“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.