laughing so, but I never knew that Benjamin Franklin was so much like
George Washington! So Benjamin Franklin was in the habit of lying too—”
“He was in the habit of lying down,” said the hour who had recited the
verses.
“Well, it’s the same thing,” said the Continental Imp.
The little boy was very anxious to change the subject, for he did not
like the freedom with which these great historical characters were
talked about, and as for the poem,—he thought it was disgraceful.
“Can’t you sing one of the old-fashioned songs?” he said to the
Continental Imp, whereupon that gay little hour took out his Continental
handkerchief, and raising his little hand to his eye, wiped away a briny
Continental tear.
“I cannot,” said he.
“Try,” said the little boy.
There was a moment of silence while they all waited, until finally,
seeing that all eyes were upon him, the little Continental Imp began,
“I cannot sing the old songs now,
I’ll have to be excused;
Those dear old songs are now, alas,
Too feeble to be used.
“I cannot sing those dear old songs;
I simply cannot start;
For, oh, I never would survive
The strain upon my heart!”
“Don’t try to sing, then,” said the little boy, “if it makes you feel so
bad.” But the Imp raised his hand, as if to command silence, and
continued,
“I cannot sing those dear old songs,
Those songs of other years;
For, oh, my little handkerchief
Would be all wet with tears!”
“Take mine,” said the host.
“Here’s mine; you’re welcome to it,” said Mr. Three O’clock. And in an
instant a dozen handkerchiefs which looked like pages torn from
calendars were offered to him. But he motioned again for silence and
proceeded in a broken voice.
“I simply cannot sing them now,
For can’t—oh, can’t you see,
The very thought of doing it
Would prove too much for me!”
“I don’t see why you want to try it, then,” observed the host.
“No one is insisting, you know,” said another imp.
“Of course,” said the little boy, “I’d like to hear a good,
old-fashioned song—the kind they sang in 1775—if there is nothing about
spanking or George Washington in it?”
“Who said anything about spanking George Washington?” called a bold,
little imp, stepping forward, in a very indignant and independent
manner, to where the little boy stood. This imp wore a hat covered with
cherry blossoms, and carried a hatchet in his belt.
[Illustration: A figure in a tricorn hat adorned with small items,
wearing a jacket, breeches, and buckled shoes, walking with cherries
tied to their pigtail.]
“I didn’t!” said the little boy.
“You did,” said the indignant imp. “And he was never spanked! Never in
his life! I heard his father refuse to spank him when he chopped down
the cherry tree and—”
“Put him out!” called a voice.
“He’s a bore and a nuisance!” cried another.
“Throw him out! He’s at it again! He ought never to have been allowed in
here!”
And with this the little imp who had seen George Washington chop down
the cherry tree was picked up by a half a dozen members of the
old-fashioned club, and thrown out of the window, to the utter
astonishment of the little boy, and to the perfect delight of the
Continental Imp, who now continued,
“I cannot try to sing them now,
Those songs of long ago,
For, oh, I know I should break down,
And cruel tears would flow!”
“I am very sorry I asked you to sing,” said the little boy. “I really
am! I had no idea—”
“I could not do them justice now,
For each of them belongs
To olden days, and then besides—”
“What?” said the host.
“Besides—besides—” sang the weeping Imp.
“Besides what?” asked the little boy.
“For each of them belongs
To olden days, and then besides—”
“Yes?”
“What?”
“_I haven’t got the songs!!_
“I cannot, cannot sing them now,
Those songs so true and good;
I simply can’t, but anyhow,
_I wouldn’t if I could_!!”
[Illustration: A woman wearing a cap and dress standing in water near a
large rock or bank, looking shocked or startled with one arm
outstretched.]
[Illustration: A man wearing a tall hat, jacket, and breeches sitting
atop a mound or rock while pointing forward.]
“Well, what was the need of all that fuss, then?” said the host. There
was more or less indignation on the part of the other hours as well, who
felt that the Continental Imp had been playing a trick on them, but soon
the whole party fell into conversation and the little boy listened in
rapt attention to the stories which the various imps told. It seemed
quite wonderful that he should actually be sitting right among the old
hours who had seen so many famous things, and who talked about them just
as if they were every-day occurrences. It wasn’t like history books at
all, and before long he began to feel that all the famous men who looked
so severe and forbidding on pages of the school books which his brother
brought home each day, and which his nurse sometimes read to him, were
after all nothing but common men, and he even began to suspect that some
of the books were wrong. He listened, spell-bound, to the story of the
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, told by an eye-witness, and laughed out
loud at hearing how Mistress Priscilla got her feet wet trying to step
from Plymouth Rock, and how John Alden made fun of her.
He learned that Benjamin Franklin was not such a terrible person, after
all, but was simply a jolly, old gentleman who was very fond of making
jokes. He heard about the landing of Columbus, and was surprised to hear
that the great discoverer and his little band of followers had not all
struck attitudes and performed a tableau as soon as they got on dry
land, as if they were going to have their pictures taken.
He was a little shocked at learning that Henry Hudson, whose bold,
romantic face, in its high, ruffled stock, he had so much admired, was
really nothing but a little, round, fat Dutchman with a red nose. He
found that George Washington was a real man who used to chat pleasantly
and pat little boys on the head just as any other man might do who was
not the father of a country. And he was particularly astonished to know
that when Washington crossed the Delaware in the night, he had not stood
in the bow of the boat holding a flag, as he is represented in all the
pictures, but had sat comfortably down, while one of his kind soldiers
performed this duty for him.
All these things were very hard to believe until the little boy became
accustomed to them. He was especially amazed to hear that nobody had
ever been burned as a witch in America, for all the books and stories
which he had heard about the Salem witches said distinctly that the poor
people who were thought to be witches were burned. He now learned from
eye witnesses that they had been hung instead, and that most of the
history writers had made a dreadful mistake about it. He learned that
Captain John Smith not only had great courage, but that he had a fine
imagination as well, and that the Pocahontas incident probably took
place only in the captain’s mind—where any number of interesting things
happened. Before very long all the old Puritans and Pilgrims began to
seem very real, and the Indians began to seem real too and much better
than he had ever supposed they were. In fact, he began to think that the
shrewd Yankees, with their tall, thin hats and their solemn faces, were
really very unfair to the red men, and that they often cheated the poor
savages and drove very sharp bargains. He could scarcely believe his
ears when he was told that one of these Puritans, who came to America
because Europe was so wicked, gave an Indian two glass beads and a
bottle of medicine for three hundred acres of land, and it was very
shocking to know that the boys used to jeer and make fun of William
Penn’s hat.
In fact, the little boy spent a most enjoyable evening among the
old-fashioned hours, hearing about the things they had seen and asking
them questions. When the time came to go, he thanked the good old hours
who had been so perfectly free and candid for a “most enjoyable treat,”
which were the words his mother had told him to say when he went to a
little neighbour’s birthday party. He and his three friends, the host,
the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, then made their way back to
the inn, where they sat about the fire eating cold ticklets and
discussing plans for the morrow.
They all tried very hard to persuade the kindly host to go to Tickerleen
with them on the morning train, and he finally yielded to their
arguments and said that he would accompany them on their visit to the
capital city.
“And now,” said the kindly landlord “it is time to wind you up.” So they
all rose and the host accompanied the little boy to his room, where he
actually did wind the little fellow very comfortably up in a soft quilt,
with Roman numerals worked all over it, and then betaking himself to his
own apartment was soon fast asleep.
[Illustration: A clock-faced figure wearing a bonnet and sleeping
peacefully in a bed with a lit candle on a bedside table nearby.]
[Illustration: _The Dreadful News From Tickerleen_ !]
THE DREADFUL NEWS FROM TICKERLEEN
Early in the morning the host closed his inn and the four travellers
hastened to the railroad station by a different road from that which
they had taken the day before, for the little boy was anxious not to
cross the tumultuous lake again. When they got within sight of the
Cuckoo Clock Station, they noticed that the train was in and that the
crowd was much larger and more excited than it had been the day before.
Imps were flying here and there with their date badges blowing in the
breeze, and all seemed bustle and confusion.
The little boy was very much interested in examining the train which
seemed to consist of little cars made from hall clocks, with a
clock-work engine in front. He was just trying to determine how he
should accommodate himself in one of these cars for the long ride, when
he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and looking around, he saw the
host standing at his elbow.
“What is it?” asked the little boy.
“Look at the bulletin; it has been corrected. This is dreadful news!
Much more serious than we supposed yesterday!” said the host.
The little boy, who had been very much engrossed in his examination of
the curious train, turned about and walked over with the host to the
spot where the crowd was standing. As soon as his eyes fell upon the
bulletin, he gave a shout of joy, for the whole thing had been changed.
“Don’t faint!” said the Continental Imp, rushing up to him.
“What’s the matter now?” said Mr. Three O’clock.
“There is nothing the matter,” said the little boy, “but, ha, ha, ha!
They’ve changed it just as I knew they’d have to, and you see I was
right yesterday!”
“There is nothing to laugh about,” said the host.
“Have you read it?” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy.
“No, I haven’t,” said the little fellow. “I was laughing at its being
all changed. Will one of you please read it, because you can read it
better, you know?”
So the good host, who was deeply concerned about this corrected
information from the capitol, read the revised bulletin, which appeared
as follows:
[Illustration: +QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!+
+_QUEEN RACES FOR A BITE INSTEAD!_+ +QUEEN BRACES FOR A
FIGHT in BED!+ QUEEN PACES FOR A NIGHT in DREAD!
+=FATHER TIME Flavors more Soups and Demands=+ +_FATHER
TIME Favors more Troops and Demands_+
_Better Gravy_ _BETTER NAVY!_]
[Illustration: +_CROWN PRINCE IN A CAGE——REASON CONCEALED!_+
_CROWN PRINCE IN A RAGE—_=TREASON=_ REVEALED!!_
+_QUEEN DYING IN BED OF STRAW AFTER EATING PEBBLES!_+
=QUEEN CRYING IN DREAD OF WAR—AFTER MEETING REBELS.=
+_Hundreds of PIES thrown in LOYAL faces!_+
_HUNDREDS of SPIES KNOWN IN ROYAL PLACES!_
+_Slobs wield BUNS in eating SOUPS!!_+
_MOBS WIELD =GUNS= IN =BEATING TROOPS=!!!_
+PRIME MINISTER EGGS LEADERS FROM TREE!!!!+
PRIME MINISTER BEGS LEADERS TO FLEE!!!!!!
+=_King Despairing Dives in Lard and Sinks!_=+
_KING DESPAIRING DRIVES IN YARD AND THINKS!!_
_DEAD! ASSASSINATED!!!
LAST WORDS!!_
+“_I know this death is greasier than suspenders and braces!_”+
“_I know this death is easier than surrenders and disgraces._”
_SPOOK DANCES ON
+KING’S REMAINS_+
_DUKE ADVANCES ON KING’S DOMAINS_
+_Real Estate is Boomed!_+
__Is the STATE DOOMED?__]
“What does it all mean?” asked the little boy, when the host had
finished reading. “I think it is sensible enough now, but just what does
it mean?”
“What does it mean?” shouted the Continental Imp. “Why, it means that
the old Duke of Procrastination is threatening the kingdom of Father
Time, and that the poor King—but wait! See there!”
They all looked at the bulletin, to which the Errorgraph Imp from the
Cuckoo Clock Station was adding another item.
“Father Time Not Dead,”
read the host, in a reassuring tone.
[Illustration: A clock-headed figure wearing a tricorn hat and uniform,
standing with legs apart and raising a baton or stick in one hand.]
“Then the kingdom is _not_ lost!” shouted the Continental Imp, drawing
his sword.
“And I, who heard a famous whop—”
“Stop!” screamed the little boy.
“Will fight to save the country’s pop!” continued the Continental Imp.
“That is no way to speak of Father Time!” said the little boy.
“Well, if you don’t let me say whopper,” said the Continental Imp, “how
can I say popper? It’s your own fault.”
“Come,” said the kindly host. “It is not a time for quarrelling. You
will have to stop saying unpleasant things about General Washington if
the boy doesn’t like it. Washington was the father of _his_ country, you
know, and he got the best of the—”
“Yes, and Father Time got the best of _him_, didn’t he?” said Mr. Three
O’clock, who was always inclined to take sides with the Continental Imp.
“Never mind that now,” said the host. “The fact that stares us in the
face is that Father Time, our beloved sovereign, and the mightiest king
that ever wielded a scythe or a sceptre, is threatened by
Procrastination and that we, his subjects and dependents, are called
upon to defend his throne!”
“I suppose,” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy, “that
you had better go home and not be mixed up in this civil war. What say
you?”
But the little boy did not answer, for he was thinking. He was thinking
what his mother would say if the news were brought to her that he had
fallen fighting in the army of Father Time. Then he thought of how he
had once heard Procrastination spoken of as a thief, and how if this
wicked old rebel were to gain control, all the clocks in the world would
become slow and there would be no depending on them. Then he thought of
something else, and meanwhile the crowd began to move toward the waiting
train.
“Come,” said the host. “You had better let your friend, Mr. Three
O’clock, take you to the frontier, and you can go home on the pendulum
alone. Then he can follow us to the city, for we shall all join the
army, of course.”
But the little boy was silent, and they all waited. Suddenly he looked
up, and for the first time since they had known him, there were tears in
his eyes.
“I think I will go with you and help,” he said. “Maybe I can’t do much,
but I can help a little. Father Time was once very good to my mother,
and I want to see him and thank him and help him so that I can tell her
when I go home. Do you mind if I go with you?”
“All aboard for Chymerline, Snooze, and the Royal City!” called an imp,
and at this there was a great rush for the train.
“Come on,” said some.
“Hurry up,” said others.
“Step right in,” said the guard.
[Illustration: A clock-faced railway conductor wearing a cap that reads
"CONDUCTOR" stands in front of a sign pointing toward "Trains to
CHYMERIAE SNOOZIN AND", while a notice beside him reads:
NOTICE !
Small hours must come early.]
And in less than another minute, the little clock-work train, loaded
with sturdy volunteers from good, old-fashioned Minutel, and carrying in
its foremost car the little boy, the host, the Continental Imp and Mr.
Three O’clock, went whizzing through the beautiful, rolling country,
following in its rapid course the road which marked the aimless
wanderings of the poor Wollerp, ticking steadily the while, and ringing
its drowsy bell occasionally like the old hall clock in the little boy’s
home.
[Illustration: _On to Tickerleen!_]
ON TO TICKERLEEN!
Through the beautiful Land of Tockerlore
Went the queer little clock-work train,
Past many a valley fair to see,
And many a mountain chain;
And merrily ticked as it sped along
Through the Precious Moments Plain.
And the echoes answered its chiming bell
From the cliffs and the mountains gray,
Till it seemed as if a thousand clocks
Were ticking the time away;
As if, in the hazy mountain tops,
The hours were all at play.
And now it would traverse some mountain ledge,
As it pleasantly ticked the while,
And now rush through a fairy grove,
Or some gloomy forest aisle;
And the boy, he counted the minute-hands
Which noted each fleeting mile.
[Illustration: A person looking out from a round window of a small
building next to railway tracks, holding a string or rod attached to a
large round balloon-like structure on a tall pole.]
They were placed in the pathway all along
By the side of the little track
Like spectres pointing up at the sky
Or sentinels tall and black;
And soon they arrived at a signal post
And the speed began to slack.
It was nothing more than a pendulum
With its shiny disk in the air,
For they’d wisely placed it upside down
So it shed a dazzling glare;
For life it was precious in Tockerlore
And the roads were run with care.
And now they were travelling on again
With as many as fifty more
Of sturdy and loyal volunteers
With glittering scythes galore,
And now were apparent on every hand
The signs of impending war.
For the woods rang out with the thrilling strains
Which they sang as they sped along,
And the boy joined in the chorus loud
And cheered at each martial song;
And at every village they glided through
Was a mighty cheering throng.
[Illustration: _Through the beautiful Land of Tockerlore Went the queer
little clock-work train._]
[Illustration: Four figures celebrating: the first holds a banner that
reads "Long Live the King!", the second raises a cap while wearing a
tunic with "IV", the third waves flags while wearing a garment with "V",
and the fourth joyfully waves a hat in the air.]
And the tall, gray trees, as they bowed and bent
In the path of the clock-work train,
Seemed urging them on to fight and save
Their glorious King’s domain,
And never, oh, never, to cease the fight
Till the wretched Duke was slain.
Past the beautiful Lake of Passing Years,
In the region of Speeding-Quick,
Through many a grove and flowered slope
And wilderness, dark and thick,
They sang to the chime of the clock-work train
And its steady, rapid tick.
And, skirting the edge of the Mopish Hills
On a treacherous ledge, they flew
Toward a dark ravine among the cliffs,
Which, rapidly ticking through,
They beheld in the hazy lowlands, fair,
A beautiful distant view.
[Illustration: A stone clock tower standing atop a cliff, featuring a
clock face with an angry expression and hands forming a frown, with a
flag flying from the top.]
For there in the Valley of Sleepitude,
On the river of Tymerlooze,
Rose the traitor’s castle, grim and black,
Near the drowsy town of Snooze;
And here they expected to pause a while
To gather the latest news.
For none of the passengers really knew
From the bulletin board just what
The lazy old Duke had planned to do,
Nor the details of his plot,
But they all were anxious to know the truth
And whether he’d gone or not.
They were all aware of the evil name
Which attached to the town of Snooze,
And they knew full well of the evil wrought
By the Duke’s disgraceful views,
And they knew that time was a thing he’d steal,
But probably never use.
So, ticking along at a dreadful rate,
They went whizzing across the lawn
Of the old Duke’s place, which stood alone
In the tranquil suburb, Yawn;
And were more than amazed at learning there
That the duke had really gone.
And they heard that his troops were all togged out
And were marching in splendid shape;
That each of them had a night cap on
In place of a soldier’s cape;
That all of them carried hot water bags,
And their war-cry was a gape!
And the little boy caught a passing glimpse
Of the castle, all grim and dark
(The estate was known as Idlewhile,
As he heard the host remark).
And he thought it strange they should run the trains
On the old Duke’s private park.
But the Duke had threatened a hundred times
To compel them to change the route.
He had even sent them notices,
And threatened to prosecute,
But they only laughed as the time went on,
For he never brought the suit.
There wasn’t a sound as the train pulled in
From the hours which moped about,
And nobody waved a handkerchief,
And nobody gave a shout;
And that Snooze supported her wretched Duke
There wasn’t the slightest doubt.
But nobody tried to attack the train,
And nobody fired a gun,
For the hours of Snooze, they dragged about
Too lazy to fight or run,
Too sluggish and wicked to give three cheers,
Or two—or even one!
[Illustration: Hooray for the Duke Procrastinate!]
They paused but a moment in wicked Snooze
Which appeared to be almost dead,
For most of the hours which hadn’t gone
Were soundly asleep, in bed,
But two of them boarded the clock-work train
And the boy heard what they said.
_And this was the tale of the coming fight,
As told by a sleepy Snoozelite_:
“The mighty Duke Procrastinate
Came from his castle grim
While thousands gathered at his gate
To get a look at him.
“‘Now, mark me, fellow countrymen,
For what I’m going to say
I never shall repeat again—
At least, I won’t to-day!
“‘Upon the throne in Tickerleen
You’ll probably admit,
There sit an ancient king and queen
Who think that they are _It_!’
“He scanned his mighty legion o’er
And said, ‘My soldiers, I
Will take the throne of Tockerlore
Or know the reason why!’
“_The throng which cheered him as they heard
Each daring and courageous word
Responded, ‘We will try.’_
“_And as the tumult slowly ceased,
A few said, ‘If we don’t, at least,
We’ll know the reason why!’_
“‘The slur those monarchs hurl at me
I’ve borne from ancient days,
And what they say has come to be
A rather hackneyed phrase.
“‘Within these walls, I’d like to state,
I’ve known each royal scoff,
Intending to retaliate,
But always put it off.
“‘And so these insults to my name
Have always been condoned,
And my attempts to check the same
Incessantly postponed.
“‘But now, with confidence serene,
To-morrow morning, I
Will lead you into Tickerleen
With banners waving high!’
“_And as the echo died away,
He heard his loyal soldiers say,
‘My lord, you mean we’ll try._
“‘_And if they put us to the rout,
Why, then, my lord, without a doubt,
We’ll know the reason why!_’”
“‘_For though defeat we can’t conceal,
Though failure may attend our zeal,
We’re well repaid if we can feel
We know the reason why!_’”
[Illustration: TO-DAY]
Now out of the slothful and sluggish town
Did the little train tick away
Toward the live and dazzling Tickerleen,
With its soldiers staunch and gay;
And above them floated the Tockish flag—
A scythe, with the word, “To-day.”
And so, toward the beautiful Tickerleen,
Did the little train tick along,
With its load of rural volunteers,
A hundred and fifty strong,
And the hills re-echoed the martial strains
As they sang this stirring song:
“Ye Hours of Tockerlore,
Know ye the crime
That a villain hath planned
Against old Father Time?
“How the Duke of Procrastinate
Published his views
To a gathering crowd
At his castle in Snooze?
“How he tempted and lured them,
To quiet their fears,
Till the heavens were shocked
At their treacherous cheers?
“How he offered them places,
With salaries, at court?
How he promised them favours
To win their support?
[Illustration: A clock-faced military figure wearing a spiked helmet
with a tag that reads "Regiment" and carrying a large curved sword over
his shoulder.]
“How they stood there and listened
Without a rebuke
To the claims of the lazy
And sluggish old duke?
“Then, Hours of Tockerlore,
Rise in your might
And put the old duke
And his rebels to flight!
“Was time made for wasting,
Or is it to use?
Then down with the sleepy
Old sluggard of Snooze!
“Down, down with the wretch
Till he wriggles and writhes
’Neath the glittering blades
Of our national scythes!
“Till he’s swept from the land
In a manner sublime
By the beautiful whiskers
Of good Father Time!
“Then, Hours of Tockerlore,
Rise up and say,
‘No time like the present;
We’ll do it to-day!’