“You really ought to be able to answer this question yourself after our talk, little stupid head: Because the poor people are stupid.”
“But why are they stupid?”
But now the owl became angry, the same as the fat matron and the brightly speckled hen.
“Didn’t I tell you, little imp, you stupid little person, that I have been thinking about this question for years and years? Come back again eighty years from now, perhaps I will answer you then.”
“But why …?”
“Quiet!” the owl commanded little Paul. “You have stolen enough valuable time from me already. Go to the Cuckoo!” [[63]]
“Where does she live?” asked the frightened little boy.
But already the Owl had adjusted her spectacles, become absorbed in the green leaf, and gave no answer.
“Oh, poor me!” little Paul thought sadly. “Now I am to go to the Cuckoo, and I don’t even know where she lives. Will the Cuckoo know more than the Owl? And I am already so tired, my feet hurt me.”
He sank down upon the soft green moss at the foot of a slender young birch. Little by little he became very depressed. He was thinking how he was altogether abandoned and alone, how nobody was good to him, and all at once he began to weep bitterly. Thereupon he became aware of a thin small voice coming from somewhere high up; it sounded like little bells of pure silver.