Father Time,
Keep the Duke from getting in,
Father Time,
If I help to keep you free,
Will Your Majesty agree
To be always good to me,
Father Time?”
The King, who had listened with great good humour as the little fellow
sat on the top step of the royal throne, bent down until his aged face
was very near to that of the little boy, and said, slowly,
“I am not troubled in the least
About what I have learned;
In fact, I’m rather glad of it,
As far as that’s concerned.
“I’ve seen this Duke prepare for war,
Then talk, and wait, and linger,
So when he says he’ll vanquish _me_,
_I_ simply snap my finger!
“I know the threats against my life
This foolish Duke has made,
And all I have to say is this,—
I’m not a bit afraid.
“I am not much at making boasts,
But I should like to state
Among my victims I include
The greatest of the great.
[Illustration: A profile illustration of a person with curly hair
wearing an elaborate Egyptian-style headdress adorned with a small bird
figure on the front band and long draped hair or cloth.]
“Napoleon fought in many wars,
And seldom failed to win;
He conquered everything, and then,
_I_ calmly conquered _him_.
“And Cleopatra, tall and fair,
And beautiful to see;
She captured every one she saw—
That is, excepting me.
[Illustration: A profile illustration of an elderly, bearded man with a
small object resting on top of his head.]
“‘You think,’ said I, ‘to capture _me_,
But that you’ll never do;
Instead, oh Cleopat,’ said I,
‘I think _I’ll_ capture _you_.’
“She smiled, and said, ‘Good Father Time,
Just kindly show me how.’
_I_ smiled, and stepping up, I placed
A wrinkle on her brow.
“I am not much at making boasts,
But I should like to state
Among my conquests I can name
The greatest of the great.
“I am not full of pompous claims,
But modest, calm and quiet;
And that’s the reason when I win,
They usually deny it.
“So let the old Duke make his threats;
His chance is very slim,
For I, who conquered Greece and Rome,
Am not afraid of him.
“I am not much at making boasts,
As I’ve already said,
And yet throughout your world, I’m held
In universal dread.”
“I guess that is because you conquer so many people in my world, isn’t
it?” asked the little boy, timidly.
“I am always very good to little boys,” said the great monarch, “and to
many grown people too, but it always makes me angry to be snubbed, as I
am in your world, no matter where I go. People deny my presence right to
my face; they tell their friends they have never seen me when they’ve
known me well for years. They even get wigs and things to try to
disguise themselves so that I will not know them, and I a king!”
[Illustration: A three-part illustration showing a woman]
“I am very sorry,” said the little boy, “that people in my world are so
impolite. I should think they would like you.”
“Well, they generally do for a while when they’re young, but it doesn’t
last long; they just make a convenience of me, you know,—or try to. I
once knew a young man who wanted me to help him on to twenty-one years
so that he could have a fortune, and my, wasn’t he pleasant! Invited me
right in and got suggestions from me, urged me on, told me I wasn’t fast
enough for him, grew whiskers,—bah! Then, when he got to be a fine,
elderly gentleman, I called on him one day to talk about old times, and
what did he do?”
“I don’t know—I really don’t.”
“Why, he didn’t even recognize me—or said he didn’t! Wouldn’t have
anything to do with me!”
“What did you do with him?” asked the little boy.
“Do with him? I just gave him the gout to remember me by, ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha! Look out, don’t get too near that scythe!”
“And girls?” said the little boy.
“Yes, it’s the same with girls, only worse; all like me and want me to
help them get to be young ladies; then begin to snub me!”
“I am really very sorry,” said the little boy, “that you are not
popular.”
“Popular! Well, I should think I’m not! But I don’t care!”
“You don’t think that _I_ am so unkind, do you?” said the little boy,
anxiously.
“No, indeed I don’t,” answered the King, in a kindly manner. “And I
suppose you’re going to stay a while with us, eh?”
“I must go home sometime,” said the little boy.
“That’s too bad, for I should like to have you stay right here, but
you’ll stay a while at least, and give me an opportunity to show you
that in Tockerlore we know how to be polite and hospitable. Now, I’ll
tell you what I’m going to do; I’m going to give you a position—just a
temporary position, you know—of high honour. How would you like that?”
“I _would_ like it,” said the little boy.
“Very well, then, I want you to go out and visit the old Duke
Procrastinate’s camp as a spy, and find out just what he really means to
do, and come back and tell me. These newspapers—well, you can’t believe
a word they say. The _Mainspring_ says one thing, and the _Alarm_ rings
with another, and so on. Now, I want to know whether the old Duke really
intends to do anything or not, and I want you to go and find out, and
come back here and let me know; do you understand?”
The little boy knew perfectly well that there was no time to stand and
talk about it, that the King was in a hurry, and that he would have to
make up his mind at once. Then, besides, he remembered how kind the
great King had been to his mother, and how badly treated the kindly
monarch was whenever he came to the world. He felt very much ashamed of
the people who had treated old Father Time with such neglect and
disdain, and he felt that now was his chance to help repay the good King
for all his kindness, especially to his own dear mother. So he answered
that he would go to the Duke’s camp, and the King told him to be off. He
meant to ask for a few directions, but seeing that His Majesty was in a
great hurry, he decided to find his way to the old Duke’s camp as best
he could.
As he passed out through the big circular doorway, he paused a moment,
wondering where his three friends were, when suddenly an imp came
running up to him, and said, all out of breath,
“Are you the little boy from the World?”
“Yes,” said the little fellow. “What is it?”
[Illustration: A clock-faced delivery character wearing a cap and
uniform with a "SPECIAL DELIVERY" badge, holding out an envelope.]
“Here is a letter for you,” said the imp, “which came in care of the
Royal Palace: it comes from Minutel.”
The little boy thanked him, and taking the letter, opened it, and read,
“_Dear little boy from the World_:
“We hope you will excuse us for the delay, but in picking up the
words to the verse, some were lost and very hard to find, as they had
been kicked all about. This is the way they are supposed to go.
“We hope you are enjoying yourself at Tickerleen. If your friend, Mr.
Three O’clock, is with you, please tell him that there is a Mr. Nine
O’clock here who says that school is a very fine place, particularly
for little boys, and he wants to fight a duel with your friend. Here
are the words properly arranged,
“Every second week,
In the days antique,
They would hold a public flogging on the chance,
chance,
chance,
“Of preventing crime,
By a stroke in time,
And a timely little spanking in advance,
vance,
vance.”
“Well,” said the little boy, as he put the letter from Minutel into his
pocket, and hurried out of the palace, “I am glad they got the verse
picked up and put together at last, though I don’t just like what it
says. I shouldn’t like to have lived in those days; it’s bad enough to
spank at all without doing it beforehand! But it was very kind of the
old-fashioned hours to pick up the verse and send it to me.”
He was pausing on the palace steps trying to locate the gate through
which he and his friends had entered, intending to go out the same way
and hasten to the old Duke’s camp.
But suddenly he noticed that the road did not lie as it had lain when he
entered. It was now all wound up tight like a mainspring, with a little
minute hand fence separating the coils from each other.
“I suppose I will have to begin right here at the palace,” said he, “and
go round and round and round and round until I come to the gate, and
there may be miles and miles before I get to it! It’s too bad, but
there’s no help for it. I suppose they’ve been winding up the city on
account of the war.”
[Illustration: A small child wearing a furry hat with an hourglass
insignia, sitting on a swing suspended between two large, arrow-topped
clock hands connected by chains.]
This, indeed, seemed the only way to get out except to take a short cut
by climbing over no end of fences and running the risk of being stopped
by the jiffies who were sitting here and there on the minute hand posts
or swinging on the chain. So he stepped into the road and began to run
as fast as he could, inscribing a wider circle each time he went around,
and getting farther and farther away from the palace in the centre all
the time.
“Oh, dear, how dizzy I am getting!” said he, after he had run around
several times. “I can hardly see where I am going. I feel like a top!”
“How do you know how a top feels?” called one of the jiffies, as he
passed. “Step lively, please, and don’t talk so much!”
After a time, the little fellow, quite giddy, began to slacken his speed
a little, for he felt that he could not go on at that rate.
“Step lively, please!” said a jiffy, as the little boy went past, and
the poor little fellow started in again with all his might and main.
“If they wind this road up any tighter,” said he, breathing heavily,
“I’ll be squeezed to death, and—”
“Step lively, please!” called a jiffy, and the poor little fellow,
panting for breath, started around again at full speed.
“I simply can’t keep this up,” he said to himself, finally. “I shall
have to go slower; I don’t believe I’m half way to the gate, and I think
there must be enough of this road—”
“Step lively, please!” called another jiffy, and the poor little fellow
started and hastened on. He was now so dizzy that he could hardly stand
up, but he ran along and round and round and round as fast as his little
legs would carry him. As he looked across the road, he could see the
large gate not far away, but this made no difference, for there were, it
seemed to him, miles and miles of road wound up ahead of him. On, on, on
he ran until finally, quite exhausted, he went reeling headlong into one
of the minute hand posts.
“Step lively, please,” said a jiffy who was sitting on the adjoining
post. “Father Time permits no delays, you know; come, step lively!”
The little boy dared not disobey, so he let go of the post, and went
staggering round again, though he scarcely knew what he was doing.
“Step lively, please,” he heard every now and then, though each time he
heard it, it was less distinct. First it sounded like, “Ste—li—e-ease;”
then it sounded like, “Ste—li-e-e-e-e-e—” until finally he ceased to
hear it altogether. And still he went spinning round and round and
round. He was going so fast now and knew so little about what he was
doing that he could not have stopped even if he had dared. On, on, on,
and round, round, round, he went until at length he came reeling and
staggering through the great gateway.
“Here’s your chance!” called a quick, high-pitched voice, as he reached
wildly for one of the gate posts, caught it and went wheeling about. The
poor little fellow could only stare for a moment, and then say,
“Wha-a-a-a-t?”
[Illustration: An hourglass-shaped figure with jointed stick limbs, a
rounded face wearing a pointed hat and collar, standing with hands on
hips.]
“I say, here’s your chance,” said a little, wiry man about a foot high
who had evidently been standing in the road at the entrance to the royal
park.
“Chance to what?” inquired the little boy, when he was able to speak.
“What’s the matter with you?” piped the small man, indignantly. “Here’s
your chance, I say.”
“_My_ chance?” said the little boy.
“Well, it isn’t _mine_,” said the little man, with rather a sarcastic
air. “If it isn’t yours I don’t know how you came by it; you certainly
dropped it.”
“_I_ dropped it?” said the little boy.
“Yes, you dropped it; what’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing, only how could I drop a chance?”
“Did you never drop a hint?”
“Yes,” said the little boy, “but—”
“No ‘but’ about it; it’s a question of telling the truth, that’s all,”
said the little man, in a rage. “I don’t care what you drop!”
“Suppose we drop the subject,” said the little boy, “but wait, I beg
your pardon!” The little fellow, suddenly recollecting, began to fumble
in his pocket, and pulling out the paper from Minutel, began to study it
carefully.
“Yes,” said he, finally, “you are right; I have lost my last ‘chance’; I
had three, and I have lost my ‘antique’ and I have lost a ‘week.’”
“You had better not let _that_ get to the king! Weeks are precious
things here.”
“And I’ve lost a ‘second’; I’ve lost the ‘second week,’” said the little
boy. “There’s not much left; I’ve lost ‘time,’ and let me see—yes, I
ought to have a ‘flogging.’”
“Perhaps you will be able to find your treasures,” said the little man,
“if you will go back over the road again; your antique and your week and
your second; as for the flogging, I suppose I _could_ accommodate you
with that if you really feel so—”
“You needn’t trouble,” said the little boy. “What is your name?”
“Say it.”
“I don’t know it,” said the little boy.
“Every one knows it,” roared the little man.
“_I_ am not every one,” shouted the little boy.
“I will tell you before you can say it,” yelled the little man.
“I suppose you will,” said the little boy, “for I don’t know it.”
“You must learn to say it quick,” said the little man. “It’s Jack
Robinson; you’ve heard of me, I guess. People do things faster than they
can say my name, you know.”
The little boy studied him very carefully, and then said,
“Are you any relation to Boo?”
“He’s my brother. Listen.
“No matter what the thing may be
That you have planned to do,
You’ll do it quicker if you say,
‘Jack Robinson’—or ‘Boo’!”
“I’ve often heard of doing things quicker than one can say Boo,” said
the little boy, “and I think I’ve heard of you too,—but more especially
of your brother.”
“He’s home—sick,” said the little man, who talked very rapidly.
“Oh, that is too bad! What is the matter with him?”
“He was struck—struck with a thought. He was coming through Calendar Row
and it struck him in the brain. He fainted before he could say his own
name.”
“He is not in any danger, is he?” asked the little boy, seriously.
“Well, that’s hard to say,” answered Jack Robinson. “They can’t seem to
get the thought out of his brain; it stayed there, you know. And then
he’s so impatient—expects to get well quicker than he can say his name.”
The little boy took several stimulating whiffs of the magical air, for
he was becoming a little puzzled.
“Do either you or your brother know the famous Duke Procrastinate?”
“No, he has no use for us—says our names are too short, especially my
brother’s; he never used our names. I’m on my way to the palace now to
see if the King wants me. He might want to go after the Duke quicker
than he could say ‘Jack Robinson,’ you know, and he’d like to have me on
the spot. I always encourage haste, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”
“I guess your brother is better for making people act quickly than you
are; he has such a _very_ short name,” said the little boy.
[Illustration: A clock-faced figure enclosed within a pea pod, equipped
with arms and legs in shoes, walking while leaning back.]
“Yes, he had it made to order—it just suits the purpose. He wanted one
that could be said quickly, and that had a nice, soft sound. So he
offered a prize for the best suggestion and the Duke of Limabean sent in
‘Boo,’ and my brother accepted it before he could say it; he didn’t know
what it was until afterwards.”
“Is the Duke of Limabean an hour?”
“Well, not exactly, he’s an association of hours, you know; he’s a day.
All the hours from one day got together and said, ‘Let’s organize and
_be_ somebody.’ So they did, and he’s the result.”
“Why do they call him the Duke of Limabean?”
“Because he stalks about so. Did you see the Queen?”
“No,” said the little boy.
“She’s ill, you know,” ran on the little man.
“Seriously ill?”
“Well, rather—yes. She was standing on ceremonies, fell off, and broke
her word and one of her resolutions.”
“Her word?” said the little boy. “Could one do that by falling?”
“Well, that would depend on how one fell and what one fell into.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said the little boy, thoughtfully. “What did the
queen fall into?”
“She fell into a deep sleep; a hundred yards deep, I think it was, and
when they fished her out, her word was broken. They said she would have
fallen right to the bottom, but she reached a conclusion about half way
down and clung to it. When they got her out, she let the resolution go,
but kept her broken word.”
“Kept her word after she broke it? Wasn’t it droll about her breaking
her word that way—just a little odd?”
“No,” said the little man, rapidly. “Didn’t _you_ drop some words? Of
course, you did, and some of them may be broken. I must be off now.
Good-bye.” And he was gone before the little boy could say Jack
Robinson.
“Do you know who he reminds me of?” said the little boy to himself. He
asked the question several times without receiving an answer (he was
still a little dizzy from his run), and then realizing how impolite it
was not to reply to a perfectly civil question, he said,
“No, who does he remind you of?”
“Why, he reminds me just a little of Mr. Three O’clock,” he answered.
And then recollecting his errand he walked quickly out of the great
gateway of the Palace Park, saying Jack Robinson and Boo as he ran along
in order to encourage himself to speed as rapidly as possible.
[Illustration: _The Mighty Duke Procrastinate._]
[Illustration: A distant panoramic view of a city or townscape featuring
a prominent tall clock tower, domed buildings, and various architectural
structures surrounded by trees and a bridge.]
THE MIGHTY DUKE PROCRASTINATE
Through the beautiful, yellow, custard streets,
On the edge of the pie-crusts, brown,
The little boy made his lonely way
From the palace of the Crown,
Till he came to a tower, tall and grim
On the outskirts of the town.
And he sat on a rock to rest a while,
And he noted the tower’s height,
When, near its summit, he plainly saw
A spot that was large and bright,
Like a target fixed to the shiny wall,
Or a window, round and white.
“Now I wonder what,” said the little boy,
“This curious tower is for;
It must be used to protect the town
In case of a sudden war,
And perhaps it is filled with soldier hours
Of the Land of Tockerlore.
“Yes, I know it is, for I hear a sound
From that towering wall so thick,
As if they were drilling in it now,
And all of them marching quick;
Yes, I’m sure that it’s full of soldier hours,
For _now_ I can hear them tick!”
And his eyes turned back to the threatened town,
Which he’d promised to help defend,
And he said, “I really, truly wish
That this war was at an end,
For I’m very lonely in Tockerlore
And I haven’t got a friend.
“I was fond of that Continental Imp,
Except for his terrible boast,
And I liked that little Three O’clock,
But the one I liked the most—
And I only wish I could see him now—
Was my special friend, the host.”
But he bent his steps o’er the winding road
And farther and farther away
Along the path of the Wollerp’s neck,
Till he saw with great dismay
The actual camp of the dawdling Duke
And his indolent array.
It was pitched in a most delightful nook,
As the little boy might have guessed,
With modern improvements all about,
And you simply can’t suggest
A convenience the Duke had not secured,
Conducive to perfect rest!
[Illustration: A figure resting against the base of a tall flagpole,
with a banner flying at the top that reads "More Haste, Less Speed."]
For beneath the spreading and graceful trees
He could see, through the soft, gray air,
A number of rockers strewn about
With a hammock here and there,
And the indolent Duke, himself, reposed
In a gorgeous Morris chair.
And up from the midst of this pleasing camp
Rose a pole with a hanging rag
On which were the words, “More haste—less speed;”
’Twas Procrastination’s flag;
And it gave no heed to the cheering breeze,
But could only droop and sag.
And the leaves, they rustled; the boughs, they bent,
And the breezes, they blew away,
But the drooping rag upon its pole
Hung lifeless, as if to say,
“Oh, breezes, don’t bother me, please, just now,
I’ll see you some other day.”
And the miserable hours from sleepy Snooze,—
All fallen from grace, you know,—
Who had played their parts within the world
(In clocks that were always slow),
Who had lost their sense of self-respect
A number of years ago,
[Illustration: An outdoor resting scene featuring several figures
relaxing: one lies in a bed on the left, another rests in a hammock
strung between trees, a third reclines on a chaise lounge next to a
small table with a teapot, and a fourth lies on the ground drinking
directly from a spigot attached to a "LEMONADE TANK," next to a building
labeled "ICE CREAM."]
Were lying about in the old Duke’s camp
Quite as pleasantly as you please,
And some of them lolled in steamer chairs,
And all of them took their ease
(It was probably all they meant to take,
Excepting the cooling breeze).
And the mighty Duke in his Morris chair,
Was delivering quite a speech
To the faithful hours that moped about
(He was quite a hand to preach),
And the little boy heard these precepts, wise,
And he made a note of each:
“Do not march without a reason,
Decked in martial style,
Fight no battles out of season;
Wait a while!
“When they say the future’s coming
(Claimed, I think, by some),
Simply answer, gayly humming,
‘Let it come!’
“When you’re told the days are fleeting,
Don’t be indiscreet,
Simply say to such a greeting,
‘Let them fleet!’
“Let them call us idle traitors
From the town of Snooze,
Let them call us dawdlers, waiters,
If they choose.
“Do not heed their loud reviling,
Made in flippant style,
When they say we’re time-beguiling,
Simply smile.
“When they say we are not steady,
Ask us when we go,
Tell them, ‘When we’re good and ready,’
Then they’ll know.
“When they claim the King is waiting,
Tell us we are late,
Say that while we are debating,
He must wait.
“Let them say we are not zealous,
That delays are bad,
And no matter what they tell us,
Don’t be mad!”
The little boy had been standing behind a tree not far away from the
camp listening to these bits of advice. But suddenly realizing that, as
a representative of old Father Time, he should allow not a single
precious moment to escape, he advanced from his place of concealment and
walked toward the spot where the Duke and his army were resting.
“It is rather funny,” said he, as he walked along. “I don’t know just
what to do when I get there. They will see at once that I’m not an
Imp-hour and, of course, they’ll wonder who I am. I don’t just like to
tell them I’m a spy; it might annoy them. Perhaps they’ll hang me like
Nathan Hale; I wish I could meet the hour that saw them hang Nathan
Hale!”
By this time he had almost reached the camp. There was no fragrance in
the breeze now, for he was quite a distance from the city, and he began
to wonder a little whether the old Duke, himself, were some disreputable
hour with a questionable record. Things began to seem a little odd
again. “But I am glad,” thought he, “that Mr. Three O’clock is not here
to explain things, for he would only make them worse.”
[Illustration: Please take an order, if you want one. Don’t bother the
officers. ORDERS FOR SOLDIERS _The Duke Procrastinate._]
He was now close enough to see the Hour-imps very plainly, and he walked
bravely toward the camp resolved to get the information that Father Time
had sent him for and to carry it back to the King, even if he were
killed while at the Duke’s camp. Then he realized that he couldn’t
exactly do _that_. “But anyway,” thought he, “if they decide to kill me
they might not be in a hurry about it. They might put it off from day to
day and I could escape.”
[Illustration: A child sleeping peacefully beneath a tree next to a sign
that reads "On Duty," with an open box labeled "CANDY" and a bottle
labeled "Pare-goric" nearby.]