The Goat-mother consented eagerly, though her shawl was one she was particularly fond of. She snatched it off, and taking out her scissors, she soon cut it into pieces, which Heinrich knotted one to the other, and lowered into the crevasse.
"Can you reach it?" he cried, putting his head as far over the edge as possible, and peering into the green depths.
The Goat-mother leant over, too; but in stooping her head her bonnet became loosened, and slid with a loud swish down the ice, darting from side to side until it disappeared from sight in the darkness.
"Oh, what misfortunes! My child, my shawl, and my bonnet, all gone together!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Take hold of the rope, my Pyto, and let us at all events rescue you!"
"All right, mother," cried the distant voice. "Don't drag me up till I call out 'Pull.'"
In a few minutes the Goat-mother and Heinrich, listening intently, heard the welcome shout, and pulling both together they landed Pyto—very much bruised and shaken, but not otherwise hurt—upon the Glacier beside them.
"Oh, what a warning!" cried the Goat-mother, and after embracing Pyto warmly, she turned to look for the cuckoo clock. But it had tobogganed down a steep bank into an ice stream close by, and was floating away in the distance, cuckooing at intervals as it danced up and down upon the water.
Two travellers who had just reached the opposite bank, paused in astonishment to listen.
"You see," said one, "this proves what I have always told you. Nothing is impossible to Nature. You may even hear cuckoos on a Glacier!"