darting motion, like nothing she had ever felt before. It did not make
her the least giddy, either; but a slightly sleepy feeling came over
her. She felt no inclination to open her eyes; and, indeed, at the rate
they were going, she could have distinguished very little had she done
so.
Suddenly the feeling in the air about her changed. For an instant it
felt more _rushy_ than before, and there was a queer, dull sound in her
ears. Then she felt that the cuckoo had stopped.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"We've just come _down_ a chimney again," said the cuckoo. "Open your
eyes and clamber down off my back, but don't speak loud, or you'll waken
him, and that wouldn't do. There you are--the moonlight's coming in
nicely at the window--you can see your way."
Griselda found herself in a little bed-room, quite a tiny one, and by
the look of the simple furniture and the latticed window, she saw that
she was not in a grand house. But everything looked very neat and nice,
and on a little bed in one corner lay a lovely sleeping child. It was
Phil! He looked so pretty asleep--his shaggy curls all tumbling about,
his rosy mouth half open as if smiling, one little hand tossed over his
head, the other tight clasping a little basket which he had insisted on
taking to bed with him, meaning as soon as he was dressed the next
morning to run out and fill it with flowers for the little girl he had
made friends with.
Griselda stepped up to the side of the bed on tiptoe. The cuckoo had
disappeared, but Griselda heard his voice. It seemed to come from a
little way up the chimney.
"Don't wake him," said the cuckoo, "but whisper what you want to say
into his ear, as soon as I have called him. He'll understand; he's
accustomed to my ways."
Then came the old note, soft and musical as ever--
"Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. Listen, Phil," said the cuckoo, and without
opening his eyes a change passed over the little boy's face. Griselda
could see that he was listening to hear her message.
"He thinks he's dreaming, I suppose," she said to herself with a smile.
Then she whispered softly--
"Phil, dear, don't come to play with me to-morrow, for I can't come. But
come the day after. I'll be at the wood-path then."
"Welly well," murmured Phil. Then he put out his two arms towards
Griselda, all without opening his eyes, and she, bending down, kissed
him softly.
"Phil's so sleepy," he whispered, like a baby almost. Then he turned
over and went to sleep more soundly than before.
"That'll do," said the cuckoo. "Come along, Griselda."
Griselda obediently made her way to the place whence the cuckoo's voice
seemed to come.
"Shut your eyes and put your arms round my neck again," said the cuckoo.
She did not hesitate this time. It all happened just as before. There
came the same sort of rushy sound; then the cuckoo stopped, and Griselda
opened her eyes.
They were up in the air again--a good way up, too, for some grand old
elms that stood beside the farmhouse were gently waving their topmost
branches a yard or two from where the cuckoo was poising himself and
Griselda.
"Where shall we go to now?" he said. "Or would you rather go home? Are
you tired?"
"Tired!" exclaimed Griselda. "I should rather think not. How could I be
tired, cuckoo?"
"Very well, don't excite yourself about nothing, whatever you do," said
the cuckoo. "Say where you'd like to go."
"How can I?" said Griselda. "You know far more nice places than I do."
"You don't care to go back to the mandarins, or the butterflies, I
suppose?" asked the cuckoo.
"No, thank you," said Griselda; "I'd like something new. And I'm not
sure that I care for seeing any more countries of that kind, unless you
could take me to the _real_ fairyland."
"_I_ can't do that, you know," said the cuckoo.
Just then a faint "soughing" sound among the branches suggested another
idea to Griselda.
"Cuckoo," she exclaimed, "take me to the sea. It's _such_ a time since I
saw the sea. I can fancy I hear it; do take me to see it."
[Illustration]
X
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOON
[Illustration]
"That after supper time has come,
And silver dews the meadow steep,
And all is silent in the home,
And even nurses are asleep,
That be it late, or be it soon,
Upon this lovely night in June
They both will step into the moon."
"Very well," said the cuckoo. "You would like to look about you a little
on the way, perhaps, Griselda, as we shall not be going down chimneys,
or anything of that kind just at present."
"Yes," said Griselda. "I think I should. I'm rather tired of shutting
my eyes, and I'm getting quite accustomed to flying about with you,
cuckoo."
"Turn on your side, then," said the cuckoo, "and you won't have to twist
your neck to see over my shoulder. Are you comfortable now? And,
by-the-by, as you may be cold, just feel under my left wing. You'll find
the feather mantle there, that you had on once before. Wrap it round
you. I tucked it in at the last moment, thinking you might want it."
"Oh, you dear, kind cuckoo!" cried Griselda. "Yes, I've found it. I'll
tuck it all round me like a rug--that's it. I _am_ so warm now, cuckoo."
"Here goes, then," said the cuckoo, and off they set. Had ever a little
girl such a flight before? Floating, darting, gliding, sailing--no words
can describe it. Griselda lay still in delight, gazing all about her.
"How lovely the stars are, cuckoo!" she said. "Is it true they're all
great, big _suns_? I'd rather they weren't. I like to think of them as
nice, funny little things."
"They're not all suns," said the cuckoo. "Not all those you're looking
at now."
"I like the twinkling ones best," said Griselda. "They look so
good-natured. Are they _all_ twirling about always, cuckoo? Mr.
Kneebreeches has just begun to teach me astronomy, and _he_ says they
are; but I'm not at all sure that he knows much about it."
"He's quite right all the same," replied the cuckoo.
"Oh dear me! How tired they must be, then!" said Griselda. "Do they
never rest just for a minute?"
"Never."
"Why not?"
"Obeying orders," replied the cuckoo.
Griselda gave a little wriggle.
"What's the use of it?" she said. "It would be just as nice if they
stood still now and then."
"Would it?" said the cuckoo. "I know somebody who would soon find fault
if they did. What would you say to no summer; no day, or no night,
whichever it happened not to be, you see; nothing growing, and nothing
to eat before long? That's what it would be if they stood still, you
see, because----"
"Thank you, cuckoo," interrupted Griselda. "It's very nice to hear
you--I mean, very dreadful to think of, but I don't want you to explain.
I'll ask Mr. Kneebreeches when I'm at my lessons. You might tell me one
thing, however. What's at the other side of the moon?"
"There's a variety of opinions," said the cuckoo.
"What are they? Tell me the funniest."
"Some say all the unfinished work of the world is kept there," said the
cuckoo.
"_That's_ not funny," said Griselda. "What a messy place it must be!
Why, even _my_ unfinished work makes quite a heap. I don't like that
opinion at all, cuckoo. Tell me another."
"I _have_ heard," said the cuckoo, "that among the places there you
would find the country of the little black dogs. You know what sort of
creatures those are?"
"Yes, I suppose so," said Griselda, rather reluctantly.
"There are a good many of them in this world, as of course you know,"
continued the cuckoo. "But up there, they are much worse than here. When
a child has made a great pet of one down here, I've heard tell the
fairies take him up there when his parents and nurses think he's
sleeping quietly in his bed, and make him work hard all night, with his
own particular little black dog on his back. And it's so dreadfully
heavy--for every time he takes it on his back down here it grows a pound
heavier up there--that by morning the child is quite worn out. I dare
say you've noticed how haggered and miserable some ill-tempered children
get to look--now you'll know the reason."
"Thank you, cuckoo," said Griselda again; "but I can't say I like this
opinion about the other side of the moon any better than the first. If
you please, I would rather not talk about it any more."
"Oh, but it's not so bad an idea after all," said the cuckoo. "Lots of
children, they say, get quite cured in the country of the little black
dogs. It's this way--for every time a child refuses to take the dog on
his back down here it grows a pound lighter up there, so at last any
sensible child learns how much better it is to have nothing to say to it
at all, and gets out of the way of it, you see. Of course, there _are_
children whom nothing would cure, I suppose. What becomes of them I
really can't say. Very likely they get crushed into pancakes by the
weight of the dogs at last, and then nothing more is ever heard of
them."
"Horrid!" said Griselda, with a shudder. "Don't let's talk about it any
more, cuckoo; tell me your _own_ opinion about what there really is on
the other side of the moon."
The cuckoo was silent for a moment. Then suddenly he stopped short in
the middle of his flight.
"Would you like to see for yourself, Griselda?" he said. "There would be
about time to do it," he added to himself, "and it would fulfil her
other wish, too."
"See the moon for myself, do you mean?" cried Griselda, clasping her
hands. "I should rather think I would. Will you really take me there,
cuckoo?"
"To the other side," said the cuckoo. "I couldn't take you to this
side."
"Why not? Not that I'd care to go to this side as much as to the other;
for, of course, we can _see_ this side from here. But I'd like to know
why you couldn't take me there."
"For _reasons_," said the cuckoo drily. "I'll give you one if you like.
If I took you to this side of the moon you wouldn't be yourself when you
got there."
"Who would I be, then?"
"Griselda," said the cuckoo, "I told you once that there are a great
many things you don't know. Now, I'll tell you something more. There are
a great many things you're not _intended_ to know."
"Very well," said Griselda. "But do tell me when you're going on again,
and where you are going to take me to. There's no harm my asking that?"
"No," said the cuckoo. "I'm going on immediately, and I'm going to take
you where you wanted to go to, only you must shut your eyes again, and
lie perfectly still without talking, for I must put on steam--a good
deal of steam--and I can't talk to you. Are you all right?"
"All right," said Griselda.
She had hardly said the words when she seemed to fall asleep. The
rushing sound in the air all round her increased so greatly that she was
conscious of nothing else. For a moment or two she tried to remember
where she was, and where she was going, but it was useless. She forgot
everything, and knew nothing more of what was passing till--till she
heard the cuckoo again.
"Cuckoo, cuckoo; wake up, Griselda," he said.
Griselda sat up.
Where was she?
Not certainly where she had been when she went to sleep. Not on the
cuckoo's back, for there he was standing beside her, as tiny as usual.
Either he had grown little again, or she had grown big--which, she
supposed, it did not much matter. Only it was very queer!
"Where am I, cuckoo?" she said.
"Where you wished to be," he replied. "Look about you and see."
Griselda looked about her. What did she see? Something that I can only
give you a faint idea of, children; something so strange and unlike what
she had ever seen before, that only in a dream could you see it as
Griselda saw it. And yet _why_ it seemed to her so strange and unnatural
I cannot well explain; if I could, my words would be as good as
pictures, which I know they are not.
After all, it was only the sea she saw; but such a great, strange,
silent sea, for there were no waves. Griselda was seated on the shore,
close beside the water's edge, but it did not come lapping up to her
feet in the pretty, coaxing way that _our_ sea does when it is in a good
humour. There were here and there faint ripples on the surface, caused
by the slight breezes which now and then came softly round Griselda's
face, but that was all. King Canute might have sat "from then till now"
by this still, lifeless ocean without the chance of reading his silly
attendants a lesson--if, indeed, there ever were such silly people,
which I very much doubt.
Griselda gazed with all her eyes. Then she suddenly gave a little
shiver.
"What's the matter?" said the cuckoo. "You have the mantle on--you're
not cold?"
"No," said Griselda, "I'm not cold; but somehow, cuckoo, I feel a little
frightened. The sea is so strange, and so dreadfully big; and the light
is so queer, too. What is the light, cuckoo? It isn't moonlight, is it?"
"Not exactly," said the cuckoo. "You can't both have your cake and eat
it, Griselda. Look up at the sky. There's no moon there, is there?"
"No," said Griselda; "but what lots of stars, cuckoo. The light comes
from them, I suppose? And where's the sun, cuckoo? Will it be rising
soon? It isn't always like this up here, is it?"
"Bless you, no," said the cuckoo. "There's sun enough, and rather too
much, sometimes. How would you like a day a fortnight long, and nights
to match? If it had been daytime here just now, I couldn't have brought
you. It's just about the very middle of the night now, and in about a
week of _your_ days the sun will begin to rise, because, you see----"
"Oh, _dear_ cuckoo, please don't explain!" cried Griselda. "I'll promise
to ask Mr. Kneebreeches, I will indeed. In fact, he was telling me
something just like it to-day or yesterday--which should I say?--at my
astronomy lesson. And that makes it so strange that you should have
brought me up here to-night to see for myself, doesn't it, cuckoo?"
"An odd coincidence," said the cuckoo.
"What _would_ Mr. Kneebreeches think if I told him where I had been?"
continued Griselda. "Only, you see, cuckoo, I never tell anybody about
what I see when I am with you."
"No," replied the cuckoo; "better not. ('Not that you could if you
tried,' he added to himself.) You're not frightened now, Griselda, are
you?"
"No, I don't think I am," she replied. "But, cuckoo, isn't this sea
_awfully_ big?"
"Pretty well," said the cuckoo. "Just half, or nearly half, the size of
the moon; and, no doubt, Mr. Kneebreeches has told you that the moon's
diameter and circumference are respec----"
"Oh _don't_, cuckoo!" interrupted Griselda, beseechingly. "I want to
enjoy myself, and not to have lessons. Tell me something funny, cuckoo.
Are there any mermaids in the moon-sea?"
"Not exactly," said the cuckoo.
"What a stupid way to answer," said Griselda. "There's no sense in that;
there either must be or must not be. There couldn't be half mermaids."
"I don't know about that," replied the cuckoo. "They might have been
here once and have left their tails behind them, like Bopeep's sheep,
you know; and some day they might be coming to find them again, you
know. That would do for 'not exactly,' wouldn't it?"
"Cuckoo, you're laughing at me," said Griselda. "Tell me, are there any
mermaids, or fairies, or water-sprites, or any of those sort of
creatures here?"
"I must still say 'not exactly,'" said the cuckoo. "There are beings
here, or rather there have been, and there may be again; but you,
Griselda, can know no more than this."
His tone was rather solemn, and again Griselda felt a little "eerie."
"It's a dreadfully long way from home, any way," she said. "I feel as
if, when I go back, I shall perhaps find I have been away fifty years or
so, like the little boy in the fairy story. Cuckoo, I think I would like
to go home. Mayn't I get on your back again?"
"Presently," said the cuckoo. "Don't be uneasy, Griselda. Perhaps I'll
take you home by a short cut."
"Was ever any child here before?" asked Griselda, after a little pause.
"Yes," said the cuckoo.
"And did they get safe home again?"
"Quite," said the cuckoo. "It's so silly of you, Griselda, to have all
these ideas still about far and near, and big and little, and long and
short, after all I've taught you and all you've seen."
"I'm very sorry," said Griselda humbly; "but you see, cuckoo, I can't
help it. I suppose I'm made so."
"Perhaps," said the cuckoo, meditatively.
He was silent for a minute. Then he spoke again. "Look over there,
Griselda," he said. "There's the short cut."
Griselda looked. Far, far over the sea, in the silent distance, she saw
a tiny speck of light. It was very tiny; but yet the strange thing was
that, far away as it appeared, and minute as it was, it seemed to throw
off a thread of light to Griselda's very feet--right across the great
sheet of faintly gleaming water. And as Griselda looked, the thread
seemed to widen and grow, becoming at the same time brighter and
clearer, till at last it lay before her like a path of glowing light.
"Am I to walk along there?" she said softly to the cuckoo.
"No," he replied; "wait."
Griselda waited, looking still, and presently in the middle of the
shining streak she saw something slowly moving--something from which
the light came, for the nearer it got to her the shorter grew the
glowing path, and behind the moving object the sea looked no brighter
than before it had appeared.
At last--at last, it came quite near--near enough for Griselda to
distinguish clearly what it was.
It was a little boat--the prettiest, the loveliest little boat that ever
was seen; and it was rowed by a little figure that at first sight
Griselda felt certain was a fairy. For it was a child with bright hair
and silvery wings, which with every movement sparkled and shone like a
thousand diamonds.
Griselda sprang up and clapped her hands with delight. At the sound, the
child in the boat turned and looked at her. For one instant she could
not remember where she had seen him before; then she exclaimed,
joyfully--
"It is Phil! Oh, cuckoo, it is Phil. Have you turned into a fairy,
Phil?"
[Illustration: IT WAS ROWED BY A LITTLE FIGURE]
But, alas, as she spoke the light faded away, the boy's figure
disappeared, the sea and the shore and the sky were all as they had been
before, lighted only by the faint, strange gleaming of the stars. Only
the boat remained. Griselda saw it close to her, in the shallow water, a
few feet from where she stood.
"Cuckoo," she exclaimed in a tone of reproach and disappointment, "where
is Phil gone? Why did you send him away?"
"I didn't send him away," said the cuckoo. "You don't understand. Never
mind, but get into the boat. It'll be all right, you'll see."
"But are we to go away and leave Phil here, all alone at the other side
of the moon?" said Griselda, feeling ready to cry.
"Oh, you silly girl!" said the cuckoo. "Phil's all right, and in some
ways he has a great deal more sense than you, I can tell you. Get into
the boat and make yourself comfortable; lie down at the bottom and
cover yourself up with the mantle. You needn't be afraid of wetting
your feet a little, moon water never gives cold. There, now."
Griselda did as she was told. She was beginning to feel rather tired,
and it certainly was very comfortable at the bottom of the boat, with
the nice warm feather-mantle well tucked round her.
"Who will row?" she said sleepily. "_You_ can't, cuckoo, with your tiny
little claws, you could never hold the oars, I'm----"
"Hush!" said the cuckoo; and whether he rowed or not Griselda never
knew.
Off they glided somehow, but it seemed to Griselda that _somebody_
rowed, for she heard the soft dip, dip of the oars as they went along,
so regularly that she couldn't help beginning to count in time--one,
two, three, four--on, on--she thought she had got nearly to a hundred,
when----
XI
"CUCKOO, CUCKOO, GOOD-BYE!"
[Illustration]
"Children, try to be good!
That is the end of all teaching;
Easily understood,
And very easy in preaching.
And if you find it hard,
Your efforts you need but double;
Nothing deserves reward
Unless it has given us trouble."
When she forgot everything, and fell fast, fast asleep, to wake, of
course, in her own little bed as usual!
"One of your tricks again, Mr. Cuckoo," she said to herself with a
smile. "However, I don't mind. It _was_ a short cut home, and it was
very comfortable in the boat, and I certainly saw a great deal last
night, and I'm very much obliged to you--particularly for making it all
right with Phil about not coming to play with me to-day. Ah! that
reminds me, I'm in disgrace. I wonder if Aunt Grizzel will really make
me stay in my room all day. How tired I shall be, and what will Mr.
Kneebreeches think! But it serves me right. I _was_ very cross and
rude."
There came a tap at the door. It was Dorcas with the hot water.
"Good morning, missie," she said gently, not feeling, to tell the truth,
very sure as to what sort of a humour "missie" was likely to be found in
this morning. "I hope you've slept well."
"Exceedingly well, thank you, Dorcas. I've had a delightful night,"
replied Griselda amiably, smiling to herself at the thought of what
Dorcas would say if she knew where she had been, and what she had been
doing since last she saw her.
"That's good news," said Dorcas in a tone of relief; "and I've good news
for you, too, missie. At least, I hope you'll think it so. Your aunt has
ordered the carriage for quite early this morning--so you see she really
wants to please you, missie, about playing with little Master Phil; and
if to-morrow's a fine day, we'll be sure to find some way of letting him
know to come."
"Thank you, Dorcas. I hope it will be all right, and that Lady Lavander
won't say anything against it. I dare say she won't. I feel ever so much
happier this morning, Dorcas; and I'm very sorry I was so rude to Aunt
Grizzel, for of course I know I _should_ obey her."
"That's right, missie," said Dorcas approvingly.
"It seems to me, Dorcas," said Griselda dreamily, when, a few minutes
later, she was standing by the window while the old servant brushed out
her thick, wavy hair, "it seems to me, Dorcas, that it's _all_ 'obeying
orders' together. There's the sun now, just getting up, and the moon
just going to bed--_they_ are always obeying, aren't they? I wonder why
it should be so hard for people--for children, at least."
"To be sure, missie, you do put it a way of your own," replied Dorcas,
somewhat mystified; "but I see how you mean, I think, and it's quite
true. And it _is_ a hard lesson to learn."
"I want to learn it _well_, Dorcas," said Griselda, resolutely. "So will
you please tell Aunt Grizzel that I'm very sorry about last night, and
I'll do just as she likes about staying in my room or anything. But, if
she _would_ let me, I'd far rather go down and do my lessons as usual
for Mr. Kneebreeches. I won't ask to go out in the garden; but I would
like to please Aunt Grizzel by doing my lessons _very_ well."
Dorcas was both delighted and astonished. Never had she known her little
"missie" so altogether submissive and reasonable.
"I only hope the child's not going to be ill," she said to herself. But
she proved a skilful ambassadress, notwithstanding her misgivings; and
Griselda's imprisonment confined her only to the bounds of the house and
terrace walk, instead of within the four walls of her own little room,
as she had feared.
Lessons _were_ very well done that day, and Mr. Kneebreeches' report was
all that could be wished.
"I am particularly gratified," he remarked to Miss Grizzel, "by the
intelligence and interest Miss Griselda displays with regard to the
study of astronomy, which I have recently begun to give her some
elementary instruction in. And, indeed, I have no fault to find with the
way in which any of the young lady's tasks are performed."
"I am extremely glad to hear it," replied Miss Grizzel graciously, and
the kiss with which she answered Griselda's request for forgiveness was
a very hearty one.
And it was "all right" about Phil.
Lady Lavander knew all about him; his father and mother were friends of
hers, for whom she had a great regard, and for some time she had been
intending to ask the little boy to spend the day at Merrybrow Hall, to
be introduced to her god-daughter Griselda. So, _of course_, as Lady
Lavander knew all about him, there could be no objection to his playing
in Miss Grizzel's garden!
And "to-morrow" turned out a fine day. So altogether you can imagine
that Griselda felt very happy and light-hearted as she ran down the
wood-path to meet her little friend, whose rosy face soon appeared among
the bushes.
"What did you do yesterday, Phil?" asked Griselda. "Were you sorry not
to come to play with me?"