“I need——” whispered the Snowman, and his voice was so faint that Goran could hardly hear it. And there, because he was melting away so fast, his mouth fell out and lay on the floor, just a little bent twig. Poor Snowman! Oh, poor Snowman! He could not make a sound now—he could only look at them, so sadly, so sadly! But a little Mouse peeping with bright eyes out of its hole saw what had happened, and, since Mejau was nowhere in sight, ventured to squeak: “Oh, please, Ma’am! Oh, please, Sir! The poor gentleman’s mouth is lying on the floor!” So the Queen picked it up and pressed it into place again, but by mistake she put it on wrong side up, so that instead of a pleasant smile the Snowman had the crossest mouth in the world, pulled far down at each corner. And what a change it made in him! Before, his voice had been a gentle whisper—now it was an angry bellow that made the Teacups shiver on their shelf and the Geraniums turn quite pale, and the little Mouse dive back with a squeak into her hole, thinking to herself: “Well, I _never_!” “Here, you!” shouted the Snowman. “Get me out of here, and get me out quick. Hop along, my girl, and open the door! Your turn next!” (This was to the astonished Queen.) “Now, then, carry me out!” “Tick! Tock! I’m feeling dreadfully run down,” said the old Clock. “Tick! Tock! Wind the Clock! Tock! Tick! Wind it quick! [Illustration] “Tick—Tock——” and he stopped talking. The astonished Queen meekly threw open the door, and Goran carried the Snowman into the snowy darkness. Brr-rr! It was bitter cold! “Now bring some snow and build me up,” the Snowman ordered. “Leave the door open so that you can see—don’t dawdle!” The firelight from the open door shone on his blue glass eyes, and made two angry red sparks gleam in them. Goran and the Queen, Gustava and Nanna, scooped up handfuls and hoof-fuls and wing-fuls of newly fallen snow, and patted it on to the Snowman until he stuck out his chest more proudly than he had done in the first place, and he was so fat that he looked as if he were wearing six white fur coats, one on top of another. And all the time when he wasn’t frightening the Queen half out of her wits by shouting: “Your turn next!” he kept muttering away to himself: “Melt me over the fire! Smother me in a feather bed! Put a hot brick at my feet!” It was when Goran was patting a little fresh snow on the Snowman’s nose that he accidentally knocked his twig mouth off again. And this time it was put back right side up, so that the Snowman was as smiling as he had been in the beginning. He stopped roaring. He stopped muttering. Did the fire die down? For the red sparks no longer gleamed in his gentle sky-blue eyes.