From the Dust Returned. Рэй Брэдбери

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      And Timothy amidst it all, stunned, gave a great shout of delight.

      At which a thousand shadows turned. Two thousand Beast eyes burned yellow, green, and sulfurous gold.

      And in the roundabout centrifuge, Timothy with mindless joy was hurled by the whirl and spin to be flung against a wall and held fast by the concussion, where, motionless, forlorn, he could only watch the carousel of shapes and sizes of mist and fog and smoke faces and legs with hooves that, jounced, struck sparks as someone peeled him off the wall in jolts! “Well, you must be Timothy! Yes, yes! Hands too warm. Face and cheeks too hot. Brow perspiring. Haven’t perspired in years. What’s this?” A snarled and hairy fist pummeled Timothy’s chest. “Is that a small heart? Hammering like an anvil? Yes?”

      A bearded face scowled down at him.

      “Yes,” said Timothy.

      “Poor lad, none of that now, we’ll soon stop it!”

      And to roars of laughter the chilly hand and the cold moon face lurched away in the roundabout dance.

      “That,” said Mother, suddenly near, “was your Uncle Jason.”

      “I don’t like him,” whispered Timothy.