“I don’t want to go on,” said the weather cock stubbornly. “There’s a storm coming, I tell you.” And sure enough, at that minute, a great gust of wind scattered the camp fire, blew off Grampa’s hat and sent a cloud of leaves scurrying over the meadows. Tatters reached for his red umbrella, which was never far from his side and Urtha, her flowery skirts flying out like ribbons on a May pole, came hurrying back. “I’ve thought of something!” screamed Bill. He had to scream to make himself heard, for the wind had risen to a perfect gale. “If the King’s head was lost in a storm, why wouldn’t it be found in a storm!” “Snuff and nonsense!” shouted the old soldier, picking up his hat and jamming it over his ears. Then, as the first spatter of rain came pelting down, he dashed under the big red umbrella. Tatters had all he could do to hold it steady and several times the wind nearly jerked him into the air. So Grampa seized the handle with both hands and Urtha, also, took hold. But it was no use. The gale was too much for them and before they had time to let go, the red umbrella whirled up like a balloon, carrying them all along. “Here I come by the name of Bill!” shrieked the weather cock and, flinging himself aloft, he scrambled on top of the King’s umbrella. But even Bill’s weight could not bring it down. “Why this,” laughed the little flower fairy, as the umbrella soared up toward the clouds, “this is better than flying!” “Better hold on,” advised Grampa grimly, “there’s nothing between us and earth, but air.” The wind rose higher and higher, the rain swirled all around them and tossed them about like rag dolls. The three clung desperately to the umbrella but in ten minutes they had risen above the storm area and were sailing straight toward a great patch of pink skyland. About halfway over, the umbrella drifted slowly downward and Grampa and Tatters, rather uncertainly, stood up in the pink clouds. “Will we drop through?” asked the Prince doubtfully, still keeping hold of the umbrella. After a few steps they found it quite as secure as the real earth. “How soft it feels,” murmured Urtha and, letting go of the umbrella, she began skipping over the fluffy cloud meadows, posies springing up wherever she stepped, just as they had on Isa Poso. And so fresh and beautiful did the little flower girl appear against the pink of the clouds that Grampa and Tatters simply gasped and a little sky shepherdess, who had been resting on a cloud bank, picked up her crook and came running over to touch Urtha. “Are you a fairy?” asked the little shepherdess breathlessly. “Are you a Princess?” demanded Bill, fluttering down in front of the little sky lady before Urtha had time to speak at all. Bill never allowed anything to interfere with business. “Oh, no!” The cunning little lady swung her moon bonnet and fluffed out her skirts, which were all embroidered with stars. “Oh, no, I’m only a shepherdess!” she answered modestly.