''
``No,'' said Scrub, ``it's not right to chop wood
on Christmas; besides, that root is too hard to be
broken with any hatchet.''
``Hard or not, we must have a fire,'' replied
Spare. ``Come, brother, help me in with it. Poor
as we are there is nobody in the village will have
such a yule log as ours.''
Scrub liked a little grandeur, and, in hopes of
having a fine yule log, both brothers strained and
strove with all their might till, between pulling
and pushing, the great old root was safe on the
hearth, and beginning to crackle and blaze with
the red embers.
In high glee the cobblers sat down to their
bread and bacon. The door was shut, for there
was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside;
but the hut, strewn with fir boughs and ornamented
with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy
blaze flared up and rejoiced their hearts.
Then suddenly from out the blazing root they
heard: ``Cuckoo! cuckoo!'' as plain as ever the
spring-bird's voice came over the moor on a May
morning.
``What is that?'' said Scrub, terribly
frightened; ``it is something bad!''
``Maybe not,'' said Spare.
And out of the deep hole at the side of the root,
which the fire had not reached, flew a large, gray
cuckoo, and lit on the table before them. Much
as the cobblers had been surprised, they were still
more so when it said:--
``Good gentlemen, what season is this?''
``It's Christmas,'' said Spare.
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