No, rather to _use_,
Then _down_ with the sleepy
Old sluggard of Snooze!”
When lo! mid the strains of this noble song
The host extended his arm.
“See there,” said he as he looked afar,
“Tis the old Dark Ages farm
And rising beyond those barren fields
The towering Mount Alarm.
[Illustration: A large domed building or hill with a small castle turret
near the base, with three figures working or sitting in the foreground.]
“Now see!” he said, as he pointed again,
“Do you notice upon the side
Of the mighty hill, a narrow path—
A sort of a mountain slide?”
And everyone looked as the host observed,
“’Twas there that the Wollerp died.”
And now they went ticking through Dickery town,
And skirted the beautiful green
Surrounding a castle fair and high
Where the Tockish flag was seen;
’Twas the beautiful palace, Succotash,
Of the faithful Limabean.
And now through the outskirts of Tickerleen
They rushed at a terrible rate,
Till, ringing the clock-work bell like mad,
The queer little train went straight
Through the beautiful Passing Hours Park,
By the Fleeting Moments Gate.
Then, speeding through Almanac Place, they flew
Through the Calendar Row, and down
The beautiful Keyhole Boulevard
To the palace of the Crown,
Through the beautiful Square of Golden Days
To the very heart of town.
And the boy required no friendly voice
To answer his wondering stare,
For the sights he saw on every side
Assured him that they were there!
For where but in glittering Tickerleen
Could be witnessed sights so rare?
’Twas the mighty city of Father Time
And his beautiful lively queen,
The glorious, gorgeous, dazzling,
Magical, mystical Tickerleen,
Renowned for its billions of famous hours
And the wondrous things they’d seen!
[Illustration: WAR TIME]
[Illustration: _Father Time Gives His Opinion._]
FATHER TIME GIVES HIS OPINION
[Illustration: A clock-faced newsboy with an agitated expression running
while carrying a stack of papers labeled "THE DIAL" under his arm and
holding up a newspaper with headlines that read "Mainspring" and "WAR!!
THE DUKE? O HORROR!".]
“_Tickerleen Mainspring!_ All the latest news from the Duke’s camp! Get
the _Alarm_! Here’s the _Alarm_! Ye-e-e-e-extra! Ye-e-e-e-extra! _Royal
City Dial!_ Get the _Dial_! Here’s the _Mainspring_! Here’s the _Dial_!
Here’s the _Alarm_, Mister!”
“Goodness gracious!” said the little boy, as he stood in the Tickerleen
station with his three friends. “I never saw anything like this! Please
give me a chance to stretch myself after that long ride.”
“_Tickerleen Dial! Tickerleen Mainspring! Daily Alarm!_” shouted a score
of grimy-faced little imps, unheedful of his request.
“Tick—”
“Get away!” said Mr. Three O’clock. “He doesn’t want to be bothered with
you; get away!”
“Who is he?” asked one of the news imps of Mr. Three O’clock.
“He’s a little boy from the Earth, visiting—” but that was all he had a
chance to say. The news that a little boy from the Earth was visiting
Tickerleen spread like wildfire, and in less than a minute the little
fellow was the centre of a wild, scrambling crowd of imps which actually
filled the large cuckoo-clock station to its utmost capacity. They
crowded and pushed and elbowed as if the poor little boy were the old
Duke Procrastinate himself descending upon the royal city, or maybe the
Duke of Limabean, or some other famous Tockerlorish celebrity. And how
they talked and yelled and contradicted each other in their anxiety to
tell the startled little boy all that they knew!
“I’m the hour that saw Julius Cæsar killed!”
“I’m the hour that saw Charles the First beheaded!”
“That’s nothing! _I_ saw the French Revolution!”
“No, you didn’t! You only saw a part of it!”
“Well, I saw the worst part of it!”
[Illustration: A stern, clock-faced figure wearing a tricorn hat and a
cloak while standing.]
“I saw Shakespeare!”
“I saw William Tell!”
“I saw them building the pyramids!”
“Who? Shakespeare and William Tell?”
“No, the Egyptians!”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“I saw Napoleon drink a cup of tea!”
“Wonderful!”
“I’m the hour just before William the Conqueror landed!”
“I’m the hour just after he landed!”
“I’m the second hour just before he landed!”
“I’m the hour that came before that one!”
“I saw Socrates drink poison!”
“So did I!”
“That’s not true! One of you is wrong!”
“No, we’re not. He began to drink it at one minute before three and
finished one minute after three. I saw it just as I was coming in!”
“And I saw it just before I went out!”
“I’m the hour that saw—”
Suddenly, the Continental Imp, who had been holding himself in with the
greatest difficulty, stalked boldly into the crowd, shouting at the top
of his voice,
“_I’m_ the hour that heard George Washington tell a _Whopper_!”
“_Please_ don’t!” said the little boy.
“Let’s get out of here,” suggested the kindly host.
“This reminds me of the day the Declaration of Independence was signed—I
never saw such excitement.”
It was with the greatest difficulty that the four visitors made their
way out of the beautiful Cuckoo-Clock Station, for a large crowd of
hours followed them to the very door shouting about what they had seen
in the little boy’s ear until he was nearly deaf with the noise. But the
surprise which he had just experienced was nothing to the one which
awaited him when they reached the outside of the station, for scarcely
had they stepped out into the beautiful, soft gray, perfumed atmosphere
when Mr. Three O’clock gave a sudden start, and shrieked,
“The pies!”
And then holding his little hand before him as children are taught to do
when they speak pieces in school, he said,
“The pies! The pies! The custard pies!
About which I have raved!
How sweet the sight unto my eyes,
Those scores on scores of custard pies;
From north to south, from east to west,
They tell a tale of indigest
ion, caused by actions most unwise
In eating of the custard pies
With which the streets are paved.”
As soon as he had finished, the good host, who had been looking
admiringly on the vast array of pastry which appeared on every hand,
began,
“The pies! The yellow custard pies!
Oh, why were they not saved?
That yellow custard, rich and thick,
It might have made a million sick;
They seem to crowd at every step,
And tell a tale of weird dyspep
sia, causing dreams of grim surprise
Induced by eating custard pies,
With which the streets are paved.”
Scarcely had he spoken the last word when the Continental Imp, who would
not be outdone, stepped forward, and drawing his sword as if he intended
to carve the pies for himself and friends, said, in a tremendous voice,
“The pies! The pies! The custard pies!
Which I have always craved!
I see them all about the town,
Those heavy crusts so nice and brown,
They tell of many a little pill
And sleepless nights of awful bil
iousness, with loud, despairing cries,
All caused by eating custard pies!
And as along the street I hop,
So very fast I cannot stop,
I hope that if I go ker-flop,
You’ll bear me to some druggist shop,
And tell them that—”
“Stop!” said the little boy, trembling with excitement.
“What’s the matter?” asked the Continental Imp.
“A great deal is the matter,” said the little boy. “I know what was
coming; shop and flop and stop and hop all rhyme with _whop_! You were
going to say something about George Washington’s telling a whop—”
“I was merely going to ask you,” said the Continental Imp,
contemptuously,
“To bear me to some druggist shop,
And tell them that I heard a wh—”
“Stop!” shrieked the little boy, stamping his foot.
“I will not!” said the Imp. “I am a Continental Hour, and I believe in
life, liberty, and saying what you please.”
“And tell them that I heard a wh—”
“Stop!” screamed the little boy again.
“And tell them that I heard a wh—”
“Stop!”
“—isk broom was very good to get the custard off after it is dry.
There!”
“Now, you see, you were too hasty,” said Mr. Three O’clock to the little
boy. “Let’s go away from here; we’ll be surrounded by famous hours again
if we don’t look out!”
So they made their way up the street, walking very carefully on the
edges of the crusts, and keeping clear of the custard. The boy wondered
a little why they used custard pies for paving the streets, and ventured
to ask Mr. Three O’clock about it.
“Don’t you like custard pies?” asked his friend.
“Certainly,” said the little boy.
[Illustration: A street scene featuring various buildings with signs
like "TICKERLEEN DEPARTMENT STORE," "Glove Makers to HIS MAJESTY THE
KING," and "CUSTARD PIE PAVING CO," while figures walk in the
foreground, including a character with a clock face and top hat peering
around a corner.]
“Well, then,” answered his friend. “What would you have them use?
Mince?”
“No,” said the little boy, “but—”
“There isn’t any ‘but’ about it. You admit yourself that custard pies
are very nice.”
The little boy thought it would be of no use to press the argument, nor
was it necessary, for soon he began to feel that the beautiful, fragrant
air was affecting him strangely. It came up out of little registers here
and there in the streets, which looked like the open work crust on
cranberry pies, being all crisscrossed with nice, white pie crust. As
they picked their way along, the little boy saw many strange
things—things which he could not explain nor understand—yet they did not
seem queer to him now. He very soon became accustomed to the custard pie
streets and thought they were splendid. He saw houses in the shapes of
all sorts of clocks,—hall clocks, alarm clocks, cuckoo clocks, mantel
piece clocks, boudoir clocks,—but even this did not seem strange. “What
a fine house a clock makes!” he would say to himself.
So they picked their way along through the streets of the royal city
until they came in sight of a beautiful park surrounded by a picket
fence made of pretty hour hands, and in the centre stood a magnificent
marble clock, much larger than the little boy’s own home—and as for
beauty, there was no comparison!
The gate posts which supported the dazzling gate in this picket fence of
hour hands, surrounding the fairy park, were in the form of tremendous
clock keys, and the gate, itself, which was of solid gold, was enamelled
with thirty-one numbers in little squares, so as to present the
appearance of an enormous monthly page from some giant calendar. As they
drew nearer to the beautiful park, the little boy could see more
distinctly the gorgeous marble clock edifice which stood towering in the
centre, and which was approached by a beautiful path of fine, red
hour-glass sand, bordered with century plants. All through this fairy
park stood bronze statues here and there, similar in design to those
ornaments which are often seen on large clocks, and on the enormous
marble edifice itself stood a huge hour-glass, of glittering gold. As
the party drew still nearer, the little boy could see that there was no
face in the clock, but that the large opening was used for the main
doorway and was approached by a series of wide, marble steps.
[Illustration: A grand building with a large entrance staircase,
featuring Roman numerals (I through XII) across the top facade, an
hourglass structure above, and an archway filled with numbers and
calendar-like divisions, while three figures ascend the steps toward the
doors.]
They picked their way along the pie crusts very carefully, and soon
passed through the gateway of the park where the little boy noticed
several soldier-imps, of the famous National Guard, each one armed with
a golden table spoon, just as Mr. Three O’clock had described them in
his hilarious song.
“Why do they carry table spoons?” whispered the little boy.
“Sh! to eat the enemy with,” replied Mr. Three O’clock.
This explanation would have seemed very queer to the little boy a while
before, but now it did not appear in the least strange. The more he
breathed of the fragrant air, the more perfectly natural did everything
about him seem to be.
They made their way through the fairy park unmolested, and ascended the
steps of the great marble clock. There was no doubt at all in the little
fellow’s mind that this was the royal palace, and such indeed it was. He
felt a little nervous at the thought that he was actually going to meet
Father Time face to face, and had some misgiving lest the mighty king
would be so enraged at his presumption as to cut his head off with the
imperial scythe. But it was too late now to turn back; they were right
on the steps of the royal palace, and surely that, of all places, was no
place to stand and think. But he did linger a moment outside the massive
circular doorway to examine the numbers and designs which were carved in
the beautiful, white marble.
Some of the marble blocks had the number “60” graven in them, others the
number “24,” and still others, the number “365.” But the thing which
interested him most was a long, golden rope hanging from the door, which
on closer inspection he saw to be wrought into the shape of a lamb’s
tail.
“Just give that three shakes, will you?” said the host, as the little
boy was examining it.
The little boy did so, and instantly the large door opened and they
entered the palace of the king.
“Step lively, please,” said a guard who stood in the spacious hall.
“Is he an hour that saw a policeman?” whispered the little boy to Mr.
Three O’clock.
“I don’t know who he is or what he saw, but he sounds like a car
conductor, doesn’t he?” answered his friend.
[Illustration: A woman wearing an Egyptian-style headdress and pointed
shoes, walking while holding up a finger on one hand, with a garment or
banner around their lower body displaying the text "MONTH", "2000 B.C.",
and "4 P.M.".]
[Illustration: An elderly, bearded man with an hourglass balanced on his
bald head, wearing a robe and leaning on a walking stick while pointing
to the side with one hand.]
They walked along the hall until they reached an open door leading into
a beautifully decorated room with a throne, where a large crowd of hours
was standing. They entered and the little boy became interested in
reading the badges of the various Hour-Imps. They seemed to bear all the
famous dates of history, though he recognized only a very few. Some of
them bore the letters “B. C.” and, of course, the little fellow knew
that the wearer of these badges had actually seen things which took
place before the time when Christ lived. They had scarcely been in the
room a minute when the little boy noticed that all eyes were upon him.
Then some one asked him who he was.
“I am a little boy from the Earth—” but that is all he had a chance to
say. Instantly there was a scramble to get near him and scores of voices
were raised for his especial benefit. Modern hours, ancient hours, Dark
Ages hours, hours that had seen good things, and bad things, and great
things, and little things, all clustered about, yelling their life
stories into the little boy’s ear, much to the amusement of his three
friends. And the hours did not respect each other either; far from it!
An hour who had seen King Solomon take a walk was jostled about and
finally knocked down by a half dozen of modern and mediæval hours who
had no respect for age. It made no difference what famous thing an hour
might have seen, they treated each other all alike, for every one seemed
the equal of every one else, except those who had _nothing_ to tell, and
most of those were with the old Duke Procrastinate, who, the little boy
learned, was encamped outside the city, waiting for a good opportunity
to descend on the imperial palace.
While they were thus clustering about the little boy and making a
dreadful noise with their shouting, a voice called, “Silence!” And in an
instant not a sound could be heard. The guard who had spoken waited
patiently for a minute, and then walked on tip-toe over toward the wall
where a little metal contrivance hung, and, putting his ear to it,
listened attentively.
“What is he doing?” asked the little boy.
“He’s trying the stillometer,” said the host.
“The what?” asked the little fellow.
“Sh! the stillometer.”
“What’s it for?”
“To see how quiet it is.”
“Can’t he tell without that?”
“Oh, he can in a general way, but not exactly, not with accuracy,”
answered the host. “You see, there’s a piece of felt on the bottom of
the instrument, and when he presses that little button the pin falls,
and if he hears the pin fall—”
“The King! The King!” called several voices, and in another instant
every hour in the room was on his knees, except one who remained
standing to unfurl a large flag. The little boy was very much impressed
with this beautiful display of patriotism and homage, though he trembled
visibly at the thought of seeing the great ruler. Suddenly the
assemblage began to sing.
“Let the flag of the kingdom, so graceful and fair,
Be raised while its citizens sing,
‘Hurrah! Tempus Fugit!’ the national air,
And kneel to our glorious king!
“All hail to the monarch of monarchs, supreme,
As the beautiful flag is unfurled,
Beloved of his subjects—although it would seem,
Detested all over the world!”
As soon as the singing ceased, a procession of tiny imps marched into
the room and took their places about the royal throne.
“Are they hours?” asked the little boy, of the host, who stood nearest
him.
“Sh!” said the host. “No, they are not hours; they are jiffies. The King
will enter presently.”
[Illustration: Three figures wearing large furry hats with an hourglass
insignia, marching in step; the first figure holds a stick with a small
sphere at the end.]
Scarcely had he said the words when the principal jiffy shouted in a
shrill voice,
“His Imperial Highness, the Monarch of Monarchs!”
“All hail!” cried the hours, and there was another little pause, after
which the head jiffy pulled aside a curtain and said, in an impressive
voice,
“His August Majesty, Father Time!”
and scarcely had he uttered the last word when a little, wizened, old
gentleman, wearing a long, white beard and a white robe, and carrying a
magnificent golden scythe, toddled into the room with a quick, short
step, smiling pleasantly through his deep wrinkles to right and left,
and ascended the throne with the agility of a boy. He had a funny
twinkle in his eye, had old Father Time, as if he enjoyed playing jokes
on people, and seeing them confused and perturbed. He had a firm mouth,
also, had old Father Time, as if he were not in the habit of changing
his mind, and were accustomed to demanding his rights and having his own
way. The little boy did not dare to open his lips nor to move an inch to
ask any questions, but he thought to himself that the mighty King,
considering his age and fame, was very kindly looking, and he wondered
if he was any relation to Santa Claus.
“Well, well, well, to be sure, to be sure; this is very gratifying,”
said the King, as he seated himself, arranging his robes, and handing
his golden scythe to the nearest jiffy in attendance. “And I wish I had
a few moments to listen to your applause, but tide and myself, as you
all know, cannot wait, and the clock goes right on while you are
applauding. Now, who is this, pray?”
The little boy trembled very much as he realized that the great King was
speaking of him, but there was nothing to do but step right up to the
throne, for that seemed to be what His Majesty expected. So he walked
right up and said, bravely,
“I am a little boy from the World.”
“Ah yes, to be sure,” said His Majesty. “They don’t like me very well
there.”
“_I_ like you, Your Majesty,” said the little boy.
“Well, that’s very nice, isn’t it,” said the King, “and I like little
boys, too.” He was about to say more when suddenly the door opened, and
an attendant rushed in and kneeling before the throne, said,
“Your Majesty, the Duke approaches the city!”
“At last!” said the King, with a smile. “Let every hour take his post
then, and be ready.”
It was perfectly evident that precious moments were never allowed to be
wasted at the royal court. There was no discussing the startling news,
no waiting, and planning, and suggesting, and giving and taking of
orders; nothing but an immediate obedience to the King’s wish. No one
asked any questions, no one hesitated, but every hour-imp in the room
filed through the doorway, and even the little jiffy pages marched out,
leaving the mighty King all alone, save for the presence of the little
boy. As the little fellow watched the crowd of subjects surging through
the door to take their allotted places in defence of the Royal Palace,
he noticed his three friends among them. His first thought was to run
after them, but something made him feel as if he must wait in the throne
room. He saw the genial host, of whom he had grown so fond, passing out,
followed by little Mr. Three O’clock, who in turn, was followed by the
Continental Imp, who had drawn his Continental sword, and was talking in
a very animated way to several hours who were clustering about him as he
stalked through the door. They seemed to be all listening to the
Continental Imp with the greatest attention, and the last word the
little boy heard as the door closed was the full word “_Whopper_,” and
he knew that his little friend was telling his new acquaintances the
dreadful story about George Washington.
When they were all gone, the little boy glanced in the direction of the
throne, and saw that His Majesty was getting ready to leave the room
himself. The little fellow did not know what he had better do. He had
remained, hoping to speak privately with the mighty King of kings, but
now that the opportunity was at hand, he was afraid. He looked toward
the door, then toward the throne, and then toward the door again, and
then toward the imperial scythe, which was now hanging on the wall, as
if he feared that the King might chop his head off with it if he dared
to speak uninvited in the royal presence. Then he remembered how the
King had said that he was not accustomed to waiting for anything, and he
decided that if he were going to speak at all he had better do it at
once. So he approached very quietly, and as he did so, he noticed that
His Majesty was smiling and settling down in his great chair as though
willing to listen. There was a long lock of white hair hanging down over
the King’s forehead which interested the little boy a great deal.
“I wonder if that can be his forelock which people are always taking him
by—if I thought it would be all right I would pull it, for there is no
use of standing here like this and doing nothing.” So after hesitating a
little he approached very respectfully and gave old Father Time’s
forelock a good pull. The mighty monarch started and the little boy was
very much frightened at what he had done, until Father Time said good
naturedly, “Don’t be afraid, little man, that is what it is for, to be
sure—I keep it there to encourage promptness, you know. Now what can I
do for you, little man? Take a seat down there on that step and let me
hear what you have to say, for soon I shall be passing—in fact I’m
passing now, so be quick.”
The little boy lost no time, but began in a very low and respectful
tone:
“May I say a word to you,
Father Time?
Just a little word or two,
Father Time?
While you’re sitting all alone,
May I climb up on your throne,
Just as if I were your own,
Father Time?
“I have often heard it told,
Father Time,
That you’re very, very old,
Father Time;
Is it true, what people say,
That the world might pass away,
But that you would always stay,
Father Time?
“That you always travel fast,
Father Time,
That you’re sure to win at last,
Father Time,
That you sometimes will retreat,
When a sturdy foe you meet,
But have never known defeat,
Father Time?
“All about throughout your land,
Father Time,
There are foes on every hand,
Father Time,
And the Duke, with rank and file,
Is, perhaps, within a mile,
Yet you only sit and smile,
Father Time.
“Oh, my mother knows you well,
Father Time,
For I heard my father tell,
Father Time,
When her birthday did occur,
How polite and good you were,
In the way you treated her,
Father Time.
“And he says that people do,
Father Time,
Tell some whoppers about you,
Father Time,
And he says that you’re a foe
To _some_ people that you know—
Do you treat _all_ ladies so,
Father Time?
“Do you hear that dreadful roar,
Father Time?
It is almost at the door,
Father Time!
Can you turn the foe away?
You are laughing—won’t you say,
Do you think we’ll win the day,
Father Time?