“I shall go down to-morrow,” said the wind.
“It’s only right that you should take a rest now and then,” said Two-Legs, pleasantly. “The horse and the ox do as much and so do the other beasts of burden in my service. I daresay you will get up again when you must.”
“Who says I must?” said the wind.
“I don’t know,” said Two-Legs. “Not yet. But I am meditating upon it and I shall find out sooner or later. You see, one hits upon everything by degrees, when one sits and looks at things. I know this much already, that it’s the sun that gives you your orders.”
“How do you know that?” asked the wind.
“I’ve noticed it,” said Two-Legs. “Whenever it changes from cold to warm or from warm to cold, you blow from a fresh quarter.”
“What a clever man you are!” said the wind.
“It helps,” said Two-Legs.
“But there is still a hard nut for you to crack,” said the wind. “For, even if you can’t put me to your ship and your mill, I can come rushing up, for all that, as I did once before, and knock down the mill and smash up the ship and scatter your cattle all over the country.”
“You can,” said Two-Legs. “And I can’t be angry with you for it either, for you are neither bad nor good, as you said.”