But nothing did any good. Not talking nor scolding, for the Little Brown Boy didn’t listen. Not shutting in the closet nor even going to bed in the middle of the day, for no sooner was he out at play again than the Little Brown Boy had forgotten all about it. Nothing was of any use. He simply would not put away his toys! [Illustration] Now, as the Little Brown Boy lay snug in his bed, something very strange indeed happened to him. In at the open window came the gay West Wind with a laugh and a loud, loud puff!!! In a twinkling he whirled the Little Brown Boy out of bed, twirled him out of the window, and then blew him along through the air at such a pace that for a moment the Little Brown Boy scarcely knew just who or where he was. When at last he could look about him he found he was sitting on an Autumn leaf, holding tight with both hands, and riding along through the air so fast that the Wind whistled past his ears. ‘Where am I going?’ called the Little Brown Boy to the Wind. ‘Where am I going? Tell me, do!’ [Illustration] But the Wind only shouted ‘Whoo-oo-oo!’ and blew the little boy along faster than ever before. The big round Moon laughed down at the Little Brown Boy. The Stars twinkled and gleamed as if they were laughing too. On and on went the Autumn leaf, whirling and twirling and dancing along until the Little Brown Boy spied a great snow-white Palace just ahead. Straight to this Palace the Wind blew the Autumn leaf. Down, down, down whirled the leaf until it rested on the Palace front steps. And then, of course, there was nothing for the Little Brown Boy to do but to jump off the leaf and look about him. The ground was covered all roundabout with snow, smooth, hard, shining snow, but, strangely enough, in spite of his bare toes, the Little Brown Boy didn’t feel cold at all. Perhaps he was too excited. I don’t know. He stared with wide-open eyes at the great snow-white Palace, glittering in the moonlight. Then over to a half-open window, from which streamed a rosy light, crept the Little Brown Boy, and, clinging to the window-sill, he peeped into the room. What the Little Brown Boy saw inside the room almost made him tumble backward into the snow. For, before his very eyes sat Santa Claus, the Santa Claus whose picture the Little Brown Boy had seen many, many times, and who, for as many years as the Little Brown Boy could remember, had crept down his chimney on Christmas Eve and left him toys of all sorts and kinds. Roundabout Santa Claus sat his Brownies, his gay little helpers and toy-makers, and they were listening carefully to every word that Santa Claus had to say. On a table, in front of the fire, there lay a great open Book, and from that Book, so it seemed to the Little Brown Boy, Santa Claus was reading children’s names. ‘Caroline Jones,’ read Santa Claus aloud. ‘A very good girl,’ he added. ‘She minds her mother and goes to bed every night without crying.’