butterflies again--never. But, cuckoo, do they paint all the flowers
_here_, too? What a _fearful_ lot they must have to do!"
"No," said the cuckoo; "the flowers down here are fairy flowers. They
never fade or die, they are always just as you see them. But the colours
of your flowers are all taken from them, as you have seen. Of course
they don't look the same up there," he went on, with a slight
contemptuous shrug of his cuckoo shoulders; "the coarse air and the ugly
things about must take the bloom off. The wild flowers do the best, to
my thinking; people don't meddle with them in their stupid, clumsy way."
"But how do they get the flowers sent up to the world, cuckoo?" asked
Griselda.
"They're packed up, of course, and taken up at night when all of you are
asleep," said the cuckoo. "They're painted on elastic stuff, you see,
which fits itself as the plant grows. Why, if your eyes were as they are
usually, Griselda, you couldn't even _see_ the petals the butterflies
are painting now."
"And the packing up," said Griselda; "do the butterflies do that too?"
"No," said the cuckoo, "the fairies look after that."
"How wonderful!" exclaimed Griselda. But before the cuckoo had time to
say more a sudden tumult filled the air. It was butterfly dinner-time!
"Are you hungry, Griselda?" said the cuckoo.
"Not so very," replied Griselda.
"It's just as well perhaps that you're not," he remarked, "for I don't
know that you'd be much the better for dinner here."
"Why not?" inquired Griselda curiously. "What do they have for dinner?
Honey? I like that very well, spread on the top of bread-and-butter, of
course--I don't think I should care to eat it alone."
"You won't get any honey," the cuckoo was beginning; but he was
interrupted. Two handsome butterflies flew into the great glass hall,
and making straight for the cuckoo, alighted on his shoulders. They
fluttered about him for a minute or two, evidently rather excited about
something, then flew away again, as suddenly as they had appeared.
"Those were royal messengers," said the cuckoo, turning to Griselda.
"They have come with a message from the king and queen to invite us to a
banquet which is to be held in honour of your visit."
"What fun!" cried Griselda. "Do let's go at once, cuckoo. But, oh dear
me," she went on, with a melancholy change of tone, "I was forgetting,
cuckoo. I can't go to the banquet. I have nothing on but my night-gown.
I never thought of it before, for I'm not a bit cold."
"Never mind," said the cuckoo, "I'll soon have that put to rights."
He flew off, and was back almost immediately, followed by a whole flock
of butterflies. They were of a smaller kind than Griselda had hitherto
seen, and they were of two colours only; half were blue, half yellow.
They flew up to Griselda, who felt for a moment as if she were really
going to be suffocated by them, but only for a moment. There seemed a
great buzz and flutter about her, and then the butterflies set to work
to _dress_ her. And how do you think they dressed her? With
_themselves_! They arranged themselves all over her in the cleverest
way. One set of blue ones clustered round the hem of her little
night-gown, making a thick "_ruche_," as it were; and then there came
two or three thinner rows of yellow, and then blue again. Round her
waist they made the loveliest belt of mingled blue and yellow, and all
over the upper part of her night-gown, in and out among the pretty white
frills which Dorcas herself "goffered," so nicely, they made themselves
into fantastic trimmings of every shape and kind; bows, rosettes--I
cannot tell you what they did not imitate.
Perhaps the prettiest ornament of all was the coronet or wreath they
made of themselves for her head, dotting over her curly brown hair too
with butterfly spangles, which quivered like dew-drops as she moved
about. No one would have known Griselda; she _looked_ like a fairy
queen, or princess, at least, for even her little white feet had what
looked like butterfly shoes upon them, though these, you will
understand, were only a sort of make-believe, as, of course, the shoes
were soleless.
"Now," said the cuckoo, when at last all was quiet again, and every blue
and every yellow butterfly seemed settled in his place, "now, Griselda,
come and look at yourself."
[Illustration: SHE PEERED IN WITH GREAT SATISFACTION]
He led the way to a marble basin, into which fell the waters of one of
the tinkling brooks that were to be found everywhere about the garden,
and bade Griselda look into the water mirror. It danced about rather;
but still she was quite able to see herself. She peered in with great
satisfaction, turning herself round so as to see first over one
shoulder, then over the other.
"It _is_ lovely," she said at last. "But, cuckoo, I'm just thinking--how
shall I possibly be able to sit down without crushing ever so many?"
"Bless you, you needn't trouble about that," said the cuckoo; "the
butterflies are quite able to take care of themselves. You don't suppose
you are the first little girl they have ever made a dress for?"
Griselda said no more, but followed the cuckoo, walking rather
"gingerly," notwithstanding his assurances that the butterflies could
take care of themselves. At last the cuckoo stopped, in front of a sort
of banked-up terrace, in the centre of which grew a strange-looking
plant with large, smooth, spreading-out leaves, and on the two topmost
leaves, their splendid wings glittering in the sunshine, sat two
magnificent butterflies. They were many times larger than any Griselda
had yet seen; in fact, the cuckoo himself looked rather small beside
them, and they were _so_ beautiful that Griselda felt quite over-awed.
You could not have said what colour they were, for at the faintest
movement they seemed to change into new colours, each more exquisite
than the last. Perhaps I could best give you an idea of them by saying
that they were like living rainbows.
"Are those the king and queen?" asked Griselda in a whisper.
"Yes," said the cuckoo. "Do you admire them?"
"I should rather think I did," said Griselda. "But, cuckoo, do they
never do anything but lie there in the sunshine?"
"Oh, you silly girl," exclaimed the cuckoo, "always jumping at
conclusions. No, indeed, that is not how they manage things in
butterfly-land. The king and queen have worked harder than any other
butterflies. They are chosen every now and then, out of all the others,
as being the most industrious and the cleverest of all the
world-flower-painters, and then they are allowed to rest, and are fed on
the finest essences, so that they grow as splendid as you see. But even
now they are not idle; they superintend all the work that is done, and
choose all the new colours."
"Dear me!" said Griselda, under her breath, "how clever they must be."
Just then the butterfly king and queen stretched out their magnificent
wings, and rose upwards, soaring proudly into the air.
"Are they going away?" said Griselda in a disappointed tone.
"Oh no," said the cuckoo; "they are welcoming you. Hold out your hands."
Griselda held out her hands, and stood gazing up into the sky. In a
minute or two the royal butterflies appeared again, slowly, majestically
circling downwards, till at length they alighted on Griselda's little
hands, the king on the right, the queen on the left, almost covering
her fingers with their great dazzling wings.
"You _do_ look nice now," said the cuckoo, hopping back a few steps and
looking up at Griselda approvingly; "but it's time for the feast to
begin, as it won't do for us to be late."
The king and queen appeared to understand. They floated away from
Griselda's hands and settled themselves, this time, at one end of a
beautiful little grass plot or lawn, just below the terrace where grew
the large-leaved plant. This was evidently their dining-room, for no
sooner were they in their places than butterflies of every kind and
colour came pouring in, in masses, from all directions. Butterflies
small and butterflies large; butterflies light and butterflies dark;
butterflies blue, pink, crimson, green, gold-colour--_every_ colour, and
far, far more colours than you could possibly imagine.
They all settled down, round the sides of the grassy dining-table, and
in another minute a number of small white butterflies appeared,
carrying among them flower petals carefully rolled up, each containing a
drop of liquid. One of these was presented to the king, and then one to
the queen, who each sniffed at their petal for an instant, and then
passed it on to the butterfly next them, whereupon fresh petals were
handed to them, which they again passed on.
"What are they doing, cuckoo?" said Griselda; "that's not _eating_."
"It's their kind of eating," he replied. "They don't require any other
kind of food than a sniff of perfume; and as there are perfumes
extracted from every flower in butterfly-land, and there are far more
flowers than you could count between now and Christmas, you must allow
there is plenty of variety of dishes."
"Um-m," said Griselda; "I suppose there is. But all the same, cuckoo,
it's a very good thing I'm not hungry, isn't it? May I pour the scent on
my pocket-handkerchief when it comes round to me? I have my
handkerchief here, you see. Isn't it nice that I brought it? It was
under my pillow, and I wrapped it round my hand to open the shutter, for
the hook scratched it once."
"You may pour one drop on your handkerchief," said the cuckoo, "but not
more. I shouldn't like the butterflies to think you greedy."
But Griselda grew very tired of the scent feast long before all the
petals had been passed round. The perfumes were very nice, certainly,
but there were such quantities of them--double quantities in honour of
the guest, of course! Griselda screwed up her handkerchief into a tight
little ball, so that the one drop of scent should not escape from it,
and then she kept sniffing at it impatiently, till at last the cuckoo
asked her what was the matter.
"I am so tired of the feast," she said. "Do let us do something else,
cuckoo."
"It is getting rather late," said the cuckoo. "But see, Griselda, they
are going to have an air-dance now."
"What's that?" said Griselda.
"Look, and you'll see," he replied.
Flocks and flocks of butterflies were rising a short way into the air,
and there arranging themselves in bands according to their colours.
"Come up to the bank," said the cuckoo to Griselda; "you'll see them
better."
Griselda climbed up the bank, and as from there she could look down on
the butterfly show, she saw it beautifully. The long strings of
butterflies twisted in and out of each other in the most wonderful way,
like ribbons of every hue plaiting themselves and then in an instant
unplaiting themselves again. Then the king and queen placed themselves
in the centre, and round and round in moving circles twisted and
untwisted the brilliant bands of butterflies.
"It's like a kaleidoscope," said Griselda; "and now it's like those
twisty-twirly dissolving views that papa took me to see once. It's
_just_ like them. Oh, how pretty! Cuckoo, are they doing it all on
purpose to please me?"
"A good deal," said the cuckoo. "Stand up and clap your hands loud three
times, to show them you're pleased."
Griselda obeyed. "Clap" number one--all the butterflies rose up into the
air in a cloud; clap number two--they all fluttered and twirled and
buzzed about, as if in the greatest excitement; clap number three--they
all turned in Griselda's direction with a rush.
"They're going to kiss you, Griselda," cried the cuckoo.
Griselda felt her breath going. Up above her was the vast feathery cloud
of butterflies, fluttering, _rushing_ down upon her.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo," she screamed, "they'll suffocate me. Oh, cuckoo!"
"Shut your eyes, and clap your hands loud, very loud," called out the
cuckoo.
And just as Griselda clapped her hands, holding her precious
handkerchief between her teeth, she heard him give his usual cry,
"Cuckoo, cuckoo."
_Clap_--where were they all?
Griselda opened her eyes--garden, butterflies, cuckoo, all had
disappeared. She was in bed, and Dorcas was knocking at the door with
the hot water.
"Miss Grizzel said I was to wake you at your usual time this morning,
missie," she said. "I hope you don't feel too tired to get up."
"Tired! I should think not," replied Griselda. "I was awake this morning
ages before you, I can tell you, my dear Dorcas. Come here for a minute,
Dorcas, please," she went on. "There now, sniff my handkerchief. What do
you think of that?"
"It's beautiful," said Dorcas. "It's out of the big blue chinay bottle
on your auntie's table, isn't it, missie?"
"Stuff and nonsense," replied Griselda; "it's scent of my own, Dorcas.
Aunt Grizzel never had any like it in her life. There now! Please give
me my slippers, I want to get up and look over my lessons for Mr.
Kneebreeches before he comes. Dear me," she added to herself, as she was
putting on her slippers, "how pretty my feet did look with the blue
butterfly shoes! It was very good of the cuckoo to take me there, but I
don't think I shall ever wish to be a butterfly again, now I know how
hard they work! But I'd like to do my lessons well to-day. I fancy it'll
please the dear old cuckoo."
[Illustration]
VIII
MASTER PHIL
[Illustration]
"Who comes from the world of flowers?
Daisy and crocus, and sea-blue bell,
And violet shrinking in dewy cell--
Sly cells that know the secrets of night,
When earth is bathed in fairy light--
Scarlet, and blue, and golden flowers."
And so Mr. Kneebreeches had no reason to complain of his pupil that day.
And Miss Grizzel congratulated herself more heartily than ever on her
wise management of children.
And Miss Tabitha repeated that Sister Grizzel might indeed congratulate
herself.
And Griselda became gradually more and more convinced that the only way
as yet discovered of getting through hard tasks is to set to work and do
them; also, that grumbling, as things are at present arranged in this
world, does not _always_, nor I may say _often_, do good; furthermore,
that an ill-tempered child is not, on the whole, likely to be as much
loved as a good-tempered one; lastly, that if you wait long enough,
winter will go and spring will come.
For this was the case this year, after all! Spring had only been sleepy
and lazy, and in such a case what could poor old winter do but fill the
vacant post till she came? Why he should be so scolded and reviled for
faithfully doing his best, as he often is, I really don't know. Not that
all the ill words he gets have much effect on him--he comes again just
as usual, whatever we say of or to him. I suppose his feelings have long
ago been frozen up, or surely before this he would have taken
offence--well for us that he has not done so!
But when the spring did come at last this year, it would be impossible
for me to tell you how Griselda enjoyed it. It was like new life to her
as well as to the plants, and flowers, and birds, and insects. Hitherto,
you see, she had been able to see very little of the outside of her
aunt's house; and charming as the inside was, the outside, I must say,
was still "charminger." There seemed no end to the little up-and-down
paths and alleys, leading to rustic seats and quaint arbours; no limits
to the little pine-wood, down into which led the dearest little
zig-zaggy path you ever saw, all bordered with snow-drops and primroses
and violets, and later on with periwinkles, and wood anemones, and those
bright, starry, white flowers, whose name no two people agree about.
This wood-path was the place, I think, which Griselda loved the best.
The bowling-green was certainly very delightful, and so was the terrace
where the famous roses grew; but lovely as the roses were (I am speaking
just now, of course, of later on in the summer, when they were all in
bloom), Griselda could not enjoy them as much as the wild-flowers, for
she was forbidden to gather or touch them, except with her funny round
nose!
"You may _scent_ them, my dear," said Miss Grizzel, who was of opinion
that smell was not a pretty word; "but I cannot allow anything more."
And Griselda did "scent" them, I assure you. She burrowed her whole rosy
face in the big ones; but gently, for she did not want to spoil them,
both for her aunt's sake, and because, too, she had a greater regard for
flowers now that she knew the secret of how they were painted, and what
a great deal of trouble the butterflies take about them.
But after a while one grows tired of "scenting" roses; and even the
trying to walk straight across the bowling-green with her eyes shut,
from the arbour at one side to the arbour exactly like it at the other,
grew stupid, though no doubt it would have been capital fun with a
companion to applaud or criticize.
So the wood-path became Griselda's favourite haunt. As the summer grew
on, she began to long more than ever for a companion--not so much for
play, as for some one to play with. She had lessons, of course, just as
many as in the winter; but with the long days, there seemed to come a
quite unaccountable increase of play-time, and Griselda sometimes found
it hang heavy on her hands. She had not seen or heard anything of the
cuckoo either, save, of course, in his "official capacity" of
time-teller, for a very long time.
"I suppose," she thought, "he thinks I don't need amusing, now that the
fine days are come and I can play in the garden; and certainly, if I had
_any one_ to play with, the garden would be perfectly lovely."
But, failing companions, she did the best she could for herself, and
this was why she loved the path down into the wood so much. There was a
sort of mystery about it; it might have been the path leading to the
cottage of Red-Ridinghood's grandmother, or a path leading to fairyland
itself. There were all kinds of queer, nice, funny noises to be heard
there--in one part of it especially, where Griselda made herself a seat
of some moss-grown stones, and where she came so often that she got to
know all the little flowers growing close round about, and even the
particular birds whose nests were hard by.
She used to sit there and _fancy_--fancy that she heard the wood-elves
chattering under their breath, or the little underground gnomes and
kobolds hammering at their fairy forges. And the tinkling of the brook
in the distance sounded like the enchanted bells round the necks of the
fairy kine, who are sent out to pasture sometimes on the upper world
hillsides. For Griselda's head was crammed full, perfectly full, of
fairy lore; and the mandarins' country, and butterfly-land, were quite
as real to her as the every-day world about her.
But all this time she was not forgotten by the cuckoo, as you will see.
One day she was sitting in her favourite nest, feeling, notwithstanding
the sunshine, and the flowers, and the soft sweet air, and the pleasant
sounds all about, rather dull and lonely. For though it was only May, it
was really quite a hot day, and Griselda had been all the morning at her
lessons, and had tried very hard, and done them very well, and now she
felt as if she deserved some reward. Suddenly in the distance, she heard
a well-known sound, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."
"Can that be the cuckoo?" she said to herself; and in a moment she felt
sure that it must be. For, for some reason that I do not know enough
about the habits of real "flesh and blood" cuckoos to explain, that bird
was not known in the neighbourhood where Griselda's aunts lived. Some
twenty miles or so further south it was heard regularly, but all this
spring Griselda had never caught the sound of its familiar note, and she
now remembered hearing it never came to these parts.
So, "it must be my cuckoo," she said to herself. "He must be coming out
to speak to me. How funny! I have never seen him by daylight."
She listened. Yes, again there it was, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," as plain as
possible, and nearer than before.
"Cuckoo," cried Griselda, "do come and talk to me. It's such a long time
since I have seen you, and I have nobody to play with."
But there was no answer. Griselda held her breath to listen, but there
was nothing to be heard.
"Unkind cuckoo!" she exclaimed. "He is tricking me, I do believe; and
to-day too, just when I was so dull and lonely."
The tears came into her eyes, and she was beginning to think herself
very badly used, when suddenly a rustling in the bushes beside her made
her turn round, more than half expecting to see the cuckoo himself. But
it was not he. The rustling went on for a minute or two without anything
making its appearance, for the bushes were pretty thick just there, and
any one scrambling up from the pine-wood below would have had rather
hard work to get through, and indeed for a very big person such a feat
would have been altogether impossible.
It was not a very big person, however, who was causing all the rustling,
and crunching of branches, and general commotion, which now absorbed
Griselda's attention. She sat watching for another minute in perfect
stillness, afraid of startling by the slightest movement the squirrel or
rabbit or creature of some kind which she expected to see. At last--was
that a squirrel or rabbit--that rosy, round face, with shaggy, fair hair
falling over the eager blue eyes, and a general look of breathlessness
and over-heatedness and determination?
A squirrel or a rabbit! No, indeed, but a very sturdy, very merry, very
ragged little boy.
"Where are that cuckoo? Does _you_ know?" were the first words he
uttered, as soon as he had fairly shaken himself, though not by any
means all his clothes, free of the bushes (for ever so many pieces of
jacket and knickerbockers, not to speak of one boot and half his hat,
had been left behind on the way), and found breath to say something.
Griselda stared at him for a moment without speaking, she was so
astonished. It was months since she had spoken to a child, almost since
she had seen one, and about children younger than herself she knew very
little at any time, being the baby of the family at home, you see, and
having only big brothers older than herself for play-fellows.
"Who are you?" she said at last. "What's your name, and what do you
want?"
"My name's Master Phil, and I want that cuckoo," answered the little
boy. "He camed up this way. I'm sure he did, for he called me all the
way."
"He's not here," said Griselda, shaking her head; "and this is my aunts'
garden. No one is allowed to come here but friends of theirs. You had
better go home; and you have torn your clothes so."
"This aren't a garden," replied the little fellow undauntedly, looking
round him; "this are a wood. There are blue-bells and primroses here,
and that shows it aren't a garden--not anybody's garden, I mean, with
walls round, for nobody to come in."
"But it _is_," said Griselda, getting rather vexed. "If it isn't a
garden it's _grounds_, private grounds, and nobody should come without
leave. This path leads down to the wood, and there's a door in the wall
at the bottom to get into the lane. You may go down that way, little
boy. No one comes scrambling up the way you did."
"But I want to find the cuckoo," said the little boy. "I do so want to
find the cuckoo."
His voice sounded almost as if he were going to cry, and his pretty,
hot, flushed face puckered up. Griselda's heart smote her; she looked at
him more carefully. He was such a very little boy, after all; she did
not like to be cross to him.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Five and a bit. I had a birthday after the summer, and if I'm good,
nurse says perhaps I'll have one after next summer too. Do you ever have
birthdays?" he went on, peering up at Griselda. "Nurse says she used to
when she was young, but she never has any now."
"_Have_ you a nurse?" asked Griselda, rather surprised; for, to tell the
truth, from "Master Phil's" appearance, she had not felt at all sure
what _sort_ of little boy he was, or rather what sort of people he
belonged to.
"Of course I have a nurse, and a mother too," said the little boy,
opening wide his eyes in surprise at the question. "Haven't you? Perhaps
you're too big, though. People leave off having nurses and mothers when
they're big, don't they? Just like birthdays. But _I_ won't. I won't
never leave off having a mother, any way. I don't care so much about
nurse and birthdays, not _kite_ so much. Did you care when you had to
leave off, when you got too big?"