tive mountains, to take up the work of their fathers. All summer long, axes flew in the woods, and the crash of falling trees sounded across the Rhine, and such preparations were made for a winter of clock-making as Kesselberg had never known.
At that time, there dwelt in. the village Gerther Walden, a goat boy. He was fourteen years old, and lived with his grandfather, Hans Gerber, who, in his younger days, was the most skilful clock-maker of the Black Forest. But sickness had kept him from work for several years, so Gerther made a scant living by herding goats in the summer, and helping a neighbor with his clock-making in the winter. The old man was growing strong again, and when word of the ducal offer went round, began to think of taking up his trade.
“But I have little hope of winning the prize,” he said to Gerther, as they ate their supper of black bread and goat’s milk one evening. “Younger men have become skilful during my months of illness, and Hans Gerber is no longer the best clock-maker of Kesselberg. Besides, we have no money to buy paint, and Chris Stuck is planning to put gold flowers and birds on his clock.”
Gerther did not reply. He knew his grandfather spoke the truth, and the thought made him sad. And that night as he lay unable to sleep, he kept trying to think of some way of getting the prize.
“If we could only win it,” he murmured, “we could have a new hut with a wooden floor instead of a ground one, and a cow to take the place of Brindle, who died last year.”
He thought for a long time, and at last fell asleep from sheer weariness. But over in the opposite corner of the room, Hans Gerber lay awake throughout the night, for he, too, thought about the prize, and wished, but hardly dared to hope, that it might come to him.
The next day, as Gerther went through the woods with his goats, he heard a cuckoo call.
“Cuckoo, cuckoo!” it sang as it flew in and out among the trees.
The boy listened, thinking how sweet it was, and asked, in a loud voice: “Cuckoo, how many years before I shall be rich?”
“Cuckoo!” the bird trilled again. Gerther laughed, for Black Forest peasants believe it can tell fortunes, and while they think it lazy because it will not make a nest for itself, but lays its eggs in the homes of other birds, they like it better than any other. Its call made Gerther glad, and he repeated the question.
“The truth, bird, the truth! How many years before I am rich?”
And again came the sweet sound, “Cuckoo!”
He started home with a light heart, and, as he drove his flock through the village, saw groups of peasants standing in the street. He knew they were talking about the prize, but without stopping to chat with them, he went straight on to his grandfather’s cabin, for he wanted to ask a question of the old clock-maker.
“Grospapa!” he called as he bounded in at the door.
Hans Gerber was drawing plans on paper, but he turned from his work to listen.
“What is it, Gerther?” he asked.
“Could a clock be made that, instead of striking the hours, would sing them out the way the cuckoo does?”
The old man’s eyes brightened, as if he thought the idea a wonderful one.
“A singing clock!” he murmured. “Aye, aye. It is strange that the idea never came to me, for I am sure such a clock can be made. I believe that I can do it, because, when a boy, I worked with an organ-maker in Cologne, and the knowledge gained then may help me.”
They talked and drew plans until their last bit of paper was used up, and then scratched with a stick on the ground floor till the candle burned out and the hut was in darkness. Then they went to bed, strong in the belief that they could make a singing clock.
Autumn came, and the leaves on the forest trees were like gaily decked sprites. The villagers sang as they gathered in the wood, for the thought of the reward that spring might bring made them eager to begin the work. None were gayer than Hans Gerber and Gerther, for, although they knew the others had paint that they could not get, they were happy in the thought of a wonderful secret.
Fierce winds swept in from the Swiss mountains, and the Black Forest was carpeted with white. The Rhine froze over, and the village was shut in from the world. But little cared the people for the long, cold winter. In every house both young and old were busy. The women and girls did the housework, and when it was finished, took out knives and saws and wood. Even the children had a part in the work, for they carried the wood to the workers, or smoothed with sandpaper the pieces that were finished. The wind howled outside, and the snow drifted against the windows, but that did not matter. The well-fed fires kept the huts snug and warm, and the peasants sang and told stories as they worked.
But there was one hut where it was not cozy, where the fire burned so faintly that a chill crept over the man and boy within. For Gerther had