Part 5

Grandmother unlatched the door facing on the river; it flew back against the wall with a crash. What happened next was very confused in the mind of the startled Philippe. There was a great, swishing roar as the water of the river, swollen to unheard-of heights by the hard rain, leaped and tumbled into the room in masses and billows of silver foam. Tightly he clutched the rail of the crib as his strange boat tossed and turned and ducked and pitched and bobbed and spun around and around in the currents and cross currents and boiling waves. At last, when the water in the room had reached the level of the water outside, and therefore had suddenly quieted, he dared to look about him. Uncle Pablôt had disappeared; Grandmother was calmly sitting in her tub with a rapturous smile on her old face. “So impulsive!” she remarked conversationally to Philippe. “My son, the River,” she explained. “He is so very glad to see me. Did you notice how he jumped and romped when I let him in? It made me very proud! But we must not waste our time floating idly here; there is to be a very important reunion of my whole family.” And with that they were caught in an eddying current and swept out of the door: Anjou, with tail as erect as a mast; Philippe, wide-eyed and silent in his cradle boat; and Grandmother in her wooden tub, pleased and proud, the happy tears streaming down her cheeks.

Once you get over being frightened, it is really great good fun, so Philippe found, to go racing along a swift-flowing river in a little boat that nods to each passing wave. They passed tall reeds and rushes that waved gracefully to them from the shore, weeping willow trees, their wands gray-green and crystal with rain, gently caressing the surface of the water, emerald fields patterned with yellow flowers shining wet, mallows by the River’s edge, white with glowing hearts of deep pink, deep pink with hearts of white.

Sometimes swiftly, sometimes slowly, but always and ever onward, “Grandmother’s Son” carried them on his strong back; now through lowlands, and now between high banks of dark chocolaty mud, where, from the black portals of burrows and tunnels, the bright eyes of water animals gazed at them in astonishment. Yes, it was thoroughly delightful, but it was puzzling to Philippe; there were many things that he did not understand. He decided that he would ask Grandmother, who was floating close to him in her wooden tub.

“Grandmother Marianne,” he called to her, “why do you call the river your son?”

“Look at me, Philippe. Have I not changed?” asked Grandmother. “I am no longer Grandmother Marianne,” she said, “I am Grandmother Rain!... Without me there would be no puddles, no pools, no lakes, no ponds, no rills and runs and rivulets, no brooks and streams, no waterfalls, no rivers—their lovely and happy voices would die from the land. They are all my children. And if it were not for my children, there would be no ocean.”

“What is the ocean?” asked Philippe, who had never been to the seashore.

“That, my Philippe,” said Grandmother Rain, “is where I was born, and where all my children return. It is a beautiful place! And how your uncle loves to play there—a decidedly worthy man, your uncle, though at times a trifle flighty.”

They passed a grove of trees, their bright branches reaching out over the water.

“How fresh and strong they look,” cried Grandmother Rain. “They are always glad to see me, I can assure you. Oh, I have strange adventures, Philippe. Sometimes I am buried in the soft, brown earth, and you would think that would be the end of me, now wouldn’t you? But no! I creep back into the air through trunks of trees, through blades of grass and stalks of flowers, and through the shoots of young corn. I trickle through an endless maze of underground passages into deep wells, or until I find a place where I can come bubbling up to the surface. Every living thing needs me and every living thing loves me, except sometimes little boys kept in from play—eh?”

Philippe felt guilty, and was about to apologize when Grandmother Rain put him at rest. “That is not quite true. There are others,” she said, “who do a good deal of complaining about me; they say that I am an old spoil-sport just because I try to make myself pleasant at their parties and picnics. But if I were to leave them forever——” she made an odd little gesture of despair. “Would you like me to sing you a song?” she asked unexpectedly. “It might serve to pass the time.”

“Please,” said Philippe, who was getting a bit tired of floating aimlessly and never arriving anywhere.

“Very well.” And this is what she sang:

_GRANDMOTHER RAIN’S SONG_

_“Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pitapat, slip, slip, slip, Over roofs and windows, over garden walls, Over fields and meadows—the gray rain falls!_

“I fall upon the countryside, upon the city square; I tap the silk umbrellas that are opened everywhere; I wash away the dirt and dust that cloud the flower’s face; I fall on royal palaces, and in the market place—— For no one is too regal, and no one is too low To receive the crystal blessing that I scatter as I go. I freshen up the thirsty world, and make it clean and green, The grass grows tall, and flowers bloom wherever I have been. Although I lie in gutters, and slip through hole and crack, And sometimes have my little joke by running down your back, I make small children happy, for on me they may float Their shiny bright, their red and white, their little new toy boat. So think not that because I fall like tears I may be sad: The sparkle in each drop of me is proof that I am glad!

“_Pitapat, pitapat, drip, drip, drip— Pitapat, pita——_

“Ah! _There_ he comes!” cried Grandmother Rain excitedly, forgetting to finish her song.

“Who?” asked Philippe, curious, like most boys.

“Who indeed?” replied Grandmother. “Look up the shore. Now we will have some sport!”

Philippe did as he was told, and saw a small figure hurrying toward them at a great pace. As the figure drew nearer, he saw that it was Uncle Pablôt, running along the edge of the water and stirring it to frenzy.

“Hold tight!” warned Grandmother from her tub.

Philippe needed no warning, for as Uncle Pablôt drew opposite to them, waves broke the smooth surface of the river and tossed his little crib about like a cockle shell. He could see, as he was twisted about, that the rising waves were creeping over the edge of Grandmother Rain’s tub and swamping it—it was sinking lower and lower. “Be careful, Grandmother!” he cried frantically.

“This is what I call delightful!” replied that remarkable woman, tipping her tub until the water ran in and filled it with a deep gurgle. As she sank into the river she clapped her hands, whereupon there was a blinding flash and a peal of sharp thunder. A bigger wave than the rest washed Philippe, cradle and all, upon the shore. He was too dazed to understand for some moments just what had happened, but at length he spied Grandmother, already at some distance, riding the waves and swimming strongly with the current.

“Now I shall be in high time for the reunion!” she called back to him, the growing space between them making her voice very faint.

Poor, dear Grandmother! Whatever would become of her? She would drown most surely. But perhaps Uncle Pablôt, who had raced on down the bank, could save her——But no! He was strolling back; he had given up. Philippe ran to meet his uncle with tears in his eyes.

“Hello! So there you are, safe and sound and high and dry, eh? You see, I veered about; I thought we might take a little stroll together,” explained Uncle Pablôt airily.

“Save her!” pleaded Philippe tearfully.

“Who? Grandmother Rain? Be calm, my boy, she is quite in her element.”

“But unless we do something, the river will carry her far away!”

“Which is exactly what she wishes. She will be back again, never worry. She makes these little trips to the ocean quite frequently. Look, Philippe, the sun is coming out! The sun and Grandmother Rain do not get along well together; he always hides as soon as she has made her appearance, and when she has gone, he goes about mopping up the whole countryside.”

Uncle Pablôt’s calmness gave Philippe some comfort. He was grown up, and therefore wise; perhaps he knew the meaning of these strange things. “Do they always disagree, Grandmother and the sun?” asked Philippe.

“Not always. Sometimes, though rarely, you may see them together, and then they hang a rainbow flag across the sky as a sign of their truce. But come! We have much land to cover, we must hurry a little more.”

“Where are we going, Uncle Pablôt?”

“What a silly question! How am I to know? I go wherever it pleases me at the moment, sometimes for days in one direction, and at other times this way and that quicker than you can think. And please do not call me Uncle Pablôt; I am your Uncle Wind.”

Philippe felt rebuked; he trotted silently beside the tall, lean fellow, thinking him a not very pleasant companion. He would gladly have walked home alone, but he had no idea where he was, and he was afraid to be left alone. At length his Uncle Wind spoke to him:

“Do not think unkindly of me, little Philippe. If I was cross to you, it is because I am given to complaining at times, but I am a good fellow at heart. With Grandmother Rain’s help, I keep the world a nice clean place to live in. And do you know, Philippe, the best part of it is that I am such a humorous fellow; I am all the time playing the most amusing jokes! Why—once I mussed up the hair of a prince and ran off with the parasol of a duchess.... There now! I think I told you that once before, didn’t I? But where and when it is quite past my ability to remember. Well, that gives you the idea. Hats? There is nothing quite so much fun as hats! Snatch a hat and run, drop it until its owner is just about to pick it up, and then snatch and run again. There’s nothing that draws such a large and appreciative audience as the hat trick. Though, of course, umbrellas are great sport—but I need Grandmother Rain to help me with that trick. Maybe you think I am only a practical joker? Not at all! Do you remember that day you were sick, and your head felt as if it were on fire? Do you remember how I came and cooled it for you, and played with the tassels of the curtains until sundown to keep you amused? If I get a bit angry and rough at times, I am gentleness itself at others, and particularly am I loved in places that are hot and stuffy and saddened by ill health. I am one of the housekeepers of the earth, and I must be everlastingly at it to make things comfortable and shipshape. Oh! The dirt and the dust, the smoke and the foul smells people throw into my face in the cities, little dreaming that if it were not for me the earth would be unfit to live on. But I am strong without end and do my best. Yes, Philippe, I may bluster and blow and play tricks, but for all that I am a very excellent fellow. And I am a traveler and adventurer over land and sea, such as one has never read of in the most thrilling books! No one has seen more of the world than I. I have seen strange parts of the world, looked behind walls of ice, where no living thing has ever been. Only the other day——”

On and on talked Uncle Wind, and on and on traveled the two together. Over more meadows they went than Philippe thought could possibly be crowded into the world, and past innumerable herds of cows and flocks of sheep. It had grown warm with the coming of the sun, and often would workers in the fields spread wide their arms and speak words of welcome as they passed. The grass and the yellow wheat bowed as they stepped lightly over them and even the trees nodded in friendly recognition. Birds, stretching their wings, took rides on Uncle Wind’s shoulders. At times Uncle Wind would go quite fast, so that Philippe had to run, and again, so slowly that they were scarcely creeping, until, after a long time, they stopped quite still on the top of a high hill.

“I often lie down and rest at sunset,” explained Uncle Wind in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.

Far, far away, Philippe saw, through a twilight haze of gold, what he had never seen before: the deep ocean where Grandmother Rain was holding her family reunion. The crimson sun was rolling over the blue edge of the world into its sparkling heart. He sat down in the crevice of a rock and thought long and wonderingly of the things that had come to pass that day, and he tried to see, in the land that was spread like a map before his eyes, the red roof and clump of trees that would be his own home. He did so long to be with his darling mother again! And very soon it would be dark.... Silver stars began to shine in a pale green sky.... Golden stars were lit in a sky of deepening purple.... More and more stars in a sky dark blue. Night had suddenly closed in around him, and he was frightened and started to cry.

“Uncle Pablôt—I mean, Uncle Wind—I want to go home!”

But where was Uncle Wind? There was no answer, no sound, and search as carefully as he would, Philippe could find no trace of him. It was as if he had utterly vanished, which, indeed, he had, for the time being.

What was poor Philippe to do? The hilltop stones that surrounded him took menacing forms; he was sure that he saw the shining eyes, green and glowing, of prowling beasts. He summoned all his courage and bravely started to walk—where? Downhill, for he remembered that Grandmother Rain had told him, as they floated along the river, that that was the only way any sensible person would ever care to travel. Besides, when you were on the top of a hill, unless you stayed there, there was no other choice. Where else he was bound for he had no idea, but anything would be better than the unbroken stillness of the haunted rocks. How far he walked, at times ran, through the dark night, falling over roots and tearing his way through scratching brambles, pursued by unseen terrors of darkness, before he came to the old man, he had no idea.

At first he was timid of approaching the bent figure sitting huddled on a stump, so dim under the starlight. But loneliness and the longing for companionship overcame his fear.

“Please, sir,” he said, drawing slowly closer, “please, sir, could you tell me—— _Grandfather Joseph! Grandfather Joseph!_”—and he flung his arms around Grandfather’s neck, the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. But how cold Grandfather was! The touch of Grandfather’s face against Philippe’s burned like ice.

“Watch out!” said Grandfather sharply, “You are so insufferably warm you will melt me, if I do not succeed in freezing you first. And, young Philippe, be careful the names you call people. Look carefully at me again; do you not know me?”

Philippe was doubtful. Surely it was Grandfather Joseph, and yet—Grandfather had never been so cold, nor so strange in his behavior. Did he know him?

“Yes—no,” answered Philippe, not being able to decide.

“Yes, _Snow_, that is right! I am Grandfather Snow.”

“It’s very upsetting!” remarked the puzzled boy.

“Is it?” replied Grandfather Snow coldly.

“But I may stay here with you, Grandfather? I was so frightened alone in the black night. I was out walking with Uncle Wind, and—and he seemed to disappear, and then I lost my way.”

“You may stay if you do not come too close. So Uncle Wind vanished, did he? Your Uncle Wind is a fickle, changeable, unreliable fellow, but he has a will of his own and will turn up in time. I am very dependent on Uncle Wind; I can do nothing but lie around, without him.”

“He is very nice, isn’t he, Grandfather?” ventured Philippe.

“Aye, sometimes,” replied the old man. “He was all gentleness this afternoon, but wait until you see him to-night! If I’m not mistaken in the signs, he will be in a fury. Then watch out for yourself, Young Impudence! When Uncle Wind is in a fury, he is a hard master and drives every one before him with a stinging lash. You’ll see!”

Since Grandfather was in such a chilling mood, Philippe did not bother to talk with him, but sat at a little distance, thankful for companionship, and watched the winking of the stars, which, even as he watched them, sparkled and went out like sparks in the soot of a chimney, or as if a black curtain were being drawn across the black sky. After a long while, after the last star had vanished and the noiseless quiet of the night hemmed them in like an invisible wall, Grandfather Snow sprang to his feet and stood tensely listening with his hand to his ear.

“What is it, Grandfather?” Philippe asked, alarmed.

“Hush!... Hush!... Ah—now I hear it plainly!”

Philippe put his hand to his ear as he had seen Grandfather do, and listened intently, holding his breath that he should not miss the tiniest sound. Nothing. Yes—a far away and tiny sound. It sounded to Philippe like the little gasping noises he had made when he was learning to whistle, before ever he had been able to attempt a tune, the noise of air breathed in and out through rounded lips.

“_He is coming!_” Grandfather told him in a voice trembling with excitement. “And he is perfectly furious; seldom have I heard him whistle more beautifully. _Listen!_”

Philippe no longer had to strain to hear the far-away whistling; it was growing nearer every second, and as it approached it became high and shrill. “Is that my Uncle Wind making all that noise, Grandfather?”

“Aye!” said Grandfather shortly, crouching close to the ground in the position of a runner about to start a race.

“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.

“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.”

“And you have not done so badly. It will be some days before we are in shape for another run like that. Well, good-by! I think I shall do my famous vanishing act again. How about you, Grandfather?”

“Not quite yet. I shall linger on a bit. There are a few touches, a few light touches I neglected in my hurry last night that I would like to attend to this morning. You see,” he explained to Philippe when Uncle Wind had vanished, “I am quite an artist. Some people think I am very little use and only good for lying around. Not at all! I make excellent snowballs, for one thing, and Uncle Wind is not the only member of our family who has knocked a hat off! But of course I would never tell you of such a thing if I did not know that you were too much of a gentleman to use me for such a purpose. No, no, my child, I work as hard for the things that grow, in my own way, as Grandmother Rain does in hers, but chiefly I delight to make things beautiful. See that naked gray tree? How bare and cold it looks! It needs a few high lights that I could not stop to give it last night—” whereupon Grandfather Snow touched each branch and twig with a powdering from his white beard, and the twig and branch of every tree around, until the whole world above the level of the ground was a tracery of gleaming, fairy lace. “Not bad, Philippe, not a bit bad! Can you see anything else that needs touching up? Speak out before it is too late, for my supply is nearly exhausted.”

“Please, Grandfather, it is beautiful, but I am cold and tired, and I would like to go where it is warm.”

“Of course you would, my child. Look! Below us in the valley it is green, and even from here one can see that there are flowers. Run on down——”

“I don’t want to run; I’m tired of running!”

“Well, well,” laughed Grandfather, “walk then, if you wish. After a while, when the warm sun comes to view my handiwork, I, too, will slip down into the valley, but I shall not stop there. No, I have a long way to travel before I join Grandmother Rain once more.”

Philippe turned slowly away, touched by the purity and peace that surrounded him. “Good-by.... Good-by ...” said Grandfather Snow gently, very, very gently!

As Philippe reached the green valley below, the sun broke through a thin veil of silver clouds. It had risen brilliant and white from its all night dip into the distant ocean, and its cheering warmth was gratefully received by the tired adventurer. A fragrance, mingled of evergreens and flowers, herbs and damp earth, filled the motionless air, and from the end of the grass-grown lane, along which he walked lazily, there was an amazing confusion of sounds, as if thousands of birds were singing at one time. The lane led him to a gate, and on the gate was a sign which said:

PHILIPPE’S GARDEN

“I must have been away a long time for my garden to have grown so big,” Philippe told himself.

Standing inside the gate was little Avril in a new green smock prettily embroidered with wreaths and garlands of flowers. She curtsied so low before him that the hem of her dress brushed the young shoots of grass; and she smiled at him tenderly.

“And who are you?” asked Philippe warily.

“Why, Philippe! Don’t you know me?”