could be no flying again that night, and that she wished instead to give him important instruction for the future. There were rules, and signs, and times which he must learn carefully. The time might come when he would have to fly alone, and he must be prepared for everything.
"And the first thing I have to tell you," she said, exactly as though it was a schoolroom, "is: Never fly over the sea. Our kind of wings quickly absorb the finer particles of water and get clogged and heavy over the sea. You finally cannot resist the drawing power of the water, and you will be dragged down and drowned. So be very careful! When you are flying high it is often difficult to know where the land ends and the sea begins, especially on moonless nights. But you can always be certain of one thing: if there are no sounds below you—hoofs, voices, wheels, wind in trees—you are over the sea."
"Yes," said the child, listening with great attention. "And what else?"
"The next thing is: Don't fly too high. Though we fly like birds, remember we are not birds, and we can fly where they can't. We can fly in the ether——"
"Where's that?" he interrupted, half afraid of the sound.
She stooped and kissed him, laughing at his fear.
"There is nothing to be frightened about," she explained. "The air gets lighter and lighter as you go higher, till at last it stops altogether. Then there's only ether left. Birds can't fly in ether because it's too thin. We can, because——"
"Is that why it was good for me to get lighter and thinner?" he interrupted again in a puzzled voice.
"Partly, yes."
"And what happens in the ether, please?" It still frightened him a little.
"Nothing—except that if you fly too high you reach a point where the earth ceases to hold you, and you dash off into space. Weight leaves you then, and the wings move without effort. Faster and faster you rush upwards, till you lose all control of your movements, and then——"
Miss Lake hesitated a moment.
"And then——?" asked the fascinated child.
"You may never come down again," she said slowly. "You may be sucked into anything that happens to come your way—a comet, or a shooting star, or the moon."
"I should like a shooting star best," observed the boy, deeply interested. "The moon frightens me, I think. It looks so dreadfully clean."
"You won't like any of them when the time comes," she laughed. "No one ever gets out again who once gets in. But you'll never be caught that way after what I've told you," she added, with decision.
"I shall never want to fly as high as that, I'm sure," said Jimbo. "And now, please, what comes next?"
The next thing, she went on to explain, was the weather, which, to all flying creatures, was of the utmost importance. Before starting for a flight he must always carefully consider the state of the sky, and the direction in which he wished to go. For this purpose he must master the meaning and character of the Four Winds and be able to recognise them in a moment.
"Once you know these," she said, "you cannot possibly go wrong. To make it easier, I've put each Wind into a little simple rhyme, for you."
"I'm listening," he said eagerly.
"The North Wind is one of the worst and most dangerous, because it blows so much faster than you think. It's taken you ten miles before you think you've gone two. In starting with a North Wind, always fly against it; then it will bring you home easily. If you fly with it, you may be swept so far that the day will catch you before you can get home; and then you're as good as lost. Even birds fly warily when this wind is about. It has no lulls or resting-places in it; it blows steadily on and on, and conquers everything it comes against—everything except the mountains."
"And its rhyme?" asked Jimbo, all ears.
"It will show you the joy of the birds, my child,
You shall know their terrible bliss;
It will teach you to hide, when the night is wild,
From the storm's too passionate kiss.
For the Wind of the North
Is a volleying forth
That will lift you with springs
In the heart of your wings,
And may sweep you away
To the edge of the day.
So, beware of the Wind of the North, my child,
Fly not with the Wind of the North!"
"I think I like him all the same," said Jimbo. "But I'll remember always to fly against him."
"The East Wind is worse still, for it hurts," continued the governess. "It stings and cuts. It's like the breath of an ice-creature; it brings hail and sleet and cold rain that beat down wings and blind the eyes. Like the North Wind, too, it is dreadfully swift and full of little whirlwinds, and may easily carry you into the light of day that would prove your destruction. Avoid it always; no hiding-place is safe from it. This is the rhyme:
"It will teach you the secrets the eagles know
Of the tempests' and whirlwinds' birth;
And the magical weaving of rain and snow
As they fall from the sky to the earth.
But an Easterly wind
Is for ever unkind;
It will torture and twist you
And never assist you,
But will drive you with might
To the verge of the night.
So, beware of the Wind of the East, my child,
Fly not with the Wind of the East."
"The West Wind is really a very nice and jolly wind in itself," she went on, "but it's dangerous for a special reason: it will carry you out to sea. The Empty House is only a few miles from the coast, and a strong West Wind would take you there almost before you had time to get down to earth again. And there's no use struggling against a really steady West Wind, for it's simply tireless. Luckily, it rarely blows at night, but goes down with the sun. Often, too, it blows hard to the coast, and then drops suddenly, leaving you among the fogs and mists of the sea."
"Rather a nice, exciting sort of wind though," remarked Jimbo, waiting for the rhyme.
"So, at last, you shall know from their lightest breath
To which heaven each wind belongs;
And shall master their meaning for life or death
By the shout of their splendid songs.
Yet the Wind of the West
Is a wind unblest;
It is lifted and kissed
