Then he seemed to give a little spring, and Griselda felt herself altogether lifted on to his back. She lay there as comfortably as possible—it felt so firm as well as soft. Up he flew a little way—then stopped short.
"Are you all right?" he inquired. "You're not afraid of falling off?"
"Oh no," said Griselda; "not a bit."
"You needn't be," said the cuckoo, "for you couldn't if you tried. I'm going on, then."
"Where to?" said Griselda.
"Up the chimney first," said the cuckoo.
"But there'll never be room," said Griselda. "I might perhaps crawl up like a sweep, hands and knees, you know, like going up a ladder. But stretched out like this—it's just as if I were lying on a sofa—I couldn't go up the chimney."
"Couldn't you?" said the cuckoo. "We'll see. I intend to go, any way, and to take you with me. Shut your eyes—one, two, three—here goes—we'll be up the chimney before you know."
It was quite true. Griselda shut her eyes tight. She felt nothing but a pleasant sort of rush. Then she heard the cuckoo's voice, saying—
"Well, wasn't that well done? Open your eyes and look about you."