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.