hear. “Hold still then, my little monkey!” “But mother,” wailed Philippe, “I have the soap in my eye!” “Soap is it, my angel?” asked his mother, lifting his face in her two wet hands. “Oh, but there is really no soap at all to speak about, just a bubble or two of suds. There!” and with the corner of her apron she wiped away the thick white lather around his eyelashes, so that Philippe looked like a little boy made of snow, except for his eyes which were large and brown and filled with tears from the painful smarting. From head to ankles he was covered with a froth of soapsuds, and his feet had stirred the warm water in the bottom of the wooden tub into rainbow-tinted mounds of bubbles which grew and grew and cascaded over the sides with a tiny fizzing sound. “You are giving our young one a very thorough tubbing,” remarked Philippe’s father. He was sitting under the narrow window of their cottage, cutting the yellow-white sprouts from a bag of potatoes which he intended to plant in the dark of the next moon. Philippe’s father held a large brown potato at arm’s length, and, regarding it with his head cocked to one side, said: “Very fine! Yes, very fine!” “A good size,” agreed his wife, looking over her shoulder, while she absently bored into the ear of her long-suffering son with a bit of soapy rag. “Yes—but I was thinking rather of Philippe’s Uncle PablÔt. It is he who is very fine, a grand gentleman who carries a gold-headed cane and has traveled far—to the very borders of our beloved France, and even beyond, so I hear.” “Oh, very much beyond! He has been in every country in the world, according to the wonderful stories he tells, and the world, Pierre, I understand to be of a tremendous bigness; indeed, if what I am told is the truth, it must be three or four times as big as our own country!” “Is that so?” replied Pierre doubtfully, starting to cut the pallid sprouts again with quick motions of his work-hardened hands. “It may all be the truth, my good wife, but I have always taken the words of PablÔt “‘Blow’?” asked Philippe from his tub. “I thought it was only the wind that could blow.” But of course no one answered him, for he was only a little boy, and not expected to understand; instead, his father bent over his bag of potatoes to hide his smile, and his mother remembered that the pot-au-feu (which is a thick soup made of odds and ends and bits and scraps and almost everything you can think of mixed with water in a large pot and left on the fire to bubble sluggishly for many hours) needed stirring right away. “Take care,” warned her husband, “that you do not drop soap into the soup from your wet hands, for I know of nothing that gives it a more curious flavor.” “Just the same,” said Philippe’s mother, turning from the hearth, her cheeks flushed rosy red by the bright, hot embers, “just the same, it is a good thing that our little one should be invited to meet such a fine gentleman. It will teach him how to say the most ordinary thing elegantly, and how to carry his head high as if he were a born dandy. Philippe, repeat to your father the little speech you are to say when you meet your uncle.” “No, no, my pet, ‘my dear and illustrious uncle,’ and was there not something that you forgot?” “Yes, Mother. I forgot to make my bow. Shall I make a new beginning?” “Do so.” Whereupon Philippe bent nearly double over the edge of the tub, scattering drops of water upon the floor. “Good health to you, my dear and illustrious uncle. It gives me the most great pleasure to have—eugh! soap in my mouth.... Ptu!——” “Wait, then, until you are dressed in the new suit I have sewn for you,” and his mother, taking an earthen jar of water from the side of the fire where it had been put to warm, poured it over his head, leaving him no longer a snow boy, but a boy made of the shiniest china you can imagine. “Is that pleasant, my brave one?” “It is warm, like rain,” said Philippe, lifting his arms above his head. “I will not need another washing for a long, long time, will I, Mother?” Philippe’s grandparents lived the distance of twelve fields, a small woods, three stiles, and the width of a It was a little house built by the side of a river, actually touching the water on one side, so that you could step out of a door, down a step, and into a rowboat. And there were white swans and yellow-breasted ducks with bronze-green backs swimming in the reflection of the pink walls. On the land side was a poplar tree, very tall and dressed in silvery blue leaves, standing “And what,” Philippe had asked, “do you do, Grandfather, when the sun is under the clouds, and there is no shadow to tell the time?” “Well, then we must needs look at the clock which ticks on the mantelshelf over the fire,” Grandfather said with a twinkle of his old, blue eyes, eyes half hidden by the tufts of white eyebrows. Although the day had commenced unusually fine, and the calm, blue sea of sky had been without an island reef or bar of cloud to wreck the golden galleon of the sun, by the time Philippe had been tubbed, scrubbed, dressed in his best, had been rehearsed in his address to his uncle, kissed good-by, and given a little nosegay of pansies and lilies of the valley in a paper twist for his Grandmother, and had crossed the twelve The inside of the house was very dark, with only two windows, like half-closed eyes, looking out on the world. Through these windows entered shafts of pale, watery light that cut blue paths in the wreaths of wood smoke creeping around the rafters. Pots, pans, and kettles of burnished copper hung from hooks in the ceiling, and mirrored in tiny points the flames leaping on the hearth. It was like another world, small but complete, inside Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s house: the floor was the earth itself, trampled until it was as hard as brick, the wreaths of smoke were thin clouds flung across a dark sky where yellow and red stars winked and twinkled. At one end of the room, where Grandmother and Anjou, the cat, were busy preparing dinner over the bright fire, it was gay and warm: Day; but at the farther end, where Grandfather When Philippe entered, he had to blink his eyes for some time before he could adjust himself to the darkness. Then he handed his Grandmother the bouquet he had carried so carefully, politely wishing her health and happiness. There were tears in Grandmother’s eyes as she bent over and kissed her Grandson’s pink and shining cheek, but then there were always tears in Grandmother’s eyes—why, Philippe never could understand. Did she weep because of the stinging smoke that the chimney seemed too small to carry off? Or because she was sad? Not sad, thought Philippe, or Grandmother would not be all the time smiling. “Hey-O!” sang Grandmother in her high little voice, dropping a tear in the yellow heart of a purple pansy. “What pretty flowers you have brought me, my Philippe, and see, here is a raindrop in one of them shining as prettily as a glass bead!” Philippe did not like to tell her that it was her own tear. “Then it is raining out?” she asked. “It will make a wet home-coming for your uncle, but it is lovely, nevertheless, and if it comes down hard enough, it “Yes, Grandmother Marianne,” Philippe agreed politely, and then asked: “When will my Uncle PablÔt be here? Mother has taught me what to say when I make my bow to him, and if he is too long in coming, I am afraid that I may forget it.” “He will come,” said Grandmother, “when he has a mind to.” “And is he coming from a great distance, maybe all the way from Paris?” (Philippe thought that Paris was the only city in the world, built on the world’s very edge.) “Maybe, and then maybe not,” Grandmother told him. “There is no telling where your uncle will come from; he is apt to blow in from any quarter.” “Ah, then that explains it!” remarked Philippe innocently. “Father said he always thought Uncle PablÔt was a little inclined to blow.” “Now did he!” Grandmother was frowning and smiling at one and the same time. “Have you spoken to your Grandfather yet?” “I did not know that Grandfather Joseph was home; I did not see him,” said Philippe truthfully. “Use your young eyes sharply and look into every Philippe gazed into the farthest corner of the room where he saw two dim spots of white glowing like snow in the night; he had to advance quite near before he could be sure that what he saw was the long white hair and the long white beard of Grandfather. “Good day, Grandfather Joseph,” said Philippe, bowing low before the old man who sat huddled in a chair, the arms of which were worn shiny by the grip of thin fingers. “‘Good day’? A very bad day, Grandson. Though I no longer hear nor see as I used to, I can feel that it is raining. Tell me, is it raining?” “Yes, Grandfather,” replied Philippe from the top of a churn where he had climbed to look out of the small window at the river. “It is falling so hard that the raindrops are bouncing from the surface of the water.” Remembering what his Grandmother had told him, he added, “It will make the river flow along more happily than it has for a long time, and that will be very beautiful!” “Horrible!” said Grandfather with a sigh that was almost too soft to be heard. “It makes me feel weak There were three people living in the house that Philippe visited; besides Grandmother and Grandfather, there was little Avril, their grandniece, and therefore Philippe’s cousin. Avril was a child of tender beauty, younger than Philippe, quite a baby in the sight of eyes that were eight long years old. Avril was very shy, so shy that she had hidden under the table when Philippe had entered the door, and it was not until he had paid his respects to Grandmother and Grandfather that he saw her there, peeking out at him like a flower from the dark shadow of a garden wall. “Hello, my little cousin,” said Philippe with a grand and grown-up air. “Would you like to play a very important game with me that I have just thought of?” Avril laughed her pleasure. It was a most excellent game, so Philippe thought. He was King, enthroned on the churn, and Avril was his slave, and had to bring him anything he might request, with the penalty of having her head chopped “Behold! I am here!” cried Uncle PablÔt from the threshold, withdrawing his right arm from the voluminous folds of his cape and making a magnificent sweeping gesture ending with his fingertips being pressed lightly against his expanded chest. “So I see,” said Grandfather in a thin, complaining voice from his dark corner. “Close the door,” he pleaded, tucking the end of his waving beard into his blue smock. “Close the door—the rain makes me feel very weak——” But no one paid the least bit of attention to him. Grandmother ran forward with squeaking noises of delight, throwing her arms around the newcomer, draping him with a link of sausage, which she had forgotten to put down in her hurry, in the manner of a “And here is your little nephew,” said Grandmother, “who has come all by himself a great distance to welcome you.” Philippe stared dumbly, wishing that he had had the presence of mind to slip under the table with Avril. “Come! What do you say to your uncle, Philippe?” asked Grandmother. “I forget what I say,” answered Philippe miserably, “but I am very glad to see you, my—my——Ah! Now it comes to me!” And he started again: “Good health to you, my dear and illustrious uncle. It gives me the most——” “Fiddlesticks!” interposed Uncle PablÔt, laughing. “—the most great pleasure to welcome you, and——” “Yes, yes—” said Uncle PablÔt, cutting him short again. “But what do you say to this?” and he reached into the folds of his cape and handed Philippe something small and shining. “What is it?” asked Philippe. “A whistle!” shouted Philippe, dancing with joy. Then he ducked under the table to show his beautiful new present to Avril. “And here is a present for the other little one,” said Uncle PablÔt, handing the shyly smiling girl a toy spade with a bright green handle and a wreath of early spring flowers painted on the tiny blade. What a feast they had in honor of their distinguished guest! “I suppose,” said Grandmother to Uncle PablÔt, “that you have traveled a great distance since last you visited us?” “Oh, please!” begged Philippe, although the question had not been addressed to him. “Now there is India,” commenced Uncle PablÔt, “a very hot country, but as gay as a circus——” And over the roast duck he told them many things in his soft and flowing voice, of elephants, their enormous bodies painted brilliantly in curlicues, circles, and zigzags, swaying through narrow streets like clumsy ships of the land, ridden by dark-skinned potentates robed in ivory satin and scarlet brocades, wearing precious jewels more sparkling than broken bits of colored glass... of softly stepping and treacherous tigers prowling in deep jungles, of lions and leopards, crouching panthers and laughing hyenas and all manner of beasts... of birds with emerald crests, sapphire wings, breasts of flaming orange, long, sweeping tails and screaming falsetto voices that seemed to shatter the air into sharp and hurtling splinters... of gorilla fathers with so terrible a power in their long arms that they could uproot a tree as easily as one would pick a dandelion, and gorilla mothers holding babies to their By the time Grandmother had put the crisp green lettuces on the table, Uncle PablÔt had carried his little audience to far-away China and, without so much as a “by your leave,” into the gardens of mandarins and emperors where jasmine filled the air with sweetness, and rose and white peonies bowed their heavy heads around the lily ponds. Far away and far away they flew on Uncle PablÔt’s winged words: over snowy mountains tinted with the pink and lavender radiance of the dawn, through the fiery furnace of desert sands where haughty camels plodded their weary course to the beat of Arab drum and the mystical rhythm of Arab song, up broad rivers where crocodiles basked in the sun... past cities with towers and turrets, through the courtyards of palace and castle, into the riot of crowded markets with their laughter and shouting, buying and selling, into a land where the streets “Remarkable!” said Grandmother. “If true,” said Grandfather, but he spoke so low that every one thought that he was merely choking, and paid no attention to him. “More!” pleaded Philippe. “And I was in England the other day,” continued Uncle PablÔt, who needed little urging, “where I visited the Royal Family. That is nothing,” he said, in answer to a look of proud astonishment from Grandmother. “I have a great many acquaintances in all walks of life. Once I mussed up the hair of a prince and ran off with the parasol of a duchess, just by But if he ever had, he told them again, and at such length that, though the dinner had come to an end, and Grandmother had cleared away the dishes and given Anjou a saucer of milk and a bone, he was still telling them this and other monstrous adventures in his quick, easy voice. How thrilling it all was to Philippe. It seemed to him that the gay words flew from his uncle’s mouth and over his head like flocks of wild birds. Some of them were quite ordinary little words, as sparrows are ordinary little birds, but others were long and strange like the queer birds his uncle had told him about. Or again—this tale of other lands and peoples was like music to which the crackling of the fire and the drip, drip of the rain outside made a soothing accompaniment. He tried hard to keep his eyes and ears wide open, but, to tell the truth, he had eaten very heartily of Grandmother’s delicious dinner, and that, with the darkness of the room, the lullaby singsong of his uncle’s voice, and the soft purring of Anjou, made him heavy-headed and in danger of falling into sleep at any moment. Voices came to him through the fog of smoke, sounding far, far away. He heard his uncle say, “But you, Grandfather Joseph, you should go “I am content,” replied a soft, old voice. “Yes, you are content to stay where you are put, or at best to drift around a bit, eh?” And then the old man saying, “I drift—I drift—I drift——” Maybe it was then that Philippe went to sleep, or, on the other hand, maybe it was then that Philippe overcame his drowsiness and woke up to a new interest in things. Certainly, strange and exciting happenings took place in rapid succession. It started with Grandmother going to the window where she stood on tiptoe and looked out at the river. “Oh,” she cried, and her voice was younger and happier than Philippe had ever heard it before. “Oh! The river has grown up; never before have I seen my darling child so strong and beautiful. And how he runs and laughs! In another minute he will be at the sill of the window. I will open the door and invite him in.” “No, no!” cried Grandfather weakly, jumping up from the chair and staring wildly about the room. “It will be the end of me.” Without a word, gathering the baby Avril into his arms, Grandfather dashed out of the other door; and they watched him running across the fields and meadows, his white hair and beard flying back over his shoulders in the mad speed of his flight. “Now there is a strange man,” Grandmother said to Uncle PablÔt. PablÔt only whistled softly and looked wise. “One would think,” continued Grandmother, “that he would be grateful for a nice trip on the back of my child. He will come to my way of thinking all in good time.” She looked around her critically. “The fire!” she said. “How fiercely the fire is burning! It quite makes me boil with anger; I won’t have it, I hate it!” and she ran upon it, scattering the embers with a great hissing sound. “There now!” turning again to PablÔt. “Do you think that the room is in readiness for my son? Shall I open the floodgates and let him in?” “How about Anjou?” asked Uncle PablÔt. “Anjou can ride in his basket.” “And Philippe?” “The little cradle by the bed that Avril sleeps in—an Grandmother unlatched the door facing on the river; it flew back against the wall with a crash. What happened next was very confused in the mind of the startled Philippe. There was a great, swishing roar as the water of the river, swollen to unheard-of heights by the hard rain, leaped and tumbled into the room in masses and billows of silver foam. Tightly he clutched the rail of the crib as his strange boat tossed and turned and ducked and pitched and bobbed and spun around and around in the currents and cross currents and boiling waves. At last, when the water in the room had reached the level of the water outside, and therefore had suddenly quieted, he dared to look about him. Uncle PablÔt had disappeared; Grandmother was calmly sitting in her tub with a rapturous smile on her old face. “So impulsive!” she remarked conversationally to Philippe. “My son, the River,” she explained. “He is so very glad to see me. Did you notice how he jumped and romped when I let him in? It made me Once you get over being frightened, it is really great good fun, so Philippe found, to go racing along a swift-flowing river in a little boat that nods to each passing wave. They passed tall reeds and rushes that waved gracefully to them from the shore, weeping willow trees, their wands gray-green and crystal with rain, gently caressing the surface of the water, emerald fields patterned with yellow flowers shining wet, mallows by the River’s edge, white with glowing hearts of deep pink, deep pink with hearts of white. Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, but always and ever onward, “Grandmother’s Son” carried them on his strong back; now through lowlands, and now between high banks of dark chocolaty mud, where, from the black portals of burrows and tunnels, the bright eyes of water animals gazed at them in astonishment. Yes, it was thoroughly delightful, but it was puzzling to Philippe; there were many things that he did not understand. He decided that he would ask Grandmother, who was floating close to him in her wooden tub. Grandmother in her wooden tub. “Look at me, Philippe. Have I not changed?” asked Grandmother. “I am no longer Grandmother Marianne,” she said, “I am Grandmother Rain!... Without me there would be no puddles, no pools, no lakes, no ponds, no rills and runs and rivulets, no brooks and streams, no waterfalls, no rivers—their lovely and happy voices would die from the land. They are all my children. And if it were not for my children, there would be no ocean.” “What is the ocean?” asked Philippe, who had never been to the seashore. “That, my Philippe,” said Grandmother Rain, “is where I was born, and where all my children return. It is a beautiful place! And how your uncle loves to play there—a decidedly worthy man, your uncle, though at times a trifle flighty.” They passed a grove of trees, their bright branches reaching out over the water. “How fresh and strong they look,” cried Grandmother Philippe felt guilty, and was about to apologize when Grandmother Rain put him at rest. “That is not quite true. There are others,” she said, “who do a good deal of complaining about me; they say that I am an old spoil-sport just because I try to make myself pleasant at their parties and picnics. But if I were to leave them forever——” she made an odd little gesture of despair. “Would you like me to sing you a song?” she asked unexpectedly. “It might serve to pass the time.” “Please,” said Philippe, who was getting a bit tired of floating aimlessly and never arriving anywhere. “Very well.” And this is what she sang: “Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pitapat, slip, slip, slip, Over roofs and windows, over garden walls, Over fields and meadows—the gray rain falls! “I fall upon the countryside, upon the city square; I tap the silk umbrellas that are opened everywhere; I wash away the dirt and dust that cloud the flower’s face; I fall on royal palaces, and in the market place—— For no one is too regal, and no one is too low To receive the crystal blessing that I scatter as I go. I freshen up the thirsty world, and make it clean and green, The grass grows tall, and flowers bloom wherever I have been. Although I lie in gutters, and slip through hole and crack, And sometimes have my little joke by running down your back, I make small children happy, for on me they may float Their shiny bright, their red and white, their little new toy boat. The sparkle in each drop of me is proof that I am glad! “Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pita—— “Ah! There he comes!” cried Grandmother Rain excitedly, forgetting to finish her song. “Who?” asked Philippe, curious, like most boys. “Who indeed?” replied Grandmother. “Look up the shore. Now we will have some sport!” Philippe did as he was told, and saw a small figure hurrying toward them at a great pace. As the figure drew nearer, he saw that it was Uncle PablÔt, running along the edge of the water and stirring it to frenzy. “Hold tight!” warned Grandmother from her tub. Philippe needed no warning, for as Uncle PablÔt drew opposite to them, waves broke the smooth surface of the river and tossed his little crib about like a cockle shell. He could see, as he was twisted about, that the rising waves were creeping over the edge of Grandmother Rain’s tub and swamping it—it was sinking lower and lower. “Be careful, Grandmother!” he cried frantically. “This is what I call delightful!” replied that remarkable woman, tipping her tub until the water ran in “Now I shall be in high time for the reunion!” she called back to him, the growing space between them making her voice very faint. Poor, dear Grandmother! Whatever would become of her? She would drown most surely. But perhaps Uncle PablÔt, who had raced on down the bank, could save her——But no! He was strolling back; he had given up. Philippe ran to meet his uncle with tears in his eyes. “Hello! So there you are, safe and sound and high and dry, eh? You see, I veered about; I thought we might take a little stroll together,” explained Uncle PablÔt airily. “Save her!” pleaded Philippe tearfully. “Who? Grandmother Rain? Be calm, my boy, she is quite in her element.” “Which is exactly what she wishes. She will be back again, never worry. She makes these little trips to the ocean quite frequently. Look, Philippe, the sun is coming out! The sun and Grandmother Rain do not get along well together; he always hides as soon as she has made her appearance, and when she has gone, he goes about mopping up the whole countryside.” Uncle PablÔt’s calmness gave Philippe some comfort. He was grown up, and therefore wise; perhaps he knew the meaning of these strange things. “Do they always disagree, Grandmother and the sun?” asked Philippe. “Not always. Sometimes, though rarely, you may see them together, and then they hang a rainbow flag across the sky as a sign of their truce. But come! We have much land to cover, we must hurry a little more.” “Where are we going, Uncle PablÔt?” “What a silly question! How am I to know? I go wherever it pleases me at the moment, sometimes for days in one direction, and at other times this way and that quicker than you can think. And please do not call me Uncle PablÔt; I am your Uncle Wind.” Philippe felt rebuked; he trotted silently beside the “Do not think unkindly of me, little Philippe. If I was cross to you, it is because I am given to complaining at times, but I am a good fellow at heart. With Grandmother Rain’s help, I keep the world a nice clean place to live in. And do you know, Philippe, the best part of it is that I am such a humorous fellow; I am all the time playing the most amusing jokes! Why—once I mussed up the hair of a prince and ran off with the parasol of a duchess.... There now! I think I told you that once before, didn’t I? But where and when it is quite past my ability to remember. Well, that gives you the idea. Hats? There is nothing quite so much fun as hats! Snatch a hat and run, drop it until its owner is just about to pick it up, and then snatch and run again. There’s nothing that draws such a large and appreciative audience as the hat trick. Though, of course, umbrellas are great sport—but I need Grandmother Rain to help me with that trick. Maybe you think I am only a practical joker? Not at all! Do you remember that day you were sick, and your head felt as On and on talked Uncle Wind, and on and on traveled the two together. Over more meadows they went than Philippe thought could possibly be crowded into the world, and past innumerable herds of cows and flocks of sheep. It had grown warm with the coming “I often lie down and rest at sunset,” explained Uncle Wind in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper. Far, far away, Philippe saw, through a twilight haze of gold, what he had never seen before: the deep ocean where Grandmother Rain was holding her family reunion. The crimson sun was rolling over the blue edge of the world into its sparkling heart. He sat down in the crevice of a rock and thought long and wonderingly of the things that had come to pass that day, and he tried to see, in the land that was spread like a map before his eyes, the red roof and clump of trees that would be his own home. He did so long to be with his darling mother again! And very soon it would be dark.... Silver stars began to shine in a pale green “Uncle PablÔt—I mean, Uncle Wind—I want to go home!” But where was Uncle Wind? There was no answer, no sound, and search as carefully as he would, Philippe could find no trace of him. It was as if he had utterly vanished, which, indeed, he had, for the time being. What was poor Philippe to do? The hilltop stones that surrounded him took menacing forms; he was sure that he saw the shining eyes, green and glowing, of prowling beasts. He summoned all his courage and bravely started to walk—where? Downhill, for he remembered that Grandmother Rain had told him, as they floated along the river, that that was the only way any sensible person would ever care to travel. Besides, when you were on the top of a hill, unless you At first he was timid of approaching the bent figure sitting huddled on a stump, so dim under the starlight. But loneliness and the longing for companionship overcame his fear. “Please, sir,” he said, drawing slowly closer, “please, sir, could you tell me—— Grandfather Joseph! Grandfather Joseph!”—and he flung his arms around Grandfather’s neck, the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. But how cold Grandfather was! The touch of Grandfather’s face against Philippe’s burned like ice. “Watch out!” said Grandfather sharply, “You are so insufferably warm you will melt me, if I do not succeed in freezing you first. And, young Philippe, be careful the names you call people. Look carefully at me again; do you not know me?” Philippe was doubtful. Surely it was Grandfather “Yes—no,” answered Philippe, not being able to decide. “Yes, Snow, that is right! I am Grandfather Snow.” “It’s very upsetting!” remarked the puzzled boy. “Is it?” replied Grandfather Snow coldly. “But I may stay here with you, Grandfather? I was so frightened alone in the black night. I was out walking with Uncle Wind, and—and he seemed to disappear, and then I lost my way.” “You may stay if you do not come too close. So Uncle Wind vanished, did he? Your Uncle Wind is a fickle, changeable, unreliable fellow, but he has a will of his own and will turn up in time. I am very dependent on Uncle Wind; I can do nothing but lie around, without him.” “He is very nice, isn’t he, Grandfather?” ventured Philippe. “Aye, sometimes,” replied the old man. “He was all gentleness this afternoon, but wait until you see him to-night! If I’m not mistaken in the signs, he will be in a fury. Then watch out for yourself, Young Since Grandfather was in such a chilling mood, Philippe did not bother to talk with him, but sat at a little distance, thankful for companionship, and watched the winking of the stars, which, even as he watched them, sparkled and went out like sparks in the soot of a chimney, or as if a black curtain were being drawn across the black sky. After a long while, after the last star had vanished and the noiseless quiet of the night hemmed them in like an invisible wall, Grandfather Snow sprang to his feet and stood tensely listening with his hand to his ear. “What is it, Grandfather?” Philippe asked, alarmed. “Hush!... Hush!... Ah—now I hear it plainly!” Philippe put his hand to his ear as he had seen Grandfather do, and listened intently, holding his breath that he should not miss the tiniest sound. Nothing. Yes—a far away and tiny sound. It sounded to Philippe like the little gasping noises he had made when he was learning to whistle, before ever he had been able to attempt a tune, the noise of air breathed in and out through rounded lips. Philippe no longer had to strain to hear the far-away whistling; it was growing nearer every second, and as it approached it became high and shrill. “Is that my Uncle Wind making all that noise, Grandfather?” “Aye!” said Grandfather shortly, crouching close to the ground in the position of a runner about to start a race. “I shall run and meet him,” cried Philippe, delighted at the idea of seeing his old friend again, who was now evidently very close. He had not run twelve steps when something spinning through the dark ran squarely into him, bowled him off his feet and rolled him along the ground as easily as if he had been made of thistledown. It was a terrific struggle he had to gain his feet again, and even when he had, and would have liked to stop to catch his breath and dust off the new suit his mother had made for him, he found himself being shoved roughly from behind. “Faster! Faster! Faster!” screamed a voice in his very ears. And if he tried to slow up ever so little, “Rush! Rush! Rush!” the voice would command. “Faster! faster! faster!” “Faster!” screamed Uncle Wind in anger, prodding poor Philippe so hard that he was fairly lifted off his feet. Above them, and all around them, there was the noise of tearing leaves and crashing branches, there was the groaning of tortured trees as Uncle Wind lashed them with his invisible cat-o’-ninetails. Dim shadows streaked past like flying beasts. “Rush!” shrieked Uncle Wind, “R-U-SHSHSHshshshshsh——” Something cold and stinging struck across Philippe’s face, and it was then, in spite of his breathless panic at the mad flight, that he wanted to burst out laughing, for he saw that Grandfather, who had all this time been running at his side, was going so fast that he was actually losing his whiskers! “Your whiskers, Grandfather! The wind is tearing your whiskers off!” But the old man, who was speeding along more lightly than any rabbit, paid no attention. In truth, it seemed no great calamity, for as fast as Uncle Wind would tear off his whiskers and his hair and scatter them on the ground, new would grow immediately—and so thick and fast they grew that the ground became All night long Uncle Wind and Grandfather Snow sped across the dark country like mad men, and when little Philippe grew too tired to stand it any longer, Uncle Wind would lift him up in his strong arms and carry him. And the snow grew deep, and eddied and twisted into great mounds and high drifts with sharp, curved edges like the thin crests of waves—so that in the cold, pale light of the coming morning, the world looked like a beautiful dream cut from marble. And with the coming of dawn, Uncle Wind suddenly stopped driving them. “That was a great run!” said Uncle Wind. “It has left me completely out of puff. Philippe, my boy, I hope it hasn’t tired you too much? Grandfather Snow, didn’t I drive you beautifully?” “Aye.” “And you have not done so badly. It will be some days before we are in shape for another run like that. “Not quite yet. I shall linger on a bit. There are a few touches, a few light touches I neglected in my hurry last night that I would like to attend to this morning. You see,” he explained to Philippe when Uncle Wind had vanished, “I am quite an artist. Some people think I am very little use and only good for lying around. Not at all! I make excellent snowballs, for one thing, and Uncle Wind is not the only member of our family who has knocked a hat off! But of course I would never tell you of such a thing if I did not know that you were too much of a gentleman to use me for such a purpose. No, no, my child, I work as hard for the things that grow, in my own way, as Grandmother Rain does in hers, but chiefly I delight to make things beautiful. See that naked gray tree? How bare and cold it looks! It needs a few high lights that I could not stop to give it last night—” whereupon Grandfather Snow touched each branch and twig with a powdering from his white beard, and the twig and branch of every tree around, until the whole world above the level of the ground was a tracery of gleaming, fairy lace. “Not bad, Philippe, not a bit bad! Can you see anything else that needs touching up? Speak “Please, Grandfather, it is beautiful, but I am cold and tired, and I would like to go where it is warm.” “Of course you would, my child. Look! Below us in the valley it is green, and even from here one can see that there are flowers. Run on down——” “I don’t want to run; I’m tired of running!” “Well, well,” laughed Grandfather, “walk then, if you wish. After a while, when the warm sun comes to view my handiwork, I, too, will slip down into the valley, but I shall not stop there. No, I have a long way to travel before I join Grandmother Rain once more.” Philippe turned slowly away, touched by the purity and peace that surrounded him. “Good-by.... Good-by...” said Grandfather Snow gently, very, very gently! PHILIPPE’S GARDEN “I must have been away a long time for my garden to have grown so big,” Philippe told himself. Standing inside the gate was little Avril in a new green smock prettily embroidered with wreaths and garlands of flowers. She curtsied so low before him that the hem of her dress brushed the young shoots of grass; and she smiled at him tenderly. “And who are you?” asked Philippe warily. “Why, Philippe! Don’t you know me?” “Yes, I think I do; but I thought that I knew Grandmother Marianne and she turned out to be Grandmother Rain. Uncle PablÔt, it seems, was not Uncle “I have quite a number of names,” explained the little girl. “Some call me Spring, some call me Flora, but you may call me Avril. Avril: April—it is all the same. Would you like me to show you your garden? It is very lovely, and I have worked hard to get it all in readiness for your coming.” “You?” “Yes. I am your gardener, but I have had a lot of help. Every one has been so kind! Uncle Wind helped me plant it, Grandfather Snow prepared the ground in fine shape, and Grandmother Rain has been here often and often, giving my little plant babies their bottles. It has been a lot of worry and care, Philippe,” Avril told him in a curiously grown-up voice, “but when you see my beautiful children, I am sure that you will think that it was worth while. “Now here,” she said, smiling happily and taking him by the hand, “are some of my first babies: the snowdrops, named in honor of their godfather, Grandfather Snow. And here——” From flower to flower they wandered. “And these?” asked Philippe, when they had entered into a new part of the garden where straight rows of green-growing things were marked off in beds of checkerboard design. “These funny little fellows,” Avril told him, “are not as beautiful and proud as the flowers; they hold their heads less high, but they are all extremely worthy “They look good enough to eat,” said Philippe, who was beginning to feel very empty. “They are,” said Avril. “And is all this garden mine?” asked Philippe. “Yes,” answered the little girl, curtsying again before him, and added: “All yours—King Philippe!” “Oh, you mustn’t call me ‘King,’ that is, when we’re not playing games, you know,” Philippe warned her, rather shocked. “Kings are grand people with treasures hidden away in strong chests, and they wear crowns of gold and have thousands of servants. I know, because I have read all about them in a book which my mother gave to me. I am a farmer’s son, and can never be so wonderful a person as a King.” His companion looked at him very thoughtfully, and at last spoke: “You are a King, Philippe. Sun, Moon, and Stars shine down upon your head a crown; the whole earth is yours, the great strong chest of hidden treasures. From the time the first small star hung like a lonely spark in space, your servants have been preparing for you a kingdom, the kingdom of Earth, than which there is only one greater. And that kingdom, too, will “It may be true,” said Philippe, rather bewildered by the wonderful things he was hearing. “But I am quite sure that I have no servants; why—little though I am, even I must help my father in the fields.” “We are all your servants. Is it not true, Grandmother Rain?” A shower suddenly passed over the garden, decking the flowers in crystal splendor, and from a small cloud overhead Philippe could distinctly hear the voice of Grandmother: “Yes. I have worked for Philippe’s father and his grandfathers from the very beginning of things, and I hope to work for his children and his childrens’ children for time evermore. Do not think badly of me, Philippe, if I do not come and go just to your liking, for I am very busy, with much important work to attend to.” “Is it not true, Grandfather Snow?” “Aye, so it is!” came a voice from the bright hill beyond the garden wall. “Is it not true, Uncle Wind?” “Well, well! I am just in time,” remarked Uncle Wind, sauntering up the garden path, the flowers nodding to him as he passed. He had cast aside his “The wind is capable of being a little monotonous at times,” Avril whispered into Philippe’s ear, but he could hardly hear her, for the garden was being filled with other voices, coming from here, there, and everywhere—from the grass, and the flowers, and the vegetables, and the trees, from the stones, and even from the brown earth itself, and they all were saying in their own way, the one thing: “We serve!” “Please listen to us a moment,” pleaded the fragile voices of the flowers. “We serve too, though many consider us too delicate and concerned about our own “The flowers are very talkative to-day,” remarked one little lettuce to another. “The flattery of the bees has quite turned their heads,” agreed a radish who was notably sharp, whereupon some of the more sensitive flowers who had overheard blushed deeply. But Philippe heard none of this chatter of the vegetables, for it seemed that the whole world, the ox and the ass, the horse and the cow, the tame beasts of the fields and the wild beasts of the spaces beyond, the fox and the rabbit, the mouse and the beetle, the creatures that crawled and the creatures that ran, the cricket and the grasshopper and the inhabitants of air and ocean, the little hills and high hills, the valleys “What utter nonsense!” shouted a little bird saucily, flying from the low branches of a tulip tree. “I serve no one; I just have lots of fun, and I’m going to have an exciting fly—and that’s something little boys can’t do, for they haven’t even any pin feathers!” The cocky way the little bird flapped her wings and tossed her head made Philippe double up with laughter. “See!” said the little rebel’s mate, flying close. “You have made the King laugh, so your empty boasting has broken like a bubble, for laughter is one of the greatest services in the world! And as for going on your wild flight, have you forgotten our pretty blue eggs in their soft brown nest?” “I am a King!” said Philippe in a daze of wonderment. “My darling Avril, tell me what I can do to show my gratitude to all my servants.” “They love nothing better than that you use them, Philippe. Use them wisely and well, and not only for yourself—but for others.” And gentle Spring kissed him upon the lips, filling his heart with love and happiness. She went to the doorway and gazed across the fields. “Here comes PablÔt,” she called back into the room, “and he is carrying the child in his arms.” “Sh-h-h-h-h!” breathed Uncle PablÔt, drawing close. “Take your son gently into your arms; he has been sleeping bravely all the way from his grandparents’. And here,” said Uncle PablÔt, “is his little silver whistle, by which I hope that he will remember me when he wakes up and finds me gone.” TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
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