"And she is always beautiful,
And always is eighteen!"
When he got to the middle of the room the cuckoo cleared his throat,
flapped his wings, and began to sing. Griselda was quite astonished. She
had had no idea that her friend was so accomplished. It wasn't
"cuckooing" at all; it was real singing, like that of the nightingale or
the thrush, or like something prettier than either. It made Griselda
think of woods in summer, and of tinkling brooks flowing through them,
with the pretty brown pebbles sparkling up through the water; and then
it made her think of something sad--she didn't know what; perhaps it
was of the babes in the wood and the robins covering them up with
leaves--and then again, in a moment, it sounded as if all the merry
elves and sprites that ever were heard of had escaped from fairyland,
and were rolling over and over with peals of rollicking laughter. And at
last, all of a sudden, the song came to an end.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!" rang out three times, clear and shrill. The
cuckoo flapped his wings, made a bow to the mandarins, and retired to
his old corner.
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