Swiftly over the snow and ice trotted the Bear, climbing, at times, to the top of a huge iceberg, to spy out the way, and the children had to hold tightly to his fur as he swung along.
Mile after mile they went, and Coppertop felt sure they must be nearing their journey’s end.
“We shall soon get the December day at this rate!” cried Tibbs.
“Will you?” screamed a piercing voice in their ears. “Not if I can prevent it! Oh, dear me, no!”
“The Clerk of the Weather!” they all three exclaimed.
Before they could utter another word, they found themselves in the midst of a terrific blizzard.
And a squalling, snowing, blowing, freezing, breezing, tearing, scaring blizzard it was, to be sure.
It blew the children down from the back of the Bear, and rolled them over and over. It bowled them along helplessly till they arrived at the bottom of a great bank of snow. And here it could blow them no further, and so it heaped the snow over them, in a large white mound, until they were completely buried.