The Cuckoo Clock | Page 5

you think you are ever so far
off. I shall never be able to find my way about."
"Oh yes, you will, my dear, very soon," said her aunt encouragingly.
"She is very kind," thought Griselda; "but I wish she wouldn't call my
lessons tasks. It makes them sound so dreadfully hard. But, any way,
I'm glad I'm to do them in the room where that dear cuckoo lives."
CHAPTER II.
_IM_PATIENT GRISELDA.
"... fairies but seldom appear; If we do wrong we must expect That it
will cost us dear!"
It was all very well for a few days. Griselda found plenty to amuse
herself with while the novelty lasted, enough to prevent her missing
very badly the home she had left "over the sea," and the troop of noisy
merry brothers who teased and petted her. Of course she missed them,
but not "dreadfully." She was neither homesick nor "dull."
It was not quite such smooth sailing when lessons began. She did not
dislike lessons; in fact, she had always thought she was rather fond of
them. But the having to do them alone was not lively, and her teachers
were very strict. The worst of all was the writing and arithmetic master,
a funny little old man who wore knee-breeches and took snuff, and
called her aunt "Madame," bowing formally whenever he addressed her.
He screwed Griselda up into such an unnatural attitude to write her
copies, that she really felt as if she would never come straight and loose
again; and the arithmetic part of his instructions was even worse. Oh!
what sums in addition he gave her! Griselda had never been partial to
sums, and her rather easy-going governess at home had not, to tell the
truth, been partial to them either. And Mr.--I can't remember the little
old gentleman's name. Suppose we call him Mr. Kneebreeches--Mr.
Kneebreeches, when he found this out, conscientiously put her back to

the very beginning.
It was dreadful, really. He came twice a week, and the days he didn't
come were as bad as those he did, for he left her a whole row I was
going to say, but you couldn't call Mr. Kneebreeches' addition sums
"rows," they were far too fat and wide across to be so spoken
of!--whole slatefuls of these terrible mountains of figures to climb
wearily to the top of. And not to climb once up merely. The terrible
thing was Mr. Kneebreeches' favourite method of what he called
"proving." I can't explain it--it is far beyond my poor powers--but it had
something to do with cutting off the top line, after you had added it all
up and had actually done the sum, you understand--cutting off the top
line and adding the long rows up again without it, and then joining it on
again somewhere else.
"I wouldn't mind so much," said poor Griselda, one day, "if it was any
good. But you see, Aunt Grizzel, it isn't. For I'm just as likely to do the
proving wrong as the sum itself--more likely, for I'm always so tired
when I get to the proving--and so all that's proved is that _something's_
wrong, and I'm sure that isn't any good, except to make me cross."
"Hush!" said her aunt gravely. "That is not the way for a little girl to
speak. Improve these golden hours of youth, Griselda; they will never
return."
"I hope not," muttered Griselda, "if it means doing sums."
Miss Grizzel fortunately was a little deaf; she did not hear this remark.
Just then the cuckoo clock struck eleven.
"Good little cuckoo," said Miss Grizzel. "What an example he sets you.
His life is spent in the faithful discharge of duty;" and so saying she left
the room.
The cuckoo was still telling the hour--eleven took a good while. It
seemed to Griselda that the bird repeated her aunt's last words.
"Faith--ful, dis--charge, of--your, du--ty," he said, "faith--ful."

"You horrid little creature!" exclaimed Griselda in a passion; "what
business have you to mock me?"
She seized a book, the first that came to hand, and flung it at the bird
who was just beginning his eleventh cuckoo. He disappeared with a
snap, disappeared without flapping his wings, or, as Griselda always
fancied he did, giving her a friendly nod, and in an instant all was
silent.
Griselda felt a little frightened. What had she done? She looked up at
the clock. It seemed just the same as usual, the cuckoo's doors closely
shut, no sign of any disturbance. Could it have been her fancy only that
he had sprung back more hastily than he would have done but for her
throwing the book at him? She began to hope so, and tried to go on
with her lessons. But it was no use.