The gloomiest of all was Giant Wimbleweather. He knew it was all his fault. He sat in silence shedding big tears which collected on the end of his nose and then fell off with a huge splash on the whole bivouac of the Mice， who had just been beginning to get warm and drowsy. They all jumped up， shaking the water out of their ears and wringing their little blankets， and asked the Giant in shrill but forcible voices whether he thought they weren’t wet enough without this sort of thing. And then other people woke up and told the Mice they had been enrolled as scouts and not as a concert party， and asked why they couldn‘t keep quiet. And Wimbleweather tiptoed away to find some place where he could be miserable in peace and stepped on somebody’s tail and somebody （they said afterwards it was a fox） bit him. And so everyone was out of temper.
