Through Welsh Doorways Part 1

Through Welsh Doorways.

by Jeannette Augustus Marks.

_The Merry Merry Cuckoo_

"Lad _dear_, no more or ye'll be havin' an attack, an'----"

Annie's words sounded inconclusive, although she fortified them by an animated gesture with her plump wrinkled hand. Her eyes glanced timidly from the window to David's face.

"But, Annie, ye've not said a word of the cuckoo," replied David plaintively.

"Aye, the cuckoo," said Annie, her heart sinking as she sent her voice up. "The cuckoo--"

"Has it come? Did ye hear it?"

The old man clasped and unclasped his hands helplessly, childish disappointment overspreading his face.

"David _dear_, if ye'd but listen to what I was a-goin' to say"--Annie gulped--"I was a-goin' to say that I've not heard the cuckoo yet, but that everythin' 's over early an' I'm expectin' to hear one any time now. It's so warm there might be one singin' at dusk to-day--there might be!"

"Might there be?" asked David, his eyes brightening, "might there be, Annie?"

"Aye, there might be, lad," and she lifted his head on her arm gently while she turned the pillow.

"It's over early," he objected, "an', Annie----"

"Davie _dear_, be still," she commanded, drawing his head close to her bosom before she put him down on the pillow again. "Pastor Morris says everythin' 's over early; even the foxglove is well up in the garden; an' the heather by Blaen Cwm will be bloomin' a month early, an' the hills will be pink, lad--soon. Now, dearie, I'll be back by and by with the broth; ye must be still awhile."

Annie went out of the room stepping as softly as she could. For a moment she stood on the doorsill, looking into the old garden, green at last after the dreary winter and beautiful in the promise of coming summer blossom. Foxglove and columbine, honeysuckle, lilies and roses would bloom, but David would see them no more! For fifty springs they had gone into the garden together, he to trim the hedge and bind up the honeysuckle, she to dig about the rose-bushes and flowers. And every spring there had been one evening when the cuckoo's song was heard for the first time and when there came into David's eyes a look of boyish joy. Ah, lad, lad, how she loved him! And he _should_ hear the cuckoo again!

Resolutely Annie started up hill, climbing close by the high pasture wall, and, panting made her way as best she could over boggy places.

After she had gone about a quarter of a mile she looked around her, furtively. There lay Gwyndy Bach in the distance, Ty Ceryg and Cwm Cloch far away, and the Chapel still farther. Only the mountains were near by, and a few lazy sheep trailing over their wild, grey ledges. She did not see even a sheep-dog. When she sat down by the stone-wall there was a look of approval on her face, followed, as she opened her mouth, by a look of appealing misery.

"Aye, it was somethin' like this: _coo-o_. Dear, let me see, every year I've heard it, an' David he does it. _Coo-o-o!_ Tut, that sounds like a hen." Annie peered about her. "_Cu, cu_," then she shook with silent laughter. "I know! it goes over and over again, sing-song, sing-song, like this: _cu-cu, cu-cu_. Aye, that's better." Practising the song Annie rocked herself backwards and forwards. "It's growing better!" she exclaimed, "but, lad, lad, I'm plannin' to deceive ye"; and the tears rolled out of her old eyes. She brushed the tears away impatiently and began the song again: "_Cucu-cu, cucu-cu, cucucucu, cu_; aye, that's fair, aye, it's fine! He'll not know me from a real cuckoo. I'll have to be tryin' it now, for ye've no long, dearie."

Annie went down into the valley, humming the bird-notes over to herself lest she forget what she had learned. She lifted her short skirts and waded through the marshy places; in her eagerness she was unmindful of the pasture-bogs, her seventy years, her weary body; and her spa.r.s.e grey hair lay damp on her forehead. In her mother-heart was but one thought: bringing his wish to Davie. Gasping she reached the southern corner of the cottage garden, and there leaned on a trellis for support till she could get her breath. Completely engrossed in what she was to do, she did not think to look about her, she did not listen for possible approaching footsteps, and even Davie had slipped in importance a wee bit behind the cuckoo song. Finally she drew a long breath and began; she paused a moment, then repeated the song, softly, slowly. Pleased with her success, she sang the song again, very softly, very slowly, till it sounded much as if it came from a distance somewhere by the stream near the mill wheel.

She was just beginning once more when steps rustled behind her and a voice said tauntingly: "Pooh! 'tis a pretty cuckoo ye make, Annie, an' a pretty song!"

"Lowry Prichard!"

"It's over early for the cuckoo, is it not?"

"Aye."

"An' what are ye singin' in your garden for, an' David dyin'?"

Annie's mild eyes gathered fire, but she said nothing.

"Are ye deceivin' David, an' he on the edge of the grave, Annie? 'Tis a G.o.dly song to sing, an' a tale for Chapel, eh, Annie?"

"Ye--may--go--out--of--this--garden, an' that this minute," said Annie, advancing.

Lowry backed towards the wicket.

"Ye look fair crazy, Annie, crazy with wrath, aye, and your hair is all rumpled an' your smock is wet. Bein' a cuckoo is----"

But Lowry never finished her taunt, for Annie pushed her through the wicket gate.

The old wife went towards the cottage door slowly. David must have heard Lowry's words, and she could never make him happy again.

"Annie! Annie!" Her face brightened, then fell.

"Aye, David, I'm comin'."

"Annie, did ye hear a cuckoo singin'?" David's eyes glowed rapturously in the twilight.

"Aye, I thought so, dearie."

"It sang three times; first, it sounded like somethin' else, it was so breathless; then it sang quiet and sweet like a cuckoo; an' the third time it seemed comin' from the old mill wheel. I was listenin' for it again when I heard Lowry Prichard's shrill voice an' I could hear no more."

"But, lad _dear_, ye've heard it, an' I'm that glad!" Annie beamed upon him. "Three times; aye, that's fine an' a real cuckoo; now ye're happy, dearie, an' ye'll sleep well upon it."

"Will it be singin' again?" asked David, with a sigh.

"Aye, in the early mornin' an' at dusk. Now ye must drink your broth an'

go to sleep."

David drank it obediently.

"It's been a fine day, lad dear, is it not so?"

"Aye, a fine day. I did not think I'd ever hear it sing again"; and David's head slipped contentedly on to the pillow. "Aye," he murmured, "a happy day!"

At dawn Annie stole out to sing her cuckoo song. It was done quickly, and she was back among her pots and kettles before David could know that she had been away. She rattled the saucepans around, then she stopped to listen. Yes, there he was calling.

"Aye, David, I'm comin'; I did not hear for the noise, dearie."

"Annie, it's been singin' again!" There was an expression of eager happiness on David's wan face. "I'm a-wantin' to hear it sing over an'

over again, over an' over again. But, Annie, ye make such a clatter there's no hearin' more than a song or two, an' yesterday 'twas Lowry."

"Aye, dearie, 'tis a pity I was makin' such a noise gettin' breakfast for ye."

"I was awake, Annie, when the stars were hangin' in the trees, an' I saw them go out one by one while I was a-waitin' for it to sing. I heard little creepin' things makin' way through the trees an' the gra.s.s, an' I saw the poplar by the window turn from silver to brown an' back to grey; an' I heard the other birds makin' their early mornin' stirrin', flittin' an' chirpin'; an' a little breeze came an' bustled through the trees with them, but no cuckoo; an' then just as it was singin' ye began stormin' with pots an' kettles."

"I'm that sorry, Davie lad, but ye have heard it twice, dearie, an'

it'll be singin' this evenin' at dusk, perhaps, over an' over again. Ye are feelin' fine this mornin', Davie?"