But before the giant children had gone far towards the iceberg gateway, a great voice, like the sound of a hurricane, cried: “Who dares to enter my thawless Castle, and tread the icy cloisters of my hall? Who wakes me rudely from my slumber?” The children were too awed to speak, and the mighty voice continued: “Summer is at hand! and she and I have quarrelled since the world began. Why do you waken me at such a time? ’Tis I who rule the wintry southern world, holding it tight within my icy grasp. I scatter with a lavish hand the jewels of frost! I make the rosy cheeks of children glow! And yet I can be cruel! I can be cruel!” “I wonder if he has finished the recitation? These winds are so long-winded,” whispered Tibbs to Coppertop. “Oh, do be careful what you say! He’s annoyed already!” she said warningly. “Pooh! Think I’m afraid of a puff of wind!” “Please be quiet!” pleaded his sister. “You know we’ve come to ask a favour.” Just then an icy gust, like a huge hand, shot forth and touched Tibbs on the hands and feet. Instantly he howled with pain and tried to warm his frost-bitten fingers by holding them in his mouth, whilst he hopped first on one foot and then on the other. [Illustration: The South Wind.] “I was only saying ‘How-do-you-do!’” laughed the mighty voice of the South Wind. “Won’t you shake hands?” But Tibbs had had enough. “You have no manners,” continued the South Wind, “although you are so big. What has She-of-the-sunset-hair to say?” “That’s you, Cece,” said Kiddiwee, giving her a nudge. “Oh, we’re very sorry you think us rude,” stammered Coppertop, colouring. “What is your name?” asked the South Wind. “It’s Anagusta Celia Sinclair, thank you.” “Don’t thank me, Anagusta.” “Oh, please don’t call me Anagusta! I hate it!” cried Coppertop, quite forgetting to whom she was speaking. “Softly, softly!” chuckled the South Wind, in quite a gentle-breeze mood. “If you get so hot, you’ll melt my Palace. Why have you honoured me with this visit?” he asked. “He means what are we here for,” whispered Tibbs to Coppertop. “Oh, dear! It’s so hard to explain. You see, Mummie and Daddy are coming home from India to-day--and it’s the first of December.” “How I hate that name!” grumbled the South Wind to himself. “And--and it should be a fine day, but it isn’t--it’s a horrid July day!” “You are ungrateful!” reproved the South Wind. “You have much to thank the dull July days for. They soften the ground, and supply it with moisture to feed the coming spring-time crops.” “Yes. But it shouldn’t be July in December, should it?” “Er--well, no! Perhaps not! I know my winter days do stray at times.” “Oh, please DO call it back!” pleaded Coppertop. “And tell us where to find the December day in its place.” “Very well, I’ll call back my July day,” consented the South Wind. “But I can do no more. I’ll have nothing to do with December. I loathe it!”