account, cobbled for the
queen and the princesses. His awls were sharp, his lasts were new; he
set up his stall in a neat cottage with two windows. The villagers soon
found out that one patch of his would outwear two of the brothers'.
In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went to the new
cobbler.

The season had been wet and cold, their barley did not ripen well, and
the cabbages never half-closed in the garden. So the brothers were poor
that winter, and when Christmas came they had nothing to feast on but
a barley loaf and a piece of rusty bacon. Worse than that, the snow was
very deep and they could get no firewood.

Their hut stood at the end of the village; beyond it spread the bleak
moor, now all white and silent. But that moor had once been a forest;
great roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from
the soil and laid bare by the winds and rains. One of these, a rough,
gnarled log, lay hard by their door, the half of it above the snow, and
Spare said to his brother:--

"Shall we sit here cold on Christmas while the great root lies yonder?
Let us chop it up for firewood, the work will make us warm."

"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