They talked among themselves, saying that no good could come of
turning the seasons about, and of how he would probably be eaten in
the end. Then they selected a wise young goose who had been end man
the year before, and they made him their leader. His boots were quite
as orange and his bill as golden as those of the old Goose, and he
could _honk_ very well indeed. They went south with the new leader.
Soon Winter came. He wore a crown of snowflakes. His cloak was
embroidered with frost, and he carried a huge icicle as his sceptre.
Every one was ready for him. The dandelion bowed her bare head as
Winter passed. The barn doors were closed, and the cattle stood, safe
and warm, in their stalls.
But the Wild Goose felt Winter coming. An icy wind blew through his
feathers. His throat was so stiff with cold that he could not blow his
trumpet. His orange boots froze stiff as the marsh turned to ice.
"It must be the winter coming in spite of me," he thought to himself.
"It seems that I have not kept him away after all. I shall die, for he
will freeze me. What shall I do?"
Then a sunbeam, that was still strong enough to help a little, heard
the faint cries of the old Wild Goose and was sorry for him. She
melted the ice so that the Goose could pull out his feet, first one,
and then the other.
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