CHAPTER V.
PICTURES.
"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.