“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.