It was a dull, cold day, what is called "a black frost;" not a bright, clear, _pretty_, cold day, but the sort of frost that really makes the world seem dead--makes it almost impossible to believe that there will ever be warmth and sound and "growing-ness" again.
Late in the afternoon Griselda crept up to the ante-room, and sat down by the window.

Outside it was nearly dark, and inside it was not much more cheerful--for the fire was nearly out, and no lamps were lighted; only the cuckoo clock went on tick-ticking briskly as usual.
"I hate winter," said Griselda, pressing her cold little face against the colder window-pane, "I hate winter, and I hate lessons.

I would give up being a _person_ in a minute if I might be a--a--what would I best like to be?
Oh yes, I know--a butterfly.

Butterflies never see winter, and they _certainly_ never have any lessons or any kind of work to do.

I hate _must_-ing to do anything." "Cuckoo," rang out suddenly above her head.
It was only four o'clock striking, and as soon as he had told it the cuckoo was back behind his doors again in an instant, just as usual.
There was nothing for Griselda to feel offended at, but somehow she got quite angry.
"I don't care what you think, cuckoo!" she exclaimed defiantly.