The Cuckoo Clock Part 12

thought Griselda; and for the first time since she had run out of her room a s.h.i.+ver of cold made her teeth chatter and her skin feel creepy.

"Cuckoo, cuckoo," sounded again, nearer this time, it seemed to Griselda.

"He's waiting for me. I _will_ trust him," she said resolutely. "He has always been good and kind, and it's horrid of me to think he's going to trick me."

She ran down the little stair, she seized the handle of the door. It turned easily; the door opened--opened, and closed again noiselessly behind her, and what do you think she saw?

"Shut your eyes for a minute, Griselda," said the cuckoo's voice beside her; "the light will dazzle you at first. Shut them, and I will brush them with a little daisy dew, to strengthen them."

Griselda did as she was told. She felt the tip of the cuckoo's softest feather pa.s.s gently two or three times over her eyelids, and a delicious scent seemed immediately to float before her.

"I didn't know _daisies_ had any scent," she remarked.

"Perhaps you didn't. You forget, Griselda, that you have a great----"

"Oh, please don't, cuckoo. Please, please don't, _dear_ cuckoo," she exclaimed, dancing about with her hands clasped in entreaty, but her eyes still firmly closed. "Don't say that, and I'll promise to believe whatever you tell me. And how soon may I open my eyes, please, cuckoo?"

"Turn round slowly, three times. That will give the dew time to take effect," said the cuckoo. "Here goes--one--two--three. There, now."

Griselda opened her eyes.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

VII

b.u.t.tERFLY-LAND

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"I'd be a b.u.t.terfly."

Griselda opened her eyes.

What did she see?

The loveliest, loveliest garden that ever or never a little girl's eyes saw. As for describing it, I cannot. I must leave a good deal to your fancy. It was just a _delicious_ garden.

There was a charming mixture of all that is needed to make a garden perfect--gra.s.s, velvety lawn rather; water, for a little brook ran tinkling in and out, playing bopeep among the bushes; trees, of course, and flowers, of course, flowers of every shade and shape. But all these beautiful things Griselda did not at first give as much attention to as they deserved; her eyes were so occupied with a quite unusual sight that met them.

This was b.u.t.terflies! Not that b.u.t.terflies are so very uncommon; but b.u.t.terflies, as Griselda saw them, I am quite sure, children, none of you ever saw, or are likely to see. There were such enormous numbers of them, and the variety of their colours and sizes was so great. They were fluttering about everywhere; the garden seemed actually alive with them.

Griselda stood for a moment in silent delight, feasting her eyes on the lovely things before her, enjoying the delicious suns.h.i.+ne which kissed her poor little bare feet, and seemed to wrap her all up in its warm embrace. Then she turned to her little friend.

"Cuckoo," she said, "I thank you _so_ much. This _is_ fairyland, at last!"

The cuckoo smiled, I was going to say, but that would be a figure of speech only, would it not? He shook his head gently.

"No, Griselda," he said kindly; "this is only b.u.t.terfly-land."

"_b.u.t.terfly_-land!" repeated Griselda, with a little disappointment in her tone.

"Well," said the cuckoo, "it's where you were wis.h.i.+ng to be yesterday, isn't it?"

Griselda did not particularly like these allusions to "yesterday." She thought it would be as well to change the subject.

"It's a beautiful place, whatever it is," she said, "and I'm sure, cuckoo, I'm _very_ much obliged to you for bringing me here. Now may I run about and look at everything? How delicious it is to feel the warm suns.h.i.+ne again! I didn't know how cold I was. Look, cuckoo, my toes and fingers are quite blue; they're only just beginning to come right again.

I suppose the sun always s.h.i.+nes here. How nice it must be to be a b.u.t.terfly; don't you think so, cuckoo? Nothing to do but fly about."

She stopped at last, quite out of breath.

"Griselda," said the cuckoo, "if you want me to answer your questions, you must ask them one at a time. You may run about and look at everything if you like, but you had better not be in such a hurry. You will make a great many mistakes if you are--you have made some already."

"How?" said Griselda.

"_Have_ the b.u.t.terflies nothing to do but fly about? Watch them."

Griselda watched.

"They do seem to be doing something," she said, at last, "but I can't think what. They seem to be nibbling at the flowers, and then flying away something like bees gathering honey. _b.u.t.terflies_ don't gather honey, cuckoo?"

"No," said the cuckoo. "They are filling their paint-boxes."

"What _do_ you mean?" said Griselda.

"Come and see," said the cuckoo.

He flew quietly along in front of her, leading the way through the prettiest paths in all the pretty garden. The paths were arranged in different colours, as it were; that is to say, the flowers growing along their sides were not all "mixty-maxty," but one shade after another in regular order--from the palest blush pink to the very deepest damask crimson; then, again, from the soft greenish blue of the small gra.s.s forget-me-not to the rich warm tinge of the brilliant cornflower.

_Every_ tint was there; shades, to which, though not exactly strange to her, Griselda could yet have given no name, for the daisy dew, you see, had sharpened her eyes to observe delicate variations of colour, as she had never done before.

"How beautifully the flowers are planned," she said to the cuckoo. "Is it just to look pretty, or why?"

"It saves time," replied the cuckoo. "The fetch-and-carry b.u.t.terflies know exactly where to go to for the tint the world-flower-painters want."

"Who are the fetch-and-carry b.u.t.terflies, and who are the world-flower-painters?" asked Griselda.

"Wait a bit and you'll see, and use your eyes," answered the cuckoo.

"It'll do your tongue no harm to have a rest now and then."

Griselda thought it as well to take his advice, though not particularly relis.h.i.+ng the manner in which it was given. She did use her eyes, and as she and the cuckoo made their way along the flower alleys, she saw that the b.u.t.terflies were never idle. They came regularly, in little parties of twos and threes, and nibbled away, as she called it, at flowers of the same colour but different shades, till they had got what they wanted. Then off flew b.u.t.terfly No. 1 with perhaps the palest tint of maize, or yellow, or lavender, whichever he was in quest of, followed by No. 2 with the next deeper shade of the same, and No. 3 bringing up the rear.

Griselda gave a little sigh.

"What's the matter?" said the cuckoo.

"They work very hard," she replied, in a melancholy tone.