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 said:-- “Good gentlemen, what season is this?” “It's Christmas,” said Spare. “Then a merry Christmas to you!” said the cuckoo. “I went to sleep in the hollow of that old root one evening last summer, and never woke till the heat of your fire made me think it was summer again. But now since you have burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes round,--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels next summer be assured I will bring you some present for your trouble.” “Stay and welcome,” said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were something bad or not. “I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch,” said Spare. “But you must be hungry after that long sleep,--here is a slice of barley bread. Come help us to keep Christmas!” The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank water from a brown jug, and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for it in the thatch of the hut. Scrub said he was afraid it wouldn't be lucky; but as it slept on and the days passed he forgot his fears.