© copyright 2008 

     “If you say so, Pops—I mean . . . Yes, Sir!” Boreas whirled around to get out from under his father's scrutiny, not to mention the snickering of his brothers who delighted in their big brother's predicament.
     “The rest of you boys go along to help.” Now it was Eons grinning. And before they made off, their father added, “Oh . . . while earthbound, it will be more comfortable without these.” Eons again gestured for his cherubs, this time to divest the boys of their remaining windy attributes: The airy wings that propelled them, and the chiffon veils that clothed them.
     The result was four puffy clouds, and it left most of the winds speechless—most, but not all.
     “We're nothing but powder puffs now!” the North wind moaned. “How on earth is this going to make us more comfortable?”
     “Not your comfort—the terrestrials.” The great fog that was Eons began to lift as he waved his four boys off to their tasks. “I don't want you to frighten the children.” 
     “What's become of us?” Austere was scratching himself all over. Sunrise found him and his brothers sitting in a charred mound of cinders outside the mountain village. 
     “I feel more like an itchy sheep than a cloud,” said Eurus pulling a wad of fluff from his scalp.
     “Like lambs! Flea-riddled, fleecy lambs—That's what Pops has made of us!” Zephyrus grumbled.
     “If that tyrant thinks he can trifle with us, he's balmy!” Boreas stomped off in a puff of ash and made his way to the village where he found a bench, blew off some cinders, and plopped himself down and refused to budge. In short order his brothers decided to join him. There the four disgruntled winds sat, for all the village to see. That, as it turned out, proved to be most fortuitous.