The children were glad to follow the Lady Goose into the house, though
they thought she had been quite particular enough. They found it
impossible to wipe their feet upon the mat because it was thick with
snow, and when the door was closed behind them, they were surprised to
feel that it was snowing even harder inside the house than it was
out. For a moment they stood half blinded by the storm, unable to see
clearly what kind of room they were in or to tell whose were the
voices they heard so plainly. A great fluttering, cackling, and
complaining was going on close to them, and a hoarse voice cried out:

"One hundred and seventeen and three-quarters feathers to be
multiplied by two-sevenths of a pound. That's a sweet one! Do that if
you can, Squealer."

"You can't do it yourself," a whining voice replied. "I've tried the
back and the corners and the edges--there's no more room--"

Then came the sound of a sudden smack, as if some one's ears had been
boxed when he least expected it, and this was followed by a loud angry
squawk. Now the flakes, which had been gradually thinning, died away
entirely, and the children suddenly discovered that they had not been
snowflakes at all but only a cloud of white feathers sent whirling
through the house, out of the windows, and up the chimney by some
disturbance in the midst of a great heap in one corner of the room as
high as a haystack. From the middle of this heap of feathers stuck up
two very thin yellow legs with shabby boots that gave one last
despairing kick and then were still. Near by at a counter a Gentleman
Goose in a long apron was weighing feathers on a very small pair of
scales, and at his elbow stood a little duck apprentice with the tears