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The old cuckoo clock had been in Mrs. Whitaker’s family for generations. It was a grand thing with hand-carved wood, and every hour, a little wooden cuckoo bird would pop out to chirp and announce the time. But one morning, Mrs. Whitaker noticed something strange: instead of the usual “cuckoo,” a burst of giggles echoed from inside the clock, followed by the sound of tiny wings flapping.

It didn’t take long for Mrs. Whitaker to figure it out. Sprites. She’d heard about the little troublemakers. They loved to slip into cozy places, take over old clocks and watches, and turn them into their personal playhouses. Mischievous creatures, sprites would prank anyone around unless they were properly bribed.

She sighed, tapping her chin. “Alright, you little tricksters, I know you’re in there,” she called, hands on her hips. “If you promise to behave, I’ll leave you treats.”

In response, the clock’s hands whirled, spinning madly before landing on the hour with a cheerful, “Cuck-heehee-hoo!”

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Mrs. Whitaker raised an eyebrow but fetched a small dish and filled it with sugar cubes, fresh cranberries, and a drizzle of honey. She left it by the clock, and within moments, a flurry of tiny hands darted out, snatching up treats and scurrying back inside.

The next few days were blissfully quiet. The little cuckoo bird popped out on time, chirped dutifully, and went back without any odd noises or sudden gusts of pixie dust. Mrs. Whitaker, grateful for the peace, made sure to leave more treats by the clock.

One evening, however, she forgot. The next morning, she awoke to find her furniture rearranged in baffling ways: her armchair was halfway across the room, the tea kettle upside down, and all her knitting yarn strung up like a spider’s web. She even found her cat, Marmalade, curled up in a shoebox that had somehow ended up on top of the mantle.

“Oh, alright, you little imps, I get it!” she laughed, setting out twice the usual amount of treats that morning.

The sprites, satisfied with her apology, kept the clock running in perfect order from then on. Every hour, the cuckoo bird would pop out, accompanied by the faintest tinkle of laughter, while Mrs.

Whitaker sat in her armchair with her tea, smiling at the magic hidden in her own home.