“Oh, I say Ann. “Here that whistle. Here’s that whistle belonging to the wind. The wind has forgotten all about it, and so had I.”

Ann was deep in a cupboard where she was tidying her jams and pickles, her wines and syrups. “Candied rose-leaves. Violet vinegar. Sweet marjoram jam. Cowslip wine. May-dew.

Mugwort,” she murmured, counting her stores. “Ann! I’ve found the wind’s whistle. You remember it. I wonder if it will blow, Ann!”

Ann came out of the cupboard with her duster and her cloth. “Brock said she, quickly. Bother! I forgot that,” said Sam. “I suppose I mustn’t blow, but I WISH_ I knew what would happen.”