The Swiss Twins | Page 4

is dedicated to retired teacher Betty Sheridan, who
introduced me to the "Twins" stories. She generously loaned this book
to be produced for PG.

THE SWISS TWINS
By Lucy Fitch Perkins

Also by Lucy Fitch Perkins

Geographical Series
THE DUTCH TWINS PRIMER. Grade!.
THE DUTCH TWINS AND LITTLE BROTHER. Grade II.
THE FARM TWINS. Grades I-III.
THE ESKIMO TWINS. Grade II.
THE DUTCH TWINS. Grade III.
THE PICKANINNY TWINS. Grades III-IV.
THE CHINESE TWINS. Grades III-IV.
THE JAPANESE TWINS. Grade IV.
THE SWISS TWINS. Grade IV.
THE NORWEGIAN TWINS. Grades IV-V.
THE FILIPINO TWINS. Grade V.
THE IRISH TWINS. Grade V.
THE ITALIAN TWINS. Grade V.
THE MEXICAN TWINS. Grade V.
THE SCOTCH TWINS. Grade VI.
THE SPANISH TWINS. Grades VI-VII.
THE BELGIAN TWINS. Grade VII.
THE FRENCH TWINS. Grade VII.
Historical Series
THE INDIAN TWINS. Grades III-IV.
THE CAVE TWINS. Grade IV.
THE SPARTAN TWINS. Grade V.
THE COLONIAL TWINS OF VIRGINIA. Grade VI.
THE AMERICAN TWINS OF1812. Grade VI.
THE PIONEER TWINS. Grade VI.
THE AMERICAN TWINS OF THE REVOLUTION. Grade VII.
THE PURITAN TWINS. Grade VII.
Each volume is illustrated by the author
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY LUCY FITCH PERKINS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO
REPRODUCE THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE - MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
CONTENTS

I. THE RESPONSIBLE CUCKOO
II. THE TWINS LEARN A NEW TRADE
III. A MOUNTAIN STORM
IV. THE LONELY HERDSMAN
V. THE PASS
VI. NEW FRIENDS AND OLD
This book belongs to
I. THE RESPONSIBLE CUCKOO
THE RESPONSIBLE CUCKOO
High on the kitchen wall of an old farm-house on a mountainside 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