once upon a time in an old town, in an old street, there stood a very old house. such a house as you could hardly find nowadays, however you searched, for it belonged to a gone-by time—a time now quite passed away.
it stood in a street, but yet it was not like a town house, for though the front opened right on to the pavement, the back windows looked out upon a beautiful, quaintly terraced garden, with old trees growing so thick and close together that in summer it was like living on the edge of a forest to be near them; and even in winter the web of their interlaced branches hid all clear view behind.
there was a colony of rooks in this old garden. year after year they held their parliaments and cawed and chattered and fussed; year after year they built their nests and hatched their eggs; year after year, i suppose, the old ones gradually died off and the young ones took their place, though, but for knowing this must be so, no one would have suspected it, for to all appearance the rooks were always the same—ever and always the same.
time indeed seemed to stand still in and all about the old house, as if it and the people who inhabited it had got so old that they could not get any older, and had outlived the possibility of change.
but one day at last there did come a change. late in the dusk of an autumn afternoon a carriage drove up to the door of the old house, came rattling over the stones with a sudden noisy clatter that sounded quite impertinent, startling the rooks just as they were composing themselves to rest, and setting them all wondering what could be the matter.
a little girl was the matter! a little girl in a grey merino frock, and grey beaver bonnet, grey tippet and grey gloves—all grey together, even to her eyes, all except her round rosy face and bright brown hair. her name even was rather grey, for it was griselda.
a gentleman lifted her out of the carriage and disappeared with her into the house, and later that same evening the gentleman came out of the house and got into the carriage which had come back for him again, and drove away. that was all that the rooks saw of the change that had come to the old house. shall we go inside to see more?
up the shallow, wide, old-fashioned staircase, past the wainscoted walls, dark and shining like a mirror, down a long narrow passage with many doors, which but for their gleaming brass handles one would not have known were there, the oldest of the three old servants led little griselda, so tired and sleepy that her supper had been left almost untasted, to the room prepared for her. it was a queer room, for everything in the house was queer; but in the dancing light of the fire burning brightly in the tiled grate, it looked cheerful enough.
"i am glad there's a fire," said the child. "will it keep alight till the morning, do you think?"
the old servant shook her head.
"'twould not be safe to leave it so that it would burn till morning," she said. "when you are in bed and asleep, little missie, you won't want the fire. bed's the warmest place."
"it isn't for that i want it," said griselda; "it's for the light i like it. this house all looks so dark to me, and yet there seem to be lights hidden in the walls too, they shine so."
the old servant smiled.
"it will all seem strange to you, no doubt," she said; "but you'll get to like it, missie. 'tis a good old house, and those that know best love it well."
"whom do you mean?" said griselda. "do you mean my great-aunts?"
"ah, yes, and others beside," replied the old woman. "the rooks love it well, and others beside. did you ever hear tell of the 'good people,' missie, over the sea where you come from?"
"fairies, do you mean?" cried griselda, her eyes sparkling. "of course i've heard of them, but i never saw any. did you ever?"
"i couldn't say," answered the old woman. "my mind is not young like yours, missie, and there are times when strange memories come back to me as of sights and sounds in a dream. i am too old to see and hear as i once could. we are all old here, missie. 'twas time something young came to the old house again."
"how strange and queer everything seems!" thought griselda, as she got into bed. "i don't feel as if i belonged to it a bit. and they are all so old; perhaps they won't like having a child among them?"
the very same thought that had occurred to the rooks! they could not decide as to the fors and againsts at all, so they settled to put it to the vote the next morning, and in the meantime they and griselda all went to sleep.
i never heard if they slept well that night; after such unusual excitement it was hardly to be expected they would. but griselda, being a little girl and not a rook, was so tired that two minutes after she had tucked herself up in bed she was quite sound asleep, and did not wake for several hours.
"i wonder what it will all look like in the morning," was her last waking thought. "if it was summer now, or spring, i shouldn't mind—there would always be something nice to do then."
as sometimes happens, when she woke again, very early in the morning, long before it was light, her thoughts went straight on with the same subject.
"if it was summer now, or spring," she repeated to herself, just as if she had not been asleep at all—like the man who fell into a trance for a hundred years just as he was saying "it is bitt—" and when he woke up again finished the sentence as if nothing had happened—"erly cold." "if only it was spring," thought griselda.
just as she had got so far in her thoughts, she gave a great start. what was it she heard? could her wish have come true? was this fairyland indeed that she had got to, where one only needs to wish, for it to be? she rubbed her eyes, but it was too dark to see; that was not very fairyland like, but her ears she felt certain had not deceived her: she was quite, quite sure that she had heard the cuckoo!
she listened with all her might, but she did not hear it again. could it, after all, have been fancy? she grew sleepy at last, and was just dropping off when—yes, there it was again, as clear and distinct as possible—"cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!" three, four, five times, then perfect silence as before.
"what a funny cuckoo," said griselda to herself. "i could almost fancy it was in the house. i wonder if my great-aunts have a tame cuckoo in a cage? i don't think i ever heard of such a thing, but this is such a queer house; everything seems different in it—perhaps they have a tame cuckoo. i'll ask them in the morning. it's very nice to hear, whatever it is."
and, with a pleasant feeling of companionship, a sense that she was not the only living creature awake in this dark world, griselda lay listening, contentedly enough, for the sweet, fresh notes of the cuckoo's friendly greeting. but before it sounded again through the silent house she was once more fast asleep. and this time she slept till daylight had found its way into all but the very darkest nooks and crannies of the ancient dwelling.
she dressed herself carefully, for she had been warned that her aunts loved neatness and precision; she fastened each button of her grey frock, and tied down her hair as smooth as such a brown tangle could be tied down; and, absorbed with these weighty cares, she forgot all about the cuckoo for the time. it was not till she was sitting at breakfast with her aunts that she remembered it, or rather was reminded of it, by some little remark that was made about the friendly robins on the terrace walk outside.
"oh, aunt," she exclaimed, stopping short half-way the journey to her mouth of a spoonful of bread and milk, "have you got a cuckoo in a cage?"
"a cuckoo in a cage," repeated her elder aunt, miss grizzel; "what is the child talking about?"
"in a cage!" echoed miss tabitha, "a cuckoo in a cage!"
"there is a cuckoo somewhere in the house," said griselda; "i heard it in the night. it couldn't have been out-of-doors, could it? it would be too cold."
the aunts looked at each other with a little smile. "so like her grandmother," they whispered. then said miss grizzel—
"we have a cuckoo, my dear, though it isn't in a cage, and it isn't exactly the sort of cuckoo you are thinking of. it lives in a clock."
"in a clock," repeated miss tabitha, as if to confirm her sister's statement.
"in a clock!" exclaimed griselda, opening her grey eyes very wide.
it sounded something like the three bears, all speaking one after the other, only griselda's voice was not like tiny's; it was the loudest of the three.
"in a clock!" she exclaimed; "but it can't be alive, then?"
"why not?" said miss grizzel.
"i don't know," replied griselda, looking puzzled.
"i knew a little girl once," pursued miss grizzel, "who was quite of opinion the cuckoo was alive, and nothing would have persuaded her it was not. finish your breakfast, my dear, and then if you like you shall come with me and see the cuckoo for yourself."
"thank you, aunt grizzel," said griselda, going on with her bread and milk.
"yes," said miss tabitha, "you shall see the cuckoo for yourself."
"thank you, aunt tabitha," said griselda. it was rather a bother to have always to say "thank you," or "no, thank you," twice, but griselda thought it was polite to do so, as aunt tabitha always repeated everything that aunt grizzel said. it wouldn't have mattered so much if aunt tabitha had said it at once after miss grizzel, but as she generally made a little pause between, it was sometimes rather awkward. but of course it was better to say "thank you" or "no, thank you" twice over than to hurt aunt tabitha's feelings.
after breakfast aunt grizzel was as good as her word. she took griselda through several of the rooms in the house, pointing out all the curiosities, and telling all the histories of the rooms and their contents; and griselda liked to listen, only in every room they came to, she wondered when they would get to the room where lived the cuckoo.
aunt tabitha did not come with them, for she was rather rheumatic. on the whole, griselda was not sorry. it would have taken such a very long time, you see, to have had all the histories twice over, and possibly, if griselda had got tired, she might have forgotten about the "thank you's" or "no, thank you's" twice over.
the old house looked quite as queer and quaint by daylight as it had seemed the evening before; almost more so indeed, for the view from the windows added to the sweet, odd "old-fashionedness" of everything.
"we have beautiful roses in summer," observed miss grizzel, catching sight of the direction in which the child's eyes were wandering.
"i wish it was summer. i do love summer," said griselda. "but there is a very rosy scent in the rooms even now, aunt grizzel, though it is winter, or nearly winter."
miss grizzel looked pleased.
"my pot-pourri," she explained.
they were just then standing in what she called the "great saloon," a handsome old room, furnished with gold-and-white chairs, that must once have been brilliant, and faded yellow damask hangings. a feeling of awe had crept over griselda as they entered this ancient drawing-room. what grand parties there must have been in it long ago! but as for dancing in it now—dancing, or laughing, or chattering—such a thing was quite impossible to imagine!
miss grizzel crossed the room to where stood in one corner a marvellous chinese cabinet, all black and gold and carving. it was made in the shape of a temple, or a palace—griselda was not sure which. any way, it was very delicious and wonderful. at the door stood, one on each side, two solemn mandarins; or, to speak more correctly, perhaps i should say, a mandarin and his wife, for the right-hand figure was evidently intended to be a lady.
miss grizzel gently touched their heads. forthwith, to griselda's astonishment, they began solemnly to nod.
"oh, how do you make them do that, aunt grizzel?" she exclaimed.
"never you mind, my dear; it wouldn't do for you to try to make them nod. they wouldn't like it," replied miss grizzel mysteriously. "respect to your elders, my dear, always remember that. the mandarins are many years older than you—older than i myself, in fact."
griselda wondered, if this were so, how it was that miss grizzel took such liberties with them herself, but she said nothing.
"here is my last summer's pot-pourri," continued miss grizzel, touching a great china jar on a little stand, close beside the cabinet. "you may smell it, my dear."
nothing loth, griselda buried her round little nose in the fragrant leaves.
"it's lovely," she said. "may i smell it whenever i like, aunt grizzel?"
"we shall see," replied her aunt. "it isn't every little girl, you know, that we could trust to come into the great saloon alone."
"no," said griselda meekly.
miss grizzel led the way to a door opposite to that by which they had entered. she opened it and passed through, griselda following, into a small ante-room.
"it is on the stroke of ten," said miss grizzel, consulting her watch; "now, my dear, you shall make acquaintance with our cuckoo."
the cuckoo "that lived in a clock!" griselda gazed round her eagerly. where was the clock? she could see nothing in the least like one, only up on the wall in one corner was what looked like a miniature house, of dark brown carved wood. it was not so very like a house, but it certainly had a roof—a roof with deep projecting eaves; and, looking closer, yes, it was a clock, after all, only the figures, which had once been gilt, had grown dim with age, like everything else, and the hands at a little distance were hardly to be distinguished from the face.
miss grizzel stood perfectly still, looking up at the clock; griselda beside her, in breathless expectation. presently there came a sort of distant rumbling. something was going to happen. suddenly two little doors above the clock face, which griselda had not known were there, sprang open with a burst and out flew a cuckoo, flapped his wings, and uttered his pretty cry, "cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" miss grizzel counted aloud, "seven, eight, nine, ten." "yes, he never makes a mistake," she added triumphantly. "all these long years i have never known him wrong. there are no such clocks made nowadays, i can assure you, my dear."
"but is it a clock? isn't he alive?" exclaimed griselda. "he looked at me and nodded his head, before he flapped his wings and went in to his house again—he did indeed, aunt," she said earnestly; "just like saying, 'how do you do?' to me."
again miss grizzel smiled, the same odd yet pleased smile that griselda had seen on her face at breakfast. "just what sybilla used to say," she murmured. "well, my dear," she added aloud, "it is quite right he should say, 'how do you do?' to you. it is the first time he has seen you, though many a year ago he knew your dear grandmother, and your father, too, when he was a little boy. you will find him a good friend, and one that can teach you many lessons."
"what, aunt grizzel?" inquired griselda, looking puzzled.
"punctuality, for one thing, and faithful discharge of duty," replied miss grizzel.
"may i come to see the cuckoo—to watch for him coming out, sometimes?" asked griselda, who felt as if she could spend all day looking up at the clock, watching for her little friend's appearance.
"you will see him several times a day," said her aunt, "for it is in this little room i intend you to prepare your tasks. it is nice and quiet, and nothing to disturb you, and close to the room where your aunt tabitha and i usually sit."
so saying, miss grizzel opened a second door in the little ante-room, and, to griselda's surprise, at the foot of a short flight of stairs through another door, half open, she caught sight of her aunt tabitha, knitting quietly by the fire, in the room in which they had breakfasted.
"what a very funny house it is, aunt grizzel," she said, as she followed her aunt down the steps. "every room has so many doors, and you come back to where you were just when you think you are ever so far off. i shall never be able to find my way about."
"oh yes, you will, my dear, very soon," said her aunt encouragingly.
"she is very kind," thought griselda; "but i wish she wouldn't call my lessons tasks. it makes them sound so dreadfully hard. but, any way, i'm glad i'm to do them in the room where that dear cuckoo lives."
