The sea was terrible, the wind was sad.
To the children it grew more and more distinct with each appearance.
It had a personality, and led a curious and wild existence. It had
privileges and prerogatives. Owing to its various means of vocal
expression--singing, moaning, and the rest--a face belonged to it with
lips and mouth; teeth too, since it whistled. It ran about the world,
and so had feet; it flew, so wings pertained to it; it blew, and that
meant cheeks of sorts. It was a large, swift, shadowy being whose ways
were not the ordinary ways of daylight. It struck blows. It had
gigantic hands. Moreover, it came out only after dark--an ominous and
suspicious characteristic rather.
"Why isn't there a day-wind too?" inquired Judy thoughtfully.
"There is, but it's _quite_ a different thing," Uncle Felix answered.
"You might as well ask why midday and midnight aren't the same because
they both come at twelve o'clock. They're simply different things."
"Of course," Tim helped him unexpectedly; "and a man can't be a woman,
can it?"
The Night-Wind's nature, accordingly, remained a mystery rather, and
its sex was also undetermined.
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