And now you can hear the Wind Fairies coming gradually nearer, making the wind-noise as the come, like this:

  z—­z—­z z—­z—­z z—­Z—­Z—­Z—­z—­z—­z
  z—­z—­z z—­z—­z z—­Z—­Z—­Z—­z—­z—­z

This grows louder and louder, till suddenly in come the Wind Fairies, running.  They are all in gray; they have on gray peaked caps, gray capes which comes down to their knees, and long gray stockings; and they have gray masks over the upper parts of their faces.  The Fairies stop short before Jack Frost, and make him a low bow.  Then they sing their song, which is called

THE SONG OF THE WIND FAIRIES[1]

  Do you hear us blow, in our coats of gray? 
  Do you hear us blow, till the trees rock and sway? 
  Do you hear us blow—­for from far, far away
  We have come with a storm for your Christmas.

  REFRAIN

  Oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear;
  And the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear;
  You’ll hear us blow, as we fly thro’ the air,
  And we’ve brought you a storm for your Christmas.

  You can hear us sigh at the window-pane;
  And we moan and cry in the snow and the rain. 
  Then away we fly, for we may not remain,
  But we leave you a storm for your Christmas.

  REFRAIN

  Oh, the sound of the wind is strange for to hear;
  And the breath of the wind, it is cold and clear;
  You’ll hear us blow, as we fly thro’ the air,
  And we’ve brought you a storm for your Christmas.

[Footnote 1:  To the tune “D’ ye ken John Peel?”]

As soon as the song is over, off run the Wind Fairies, making the wind-noise as they go, which grows fainter and fainter as they get further and further away, like this

  Z—­Z—­Z—­z—­z—­z z—­z—­z z—­z—­z
  Z—­Z—­Z—­z—­z—­z z—­z—­z z—­z—­z

When the sound of the wind has quite died away, THE CHIMNEY opens one eye, and speaking slowly and sleepily, says: Look here, Jack, something’s going on in my inside. He opens the other eye, and his nose and mouth appear.  He speaks more briskly:  It feels as though there were something hot in there.  Do you suppose those stupid people in the house down below have forgotten all about Santa Claus, and are lighting the fire on the hearth?  I believe they are.  I wish you’d just climb up on my shoulder, and shout down to them to stop.  Do:  there’s a good fellow.

JACK FROST climbs up, puts his head over the chimney, then draws back coughing.  Fire? cries he.  I should say there was, and smoke, too; enough to choke a locomotive. He cautiously peers down.  Hello there, you people, put that fire out.  Do you hear?  Put it out.  Santa Claus is coming.  Do you hear what I say?  SANTA CLAUS IS COMING.  Put out that fire.

There is a pause; then a hissing sound, loud at first, then dying away, like this: