“Oh, you dear, kind cuckoo!” cried Griselda.  “Yes, I’ve found it.  I’ll tuck it all round me like a rug—­that’s it.  I am so warm now, cuckoo.”

“Here goes, then,” said the cuckoo, and off they set.  Had ever a little girl such a flight before?  Floating, darting, gliding, sailing—­no words can describe it.  Griselda lay still in delight, gazing all about her.

“How lovely the stars are, cuckoo!” she said.  “Is it true they’re all great, big suns?  I’d rather they weren’t.  I like to think of them as nice, funny little things.”

“They’re not all suns,” said the cuckoo.  “Not all those you’re looking at now.”

“I like the twinkling ones best,” said Griselda.  “They look so good-natured.  Are they all twirling about always, cuckoo?  Mr. Kneebreeches has just begun to teach me astronomy, and he says they are; but I’m not at all sure that he knows much about it.”

“He’s quite right all the same,” replied the cuckoo.

“Oh dear me!  How tired they must be, then!” said Griselda.  “Do they never rest just for a minute?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“Obeying orders,” replied the cuckoo.

Griselda gave a little wriggle.

“What’s the use of it?” she said.  “It would be just as nice if they stood still now and then.”

“Would it?” said the cuckoo.  “I know some body who would soon find fault if they did.  What would you say to no summer; no day, or no night, whichever it happened not to be, you see; nothing growing, and nothing to eat before long?  That’s what it would be if they stood still, you see, because——­”

“Thank you, cuckoo,” interrupted Griselda.  “It’s very nice to hear you—­I mean, very dreadful to think of, but I don’t want you to explain.  I’ll ask Mr. Kneebreeches when I’m at my lessons.  You might tell me one thing, however.  What’s at the other side of the moon?”

“There’s a variety of opinions,” said the cuckoo.

“What are they?  Tell me the funniest.”

“Some say all the unfinished work of the world is kept there,” said the cuckoo.

“That’s not funny,” said Griselda.  “What a messy place it must be!  Why, even my unfinished work makes quite a heap.  I don’t like that opinion at all, cuckoo.  Tell me another.”

“I have heard,” said the cuckoo, “that among the places there you would find the country of the little black dogs.  You know what sort of creatures those are?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Griselda, rather reluctantly.

“There are a good many of them in this world, as of course you know,” continued the cuckoo.  “But up there, they are much worse than here.  When a child has made a great pet of one down here, I’ve heard tell the fairies take him up there when his parents and nurses think he’s sleeping quietly in his bed, and make him work hard all night, with his own particular little black dog on his back.  And it’s so dreadfully heavy—­for every time he takes it on his back down here it grows a pound heavier up there—­that by morning the child is quite worn out.  I dare say you’ve noticed how haggard and miserable some ill-tempered children get to look—­now you’ll know the reason.”