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
mountains.

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