himself. “I picked it up-up-p-p after the little boys had gone out, and
I have kept it ever since as a bub-bub-bb-bub-b-bub—”
“He means a memento,” said the host.
“No, he doesn’t,” said the Continental Imp, “he’s trying to say
something that begins with ‘bub.’”
“As a bub-bub-bub-b-bub-b-b—” cried the poor little Imp.
“Perhaps he means to say memento,” suggested the little boy. “You know,
if you try to say memento when you’re crying hard, you will say it
through your nose and it will sound like ‘bubento.’”
“No, I think he means bubble,” said the host.
“As a bub-bub-ba-ba-a-dge of my shame!” said the poor little Imp, at
last.
“Well, it wasn’t memento,” said the Continental Imp.
“No, and it wasn’t bubble either,” said the little boy, and then,
turning to his little friend, he said,
“Don’t feel so bad; I am sure you didn’t mean to do anything wrong. You
must cheer up and be happy again just as you were on the journey here.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said the Continental Imp. “You were just a little
fast, that’s all. There are many human beings worse than you and faster
than you too who get credit. Take George Washington—look at that whop—”
“Don’t, please,” said the little boy.
“per,” said the Continental Imp.
“Yes,” said poor little Three O’clock, “but that whop-op-op-op-p—”
“Don’t,” said the little boy. “There isn’t any use in talking about that
now. Tell us how you happened to get back to the world again.”
“Remorse!” said the poor little Imp. “I applied for my date badge at Old
Calendar’s office, but they were suspicious—said I arrived too soon—and
wouldn’t give it to me. So I wandered about the land, an outcast, for an
hour without a badge is always looked on with discredit. Other hours
asked me what I had seen and I could not tell them. ‘Begone!’ they would
then say, ‘thou idle hour that saw no deed accomplished, no duty done,
no heroism performed in the great world; where hast thou been?’ Wherever
I went I was stared at and shamed and shunned. I heard the hours tell
what they had seen, but had nothing to tell myself. You see, our lives
in the world are short; each one has but sixty minutes in which to build
his character, and therefore a whole life may be ruined by one bad deed.
You know, an hour’s standing here depends on what he has seen during his
working life. In my wanderings I met the glorious hour that watched
Abraham Lincoln sign the paper which freed the slaves.
[Illustration: A clock-headed figure using a walking stick and leaning
forward while walking along a path beneath a sign that reads "THE WAY
OUT".]
“‘Ah,’ said I, without thinking, ‘I, too, freed some slaves.’ And then
he asked me how, and I told him by a wrong I had committed, and this got
about and I was asked to leave Chymerline, where I had met him. Then, I
dared not look behind me, for I always saw hundreds of long, thin Minute
Hands pointing at me and reminding me of my crime. Alas, how dearly was
the liberty of those little boys purchased! At last, weary and lonely
and penitent, I sought the frontier, succeeded in passing the minstrel
guards, and found my way back into the world. I never went to the little
country town again, but wandered into the great city and succeeded in
getting into the big, handsome clock in your father’s house. I found, to
my delight, that the clock had once lost an hour, and I resolved to make
that hour up and come forth again unstained and having done my duty.
That is the story of my sad life.”
“You see,” said the little boy, seriously, “all that came from your
disliking school so—I noticed that fact when I first met you. But come,
try to forget all about it now and we will walk along.”
The little boy had meant to ask a few questions about how the big hall
clock had become slow, and how it could be put right again in the manner
described, but he thought it would be wiser to change the subject
altogether, as his little friend seemed to be feeling so sorrowful. So
he began to ask who the various little alarm-clock houses belonged to,
and was especially interested to hear of all the wonderful and famous
things which their little occupants had once seen. Each appeared to have
seen just one thing, and the little boy was informed that each hour
usually made a practice of telling his own particular story and never
got tired of repeating it. He was on the point of asking if each hour
knew of all the things which had happened all over the world at that
particular time, but he saw at once that this question might lead to a
very complicated explanation, and would probably result in a quarrel,
which he always dreaded.
“Surely,” said he, to himself, “an hour which saw Columbus land could
well afford to go without knowing anything else.”
The Continental Imp explained to him how many hours who arrived on
particularly auspicious days, and who had seen exceptionally great
things, were swelled up with importance, like the host, who had arrived
on the Fourth of July, 1776, and had undoubtedly seen Benjamin Franklin,
who was very much in evidence on that day.
So they ambled along, through the pleasant, hazy village until soon they
came upon a sheet of water which was very rough and which, the host
said, was called the Hour Glass Lake because it consisted really of two
sheets of water joined together by a little strait through which the
water ran, so that the whole thing had not a little the appearance of an
hour-glass with the sand running through it. The road ran straight down
to the banks of the water and the little boy could see how it came right
down to the shore on the opposite side also. He thought how it marked
the aimless wanderings of the poor, lost Wollerp while he was hunting
for himself, and he wondered if the lake was there then, and if so, how
the poor little creature had crossed it.
Down at the shore was a curious boat which looked like the long box of a
hall clock, and into this they all stepped for a row over to the other
side. The little boy tried to talk as they rowed him across the lake,
but the water was so rough that he could not talk properly, and he held
on with all his might as the little craft rose and fell on the
tumultuous waves.
“Do you suppose,” said he, “that we shall be able to start for
Tickerleen in the morning? I want very much to
[Illustration: see the great city of course you know I have to get home
sometime and I’m afraid my father will get home and not find me there
and be worried about me. What is that little building right on the shore
that we’re coming to, I wonder?”]
“That,” said the host, “is the station where you’ll take the train for
Tickerleen in the morning. Hello, there seems to be a crowd there; there
must be something the matter! Row a little faster, and we’ll see what
the trouble is! They seem to be all reading the bulletin.”
So the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, who were rowing, made
haste, and soon the party had landed and were hastening up the road in
the direction of a queer, little cottage building with a roof and doors
like a cuckoo clock, and about which fully a hundred imps were
congregated, all talking in a most excited fashion. When they got a
little nearer they could see that upon the outer wall hung a large
placard, with a heading which said,
TICKERLEEN MAINSPRING. EXTRA!!!
and it was evidently the information on this sheet which had created all
the excitement.
“What do you suppose it can be?” asked the little boy.
“News from the capital. I suppose the old Duke is at it again,” said the
Continental Imp.
“I don’t understand,” said the little boy.
“Why, it’s the _Mainspring’s_ local bulletin,” said the host. “The
_Mainspring_ can’t run down, you know—ha, ha, ha—so they have the news
sent up by the errorgraph.”
They hastened on as fast as they could to the little building, and sure
enough, there stood a cuckoo in the doorway, calling,
“Tick-tick-tickerleen—
Tickerleen Extra!”
and the crowd was all excitement.
“Isn’t it dreadful!” some were saying.
“Things must be in a pretty state at court,” others observed.
“She shouldn’t have left it for the king to do; she should have stayed
at home and done it herself,” one persisted.
The party elbowed their way right down to the front of the crowd, as
newcomers are expected to do, till they reached a position where the
words of the bulletin were quite legible.
“Read it,” said Mr. Three O’clock. So the host, who was a little to the
front, read the following startling announcement.
[Illustration: ! ! ! BULLETIN ! ! !
QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!
FATHER TIME Flavors more Soups and Demands
_Better Gravy_
_CROWN PRINCE IN A CAGE—REASON CONCEALED!_
_QUEEN DYING IN BED OF STRAW AFTER EATING PEBBLES!_
_Hundreds of PIES thrown in LOYAL faces!_]
[Illustration: _Slobs wield BUNS in eating SOUPS!!_
PRIME MINISTER EGGS LEADERS FROM TREE!!!!
_King Despairing Dives in Lard and Sinks!_
_DEAD! ASSASSINATED!!! LAST WORDS!!_
“_I know this death is greasier than suspenders and braces!_”
_SPOOK, DANCES ON KING’S REMAINS_
_Real Estate is Boomed!_]
Instantly when the host finished reading the little boy felt in his
buttonhole for his wonderful flower, and then gave one despairing
cry—for it was gone. He looked all about on the ground, but it was
nowhere to be seen. He had evidently dropped it from the boat while
leaning over the edge in his fit of sea sickness.
“Will you please read that bulletin again?” he said to the host, and the
host read it again, very slowly and carefully. Then the little boy
looked again for his treasured flower, but it had disappeared, and he
was all bewildered and confused. Meanwhile, his three companions were
discussing the news from Tickerleen with great earnestness.
[Illustration: _The Bulletin_]
“Of course,” said the Continental Imp, “if the Queen goes out sleighing,
leaving the soups unflavoured, why, many will use buns, that’s obvious.
There’s more or less flavouring in a bun, you know.”
“It’s a natural consequence,” said the host. “Take my own soups, for
instance—”
“Why, certainly,” said Mr. Three O’clock. “I don’t blame the King at
all, but it’s awful to think of his dying that way; he probably was
about to get some of the lard for flavouring. I don’t believe he meant
to kill himself. You couldn’t make me think so!”
The little boy listened to this conversation with an expression of great
wonder, for, to be sure, the news from the capitol was unusual.
“What do _you_ think about it?” asked Mr. Three O’clock.
“Isn’t it unusual?” said the little boy.
“Certainly,” answered his friend, “most extras are unusual in the news
they give. You don’t suppose things like this happen every day, do you?
This is dreadful—dreadful!”
“Do you think it really happened?” asked the little boy, whereupon a
dozen imps turned and stared at him with contempt.
“Happened!” said Mr. Three O’clock. “Why, of course, it happened! Do you
think the _Mainspring_ lies?”
“It seems to _me_,” said the little boy, in the host’s ear, “that it is
just a little—well, just a little bit crazy, you know; but, of course, I
may be mistaken. I wish I had my flower!”
“Crazy?” said the host. “But wait! There goes an imp up the ladder
again! See there, he’s crossing out that first line. It _was_ a mistake,
after all! Now see what he puts in its place.”
“You see,” said the little boy, as he watched the Imp on the ladder,
drawing a line through the first announcement. “I knew it must be wrong.
Now he’s going to correct it, and it will be sensible.”
“Wait!” said Mr. Three O’clock.
“Watch!” said several others.
“See there!” said the little boy. “He has put something in place of it.
Now it will be all right. Will you read it, Mr. Host, please?”
The dextrous little imp came down the ladder and disappeared into the
Errorgraph Office in the station, and the host read aloud:
[Illustration: ! ! ! BULLETIN ! ! !
+QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!+
_QUEEN RACES FOR A BITE INSTEAD!_]
“That _is_ crazy!” said the little boy. “It’s perfectly crazy and I know
it is. The Queen wouldn’t—she couldn’t—”
“She couldn’t and she wouldn’t and she didn’t!” laughed the Continental
Imp.
“She buttoned the didn’ts to the—Oh, see there!” called Mr. Three
O’clock. “He’s coming out to change it again, maybe. There he goes up
the ladder!”
“Good,” said the little boy. “He’ll get it right at last.”
The little bulletin imp came dancing down the ladder and the little boy,
with a merry, hopeful face, turned to his good friend, the host, and
said:
“Now he’s fixed it so that it’s all right. Would you mind reading it
just this once more?”
So the host read, in a loud and very serious voice:
[Illustration: ! ! ! BULLETIN ! ! !
+QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!+
+_QUEEN RACES FOR A BITE INSTEAD!_+
QUEEN BRACES FOR A FIGHT IN BED!]
This was too much for the poor little boy. His hand went unconsciously
to his buttonhole in one last desperate hope of finding his precious
flower, and then, with a piercing shriek and a long gasp, he reeled and
fell fainting to the ground, his hat blowing off and landing a foot or
so from his outstretched form, so that he presented the appearance of an
enormous exclamation mark.
[Illustration: _An Evening with the Colonial Hours_]
AN EVENING WITH THE COLONIAL HOURS
[Illustration: A framed portrait of a person with curly, shoulder-length
hair and glasses.]
As the boy awoke from his fainting spell,
And presently opened his eyes,
He glanced about with a startled look
Of the most intense surprise,
For he found himself on a little couch
Of a quite convenient size.
[Illustration: A framed portrait of a man with a mustache, goatee, and a
ruffled Elizabethan-style collar.]
And he saw that the couch was in a room
Where he never had been before,
With old-fashioned mottoes on the wall
And a queer, old-fashioned door,
And a regular, antique warming pan
In a corner on the floor.
[Illustration: A framed profile portrait of a man facing left, wearing a
uniform with a star shining in the background.]
And, staring down from around the wall,
From portraits all faded and old,
Were men with the queerest neckties on,
And features severe and cold;
And the frames which encased these dreadful men
Were covered with greenish mould.
And off to one side in the queer, old room
He noticed, in looking about,
A chair and a rickety spinning wheel,
And it seemed, without a doubt,
As if he awoke in a room from which
Priscilla had just stepped out.
For articles such as are sold to-day
At a perfectly shocking price
Were placed about in that queer, old room
In a manner all precise,
And the only ornament to be seen
Was a worsted work device.
And, gazing about, he rubbed his eyes,
While he puzzled his brain and tried
To find out how he had gotten there,
When the old door opened wide.
“And how do you do?” said his friend, the host,
And cheerily walked inside.
“I am very well,” said the little boy,
“And delighted to see you here,
For I really don’t know where I am,—
In a bygone age, I fear;
Or else I’ve been sold for a live antique
On account of being queer.
“Would you mind,” he said, as the host advanced,
“Informing me what you have heard
From Tickerleen since I went to sleep;
Is there any further word?
For the statements on that bulletin board
I’m certain were quite absurd.”
[Illustration: A short, round-headed figure wearing a tricorn hat and an
apron stands on a staircase, while a child leans over the banister
above.]
“Oh, never you mind the bulletin board,”
Said his merry and genial friend,
“For this is the good old-fashioned club,
And the members all extend
A welcome to little old-fashioned boys,
And invite you to attend.
“For to-morrow morning you’ll all be off
To the dazzling Tickerleen
With its wondrous streets of custard pies,
And after you all have seen
The local conditions prevailing there
You’ll know what the posters mean!”
So the host and the little boy came out,
Down a creaky old-fashioned stair,
And paused outside of the queer old door
Of a double parlour where
They heard an unearthly and dreadful sound
Which startled the very air.
’Twas a rollicking, boisterous, noisy song,
Which was not in the least bit sweet,
For every voice sang a different air,
Accompanied by a beat,
And they heard a banging which sounded like
The stamping of many feet.
The little boy peered through the keyhole small,
And there, on a bench in a row,
Were fully a dozen antique imps
In costumes of long ago,
But their noisy behaviour seemed to him
Like a modern minstrel show.
“Now, try it again!” cried the leader imp,
“And try to imagine that you
Are really whipping a little boy
With a slipper or a shoe,
In the genuine, good, old-fashioned way,
As parents used to do!”
So they all started over again with great earnestness and enthusiasm,
and sang so fast that the little boy had a good deal of difficulty in
following what they sang.
[Illustration: Sheet music with lyrics.]
“With their old, old ways,
In the old, old days,
The little boys, they bowed and were polite,
lite,
lite.
“Every prank, prank, prank.
Had a spank, spank, spank,
They were spanking them from morning until night,
night,
night.
“When the small, small boys
Made a noise, noise, noise,
And simply wouldn’t sit up and be still,
still,
still,
“Every back, back, back,
Had a whack, whack, whack,
And they whacked ’em with a vigour and a will,
will,
will.
“Every child, child, child,
That was wild, wild, wild,
Was very promptly laid out on a couch,
couch,
couch,
“And a slap, slap, slap,
With a strap, strap, strap,
You could hear the little urchins crying, ‘Ouch!
Ouch!
Ouch!’
“With a whack, whack, whack,
On the back, back, back,
How much better than the foolishness of modern ways
“Is a slap, slap, slap,
With a strap, strap, strap,
And they did it to perfection in the olden days.
[Illustration: A clock-faced figure wearing a tricorn hat and buckled
shoes sits on a ledge or bench, shouting or reacting in pain while
surrounded by musical notes and text that reads "Ouch!!" and "Whack".]
“And we say, say, say,
That to-day, day, day,
When a boy is in a temper or a grouch,
grouch,
grouch,
“’Mid the yelling and distraction,
There’s a singular attraction,
And a pleasant satisfaction,
In an Ouch!
Ouch!!
_Ouch!!_
OUCH!!
OUCH!!!”
“I have changed my mind,” said the little boy, “I don’t want to go in
there.”
“Oh, they won’t hurt you,” said the host.
“No, I know they won’t,” said the little boy, “because I won’t give them
a chance; I’ll stay outside.”
“Don’t you believe in spanking?” asked the host.
“I don’t believe in spanking _me_,” said the little boy.
“Have you never been spanked?”
“No, never!”
“Then you don’t know what you’ve missed.”
“Oh, yes, I know what I missed! I _wanted_ to miss it.”
“And the pain, pain, pain,
From a cane, cane, cane,—”
“There they go again,” said the host. “Let us walk right in; your two
friends are in there.”
The little boy gave his hand rather reluctantly to his good friend, and
the two walked into the room from which the threatening and anything but
pleasant sound had emanated.
And such a looking room as it was! The Continental Imp was there in full
glory, and so was Mr. Three O’clock, who was making himself very much at
home withal, considering that he was a new arrival in the village and a
stranger to the old-fashioned set. There must have been as many as
twenty or thirty old-fashioned imps, each one wearing a badge with a
date, and they were all breathing heavily and seemed to be very much
exhausted. And the appearance of the room was frightful!
“If Nurse could only see this,” said the little boy to himself, “she
would never complain of my nursery again! I never saw such a litter!”
The floor indeed was simply covered with words which had been spilled
and scattered about in singing.
“They have been trying to sing too fast,” said the little boy,
whispering in the host’s ear. “Did you ever see anything like this!”
“It looks as if the dictionary were on a picnic, doesn’t it?” said the
host. “See those ‘chances’ over there! Be careful not to step on these!”
The members of the old-fashioned club stood staring at the little boy,
and the little boy stood staring on the floor. Meanwhile, his two
friends, the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, came up and asked
him if he was feeling quite himself again, and why he had been overcome
so at the railroad station. But the little boy could not take his eyes
from the floor. He had heard of people being slovenly with food, and he
knew how careless _he_ often was about his own toys, but he had never
before seen such untidiness caused by loose words.
“It is all because,” thought he, “they tried to use too many words at
once, and tried to sing them too fast. They ought to have tin trays to
sing on!”
The more he looked, the more amazed he became, for the floor appeared
something like this:
[Illustration: Scattered words and phrases in various orientations,
including "preventing", "stroke", "flogging", "crime", "spanking",
"antique", and multiple instances of "chance".]
“I hope you will excuse the appearance of things,” said one of the
hours, stepping up. “I’m not accustomed to such untidiness myself, but
we were singing of the good old days, and I’m afraid we lost all control
of ourselves. Won’t you be seated?”
“Are you an hour?” asked the little boy.
“Yes, indeed, I am; I’m the hour that saw the Boston Tea Party—saw all
the—”
“Wait a minute,” said another. “I’m the hour that saw the battle of—”
“And I’m the hour that saw Cornwallis surrender at Yorktown!”
“And I’m the hour that saw John Alden carry Myles Standish’s proposal to
Priscilla.”
And so all the hours gathered about him, clamouring to tell what they
knew, and it was fully ten minutes before the little boy could get an
opportunity to speak. As soon as he could he asked what the words all
over the floor meant.
“Oh, that’s a verse,” said one of the hours. “We can’t bother to pick it
up now.”
“I should like to know what the verse is,” said the little boy. “I’m
going to Tickerleen to-morrow.”
“Well, then,” said the hour who had first addressed him, “I’ll tell you
what we’ll do. When we get these words all picked up, we’ll put them
together the way they ought to go to make the verse and send it to
Tickerleen. You must leave your address.”
“Is the verse about spanking?” asked the little boy.
“Yes, indeed, that was a spanking chorus, you know. It has to be sung
fast to be realistic. It ought to sound like the dear, old-fashioned
spankings—”
“Let us talk about something else,” said the little boy. “I—I don’t like
to talk about spankings. I wonder if any of you hours knew Benjamin
Franklin. You know he lived in those old days, and I once heard a story
about him—”
“Benjamin Franklin!” said half a dozen imps. “Certainly; we all saw him
at different times.”
“Isn’t that wonderful!” said the little boy. “Could any of you tell me
about him?”
“Certainly,” said one of the hours. “I’ll tell you what _I_ know about
him. He was a great sluggard, you know.”
“What?” said the little boy.
“Just listen,” said the hour, “and I’ll say you a little poem I wrote.”
So they all sat down and the hour who had volunteered to give the little
boy some information about Benjamin Franklin, told the following story.
“Of course, you’ve all heard of Electrical Ben,
With spectacles massive in size,
Who claimed, it is said, if you’re early to bed,
You’ll be healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
[Illustration: A short, bespectacled figure wearing a fur cap with a
long dangling tail, a jacket, and breeches, walking with a cane while
holding a small umbrella.]
“He ordered his coffee in slices, you know,
And he drank buttered toast from a cup;
And the fact is he never retired at all,
And he always refused to get up.
“Instead of attending to business, you know,
Or joining the army to fight,
He spent all the day in ridiculous play,
And was constantly flying a kite.
“He wore a fur hat that came over his ears
To keep the wind out of his brain,
And his gaiters came up to the top of his head,
And he carried a gold-headed cane.
“He got up an almanac once on a time
To amuse the Colonial folks,
And he filled it with morsels of useful advice
And he packed it with horrible jokes.
“He hated the red-coats with all of his heart,
And he simply detested a pun,
And he never went out in the street after dark
For fear he’d be struck by the sun.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Three O’clock. “That’s pretty good! Tells
people to get up early so as to be healthy and wealthy and wise, and
then sleeps all day! Now you see how much truth there is in the school
books!”