“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. [Illustration: “Faster! faster! _faster!_”] “Please, Uncle Wind—oh, please, Uncle Wind—I can’t go any faster—my legs aren’t long enough!” “_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 covered with white. But whiskers were not cold and wet when they brushed across one’s face: they scratched and tickled, as Philippe had found out on occasions when he had kissed Grandfather. This was snow! Grandfather Snow was spreading his white blanket over the earth. 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.”