THE RESPONSIBLE CUCKOO
HIGH on the kitchen wall of an old farm-house on a mountain-side
in Switzerland there hangs a tiny wooden clock. In the tiny
wooden clock there lives a tiny wooden cuckoo, and every hour he
hops out of his tiny wooden door, takes a look about to see what
is going on in the world, shouts out the time of day, and pops
back again into his little dark house, there to wait and tick
away the minutes until it is time once more to tell the hour.
Late one spring afternoon, just as the sun was sinking out of
sight, lighting up the snow-capped mountains with beautiful
colors and sending long shafts of golden light across the
valleys, the cuckoo woke with a start.
"Bless me!" he said to himself, "Here it is six o'clock and not a
sound in the kitchen! It's high time for Mother Adolf to be
getting supper. What in the world this family would do without me
I really cannot think! They'd never know it was supper time if I
didn't tell them, and would starve to death as likely as not. It
is lucky for them I am such a responsible bird." The tiny wooden
door flew open and he stuck out his tiny wooden head. There was
not a sound in the kitchen but the loud ticking of the clock.
"Just as I thought," said the cuckoo. "Not a soul here."
There stood the table against the kitchen wall, with a little
gray mouse on it nibbling a crumb of cheese. Along finger of
sunlight streamed through the western window and touched the
great stone stove, as if trying to waken the fire within. A beam
fell upon a pan of water standing on the floor and sent gay
sparkles of light dancing over the shining tins in the cupboard.
The cuckoo saw it all at a glance. "This will never do," he
ticked indignantly. There was a queer rumbling sound in his
insides as if his feelings were getting quite too much for him,
and then suddenly he sent a loud "cuckoo" ringing through the
silent room. Instantly the little gray mouse leaped down from the
table and scampered away to his hole in the wall, the golden
sunbeam flickered and was gone, and shadows began to creep into
the corners. "Cuckoo, cuckoo," he shouted at the top of his
voice, "cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo,"—six times in all,—and then,
his duty done, he popped back again into his little dark house,
and the door clicked behind him.
Out in the garden Mother Adolf heard him and, raising her head
from the onion-bed, where she was pulling weeds, she counted on
her fingers, "One, two, three, four, five, six! Bless my soul,
six o'clock and the sun already out of sight behind old Pilatus,"
she said, and, rising from her knees a little stiffly, she stood
for a moment looking down the green slopes toward the valley.
Far, far below, the blue waters of Lake Lucerne mirrored the
glowing colors of the mountain-peaks beyond its farther shore,
and nearer, among the foothills of old Pilatus itself, a little
village nestled among green trees, its roofs clustered about a
white church-spire. Now the bells in the steeple began to ring,
and the sound floated out across the green fields spangled with
yellow daffodils, and reached Mother Adolf where she stood. Bells
from more distant villages soon joined in the clamor, until all
the air was filled with music and a hundred echoes woke in the
The tiny wooden cuckoo heard them and ticked loudly with
satisfaction. "Everybody follows me," he said to himself proudly.
"I wake all the bells in the world."
"Where can the children be?" said Mother Adolf aloud to herself,
looking about the garden. "I haven't heard a sound from either
the baby or the Twins for over an hour," and, making a hollow
between her lands, she added her own bit of music to the chorus
of the hills.
she sang, and immediately from behind the willows which fringed
the brook at the end of the garden two childish voices gave back
an answering strain.
A moment later two sunburned, towheaded, blue-eyed children, a
boy and girl of ten, appeared, dragging after them a box mounted
on rough wooden wheels in which there sat a round, pink,
blue-eyed cherub of a baby. Shouting with laughter, they came
tearing up the garden path to their mother's side.
"Hush, my children," said Mother Adolf, laying her finger on her
lips. "It is the Angelus."
The shouts were instantly silenced, and the two children stood
beside the mother with clasped hands and bowed heads until the
echoes of the bells died away in the distance.
Far down on the long path to the village a man, bending under the
weight of a huge basket, also stood still for a moment in silent
prayer, then toiled again up the steep slope.
"See," cried Mother Adolf as she lifted her head, "there comes
Father from the village with bread for our supper in his basket.
Run, Seppi, and help him bring the bundles home. Our Fritz will
soon be coming with the goats, too, and he and Father will both
be as hungry as wolves and in a hurry for their supper. Hark!"
she paused to listen.
Far away from out the blue shadows of the mountain came the sound
of a horn playing a merry little tune.
"There's Fritz now," cried Mother Adolf. "Hurry, Seppi, and you,
Leneli, come with me to the kitchen. You can give little Roseli
her supper, while I spread the table and set the soup to boil
before the goats get here to be milked." She lifted the baby in
her arms as she spoke, and set off at a smart pace toward the
house, followed by Leneli dragging the cart and playing
peek-a-boo with the baby over her mother's shoulder.
When they reached the door, Leneli sat down on the step, and
Mother Adolf put the baby in her arms and went at once into the
quiet house. Then there was a sound of quick steps about the
kitchen, a rattling of the stove, and a clatter of tins which
must have pleased the cuckoo, and soon she reappeared in the door
with a bowl and spoon in her hands.
The bowl she gave to Leneli, and little Roseli, crowing with
delight, seized the spoon and stuck it first into an eye, and
then into her tiny pink button of a nose, in a frantic effort to
find her mouth. It was astonishing to Baby Roseli how that
rosebud mouth of hers managed to hide itself, even though she was
careful to keep it wide open while she searched for it. When she
had explored her whole face with the spoon in vain, Leneli took
the tiny hand in hers and guided each mouthful down the little
Over their heads the robin in the cherry tree by the door sat
high up on a twig and chirped a good-night song to his nestlings.
"Cherries are ripe, cherries are ripe, cherries are ripe in
June," sang the robin. At least that is what Leneli told the baby
he said, and surely she ought to know.
Before Baby Roseli had finished the last mouthful of her supper,
Father and Seppi appeared with the bundles, and then there was
the clatter of many little hoofs on the hard earth of the
door-yard, and round the corner of the old gray farm-house came
big brother Fritz with the goats. With Fritz came Bello, his
faithful dog, barking and wagging his tail for joy at getting
home again. Bello ran at once to Leneli and licked her hand,
nearly upsetting the bowl of milk in his noisy greeting, and the
baby crowed with delight and seized him by his long, silky ears.
"Down, Bello, down," cried Leneli, holding the bowl high out of
reach; "you'll spill the baby's supper!" And Bello, thinking she
meant that he should beg for it, sat up on his hind legs with his
front paws crossed and barked three times, as Fritz had taught
him to do.
"He must have a bite or he'll forget his manners," laughed Fritz,
and Leneli broke off a crumb of bread and tossed it to him. Bello
caught it before it fell, swallowed it at one gulp, and begged
"No, no," said Leneli, "good old Bello, go now with Fritz and
help him drive the goats to the milking-shed, and by and by you
shall have your supper."
Fritz whistled, and instantly Bello was off like a shot after
Nanni, the brown goat, who was already on her way to the garden
to eat the young green carrot-tops she saw peeping out of the
"It's time that child was in bed," said the cuckoo to himself,
and out he came from his little house and called "cuckoo" seven
times so reproachfully that Leneli hastened upstairs with the
baby and put her down in her crib at once.
Baby Roseli did not agree with the cuckoo. She wanted to stay up
and play with Bello, and hear the robin sing, but Leneli sat down
beside the crib, and while Mother Adolf milked the goats she sang
over and over again an old song.
"Sleep, baby, sleep!
Thy father watches the sheep,
Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree
And down falls a little dream on thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep!"
"Sleep, baby, sleep!
The large stars are the sheep,
The little stars are the lambs, I guess,
And the silver moon is the shepherdess.
Sleep, baby, sleep!"
Over and over she sang it, until at last the heavy lids closed
over the blue eyes. Then she crept quietly down the creaking
stairs in the dark, and ate her bread and cheese and drank her
soup by candle-light with her father and mother, Seppi and Fritz,
all seated about the kitchen table.
By nine o'clock the room was once more silent and deserted, the
little mouse was creeping quietly from his hole in the wall, and
Bello lay by the door asleep with his nose on his paws. High over
Mt. Pilatus the moon sailed through the star-lit sky, bathing the
old gray farm-house in silver light and playing hide and seek
with shadows on the snow-capped peaks.
"Cuckoo," called the tiny wooden cuckoo nine times, and at once
the bells in the village steeple answered him. "That's as it
should be," ticked the cuckoo. "That church-bell is really very
intelligent. Let me see; to-morrow morning I must wake the
roosters at three, and the sun at four, and the family must be up
by five. I'll just turn in and get a wink of sleep myself while I
can," and he popped into the clock ones more and shut the door.
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