through the tall grass amid which the Army of Procrastination was
gathered. He marched boldly past hammocks and steamer chairs, from which
the Hour-imps stared at him, until he reached the beautiful,
soft-cushioned Morris chair in which the mighty Duke was reclining. The
renowned leader of the Army of Procrastination had on a spotless
nightcap, and carried a polished, brass warming-pan in his belt. His
feet were raised, in order that he might recline with the greater
comfort, and rested upon an hour-glass which had no sand in it. He was,
perhaps, a trifle larger than the hours who made up his loyal following,
but otherwise he was a perfect Hour-imp in appearance, with a face like
the face of a clock, his two little twinkling eyes representing the two
holes in which the key is placed to wind the clock.
“How do you do?” said the little boy.
“I’m very well, thank you,” said the Duke of Procrastination.
“I suppose you wonder who I am,” said the little boy.
“I haven’t had time to wonder,” drawled the Duke. “Could you wait a
little?”
“Certainly,” said the little boy, “but I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Not at all,” replied the Duke. “I’m in no hurry. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said the little boy. “I _am_ just a little tired from
walking through the long grass.”
“Yes,” said the Duke, smiling. “We always let the grass grow under our
feet, you know. Now, I believe I am beginning to wonder just a little
who you are—suppose you tell me. Or would you rather wait until later?”
By this time a number of curious imps had left their resting places and
came yawning and straggling toward the Duke’s chair for a better
inspection of the strange visitor. Some of them sat down in the long
grass, others leaned against trees, and all listened, as the little
fellow said,
“I am a little boy from the World—from Tickerleen, and I’d like to know
when you’re coming to attack the city, if you wouldn’t mind telling me.”
“You represent one of the Tickerleen papers, I suppose,” said the Duke,
eying him critically.
“No, I don’t; I’m just visiting Tickerleen from the World, if you must
know; and His Majesty sent me here to find out what you are going to do.
I hope you are not displeased. You know, Father Time is fond of little
boys.”
“Oh, yes, but he’ll go back on you some day—when you need him most. He
never thinks of any one but himself,” replied the Duke. “But I’m not
displeased with _you_; oh, dear, no, not at all; you’re welcome.”
“Well, then,” said the little fellow, “would you mind telling me—”
“No, not to-day,” said the duke. “To-morrow morning, if all goes well, I
will issue a statement, and you are welcome to stay here and make
yourself at home until then.”
There was nothing for the little boy to do but to wait, for he saw that
the Duke was inflexible. So he spent the rest of the day chatting
pleasantly with the Duke’s hours, and asking them what they had seen in
the World. Nearly every one of them said that nothing whatever of
interest had happened during his time of duty in the World. A good many
of them came from the Dark Ages when nothing had taken place to amount
to anything, anyway. Altogether, they were an uninteresting and tedious
set compared with the hours of Minutel, and the little boy was very glad
when the next day came and he was told that the Duke was about to
deliver his proclamation before the entire army. It was quite late in
the afternoon when the proclamation was actually read by the Duke, for
he had put off the reading eleven times during the day. At last, he
appeared before his assembled troops, and the little boy, who had
secured a very good position in front, listened with great attention to
the proclamation, which was as follows:
“I really don’t see the occasion
For suddenly starting away;
A thing like a city’s invasion
Will certainly keep for a day.
“This life in the woods is delicious,
And surely it’s none of _our_ fault
That the weather is hardly propitious
For making a sudden assault.
“Then what is the need of advancing,
With heavens beclouded and drear?
Our camp is secure and entrancing—
We’ll wait till the weather is clear.”
“_Then let us not fidget and flurry,
Nor think of the future and worry,_
_And let us not be in a hurry,
But wait till the weather is clear!_”
[Illustration: A cloaked and hooded figure with a long mustache standing
against a tree, holding and reading a large scroll labeled
"Proclamation."]
The last words which the Duke uttered before he sat down were the words,
“We’ll wait till the weather is clear,” the remainder being a response
from his trusty followers who always cheered him and nodded approvingly
when he spoke, frequently to the extent of voicing their sentiments
whenever the Duke paused for a moment.
[Illustration: The Reason Why.]
[Illustration: An elderly, bearded man lying down and resting among tall
grass and weeds.]
THE REASON WHY
When the reading of the proclamation was finished, the hours betook
themselves to their various resting places, where they gathered in
little groups to talk over the proclamation and to praise the wisdom and
thoughtfulness of the great Duke. But the little boy was very much
disappointed, and bewildered withal, for it had seemed to him that the
weather was almost ideal.
“I think I had better stay,” he said to himself, “for a day or two, at
least, and see what they will do.” So he busied himself in talking with
the various hours and in trying to find an hour who had seen some great
historical event, but the only one he met who was at all interesting was
a drowsy looking imp who said he had seen Rip Van Winkle go to sleep—or
some one that looked very much like Rip Van Winkle, at any rate.
One day went by—two days went by—three days went by—but the army did not
move. Finally at the end of seven days, it was rumored about that the
Duke intended to deliver another and very important proclamation on the
following day. There was a great deal of whispering among the hours who
were in close touch with the Duke, and the little boy noticed that many
of the imps were getting their belongings together as if preparing to
start away. No one seemed to know what the proclamation was going to be,
but there was a general expectation that it would be in connection with
some important move. When the next day came, the entire army, including
the little boy, gathered in the usual place to hear the Duke, but the
renowned head of the army did not appear. The next day at the same time
they assembled again, and this time it was given out that the Duke was
very sorry but that the importance of what he had to say made it
necessary for him to give more time to its preparation. The troops were
ordered to make ready to start at two or three hours’ notice and to
assemble the following morning to hear the proclamation. The little boy
began to feel very nervous, for he knew, of course, that they were going
to march against the King at last, and he did not know whether he ought
to hasten at once to Tickerleen or to wait for the proclamation and make
sure of his information. He decided that he would wait.
On the following morning there was great excitement in the camp. Every
imp which came to join the throng that waited outside the Duke’s
headquarters was armed with a warming-pan and seemed ready to start
right away. And so the crowd increased and waited for the mighty Duke
Procrastinate to appear. The little boy was in a fever of excitement.
Finally, after much waiting, the great leader, with his warming-pan
highly polished and his nightcap freshly laundered and highly starched,
appeared upon the platform amid deafening cheers. He had a gallant,
soldierly air about him as he glanced around at his faithful followers,
as if he had accomplished wonderful deeds and thought the applause was
no more than his due. The little boy was so nervous as he stood waiting
that he could hardly keep still. He thought it a little strange that the
Duke should be willing for him to hear the proclamation and then go and
tell the King. “But I suppose,” said he to himself, “that he doesn’t
really believe I’ll get there first.”
When the shouting began to die away, the renowned Duke raised his hand
to command perfect silence, and stepping forward with a martial air, he
said impressively,
“My brave and loyal followers,
“When coming from my castle grand,
And from my downy bed,
You will recall, my noble band,
I most distinctly said
“That when the fighting should be o’er,
Unquestionably, I,
In case we failed to win the war,
Would know the reason why!”
“_As nearly as we recollect,
Your memory is quite correct,
And then you heard us cry,_
“_As, doubtless, noble lord, you know,
That if we fled before the foe,
We’d know the reason why!_”
“Yes, yes, I heard you all comply
That if our course was checked
We’d surely know the reason why—
Or words to that effect.
“The din of war has now been stilled,
And, let us hope, for good.
The prophesy has been fulfilled,
Just as I said it would.
“We cannot say we’ve won the day
Nor conquered any hours,
Yet let the bands of music play,
For victory is ours!”
“_We’ll let them play, of course, my lord,
And cheer them as with one accord,
With all our feeble powers,_
“_But hope we do not make too free
In stating that we cannot see
How victory is ours!_”
“To that remark, my loyal host,
I’ll cheerfully reply,
Though martial spoils we cannot boast,
_We know the reason why_!”
“_And surely, all we hours ought
To take some comfort in the thought,
As years go fleeting by,_
“_And justly claim for evermore,
We failed in taking Tockerlore,
Because we didn’t try!_”
“And is it not a triumph grand,
And worthy of applause,
When we have failed to take a land,
We really know the cause?
“So let us yawn our loud hurrahs,
Until the forest rings,
With gapes of joy and long huzzas,
And several other things!”
“_Indeed, my lord, we’ll do our best
To gape and yawn, as you suggest.
And sing huzzas and things,_
“_Although our memories will not let
A single one of us forget,
The land is still the King’s!_
“_For though, in all our recent wars,
We finish up with wild applause,
To strangers it is odd because,
The land is still the King’s!_”
[Illustration: A round-faced character with a mustache and an alarm
clock bell resting on top of their head.]
[Illustration: The Clock Strikes Eight.]
THE CLOCK STRIKES EIGHT
“What are they going to do?” asked the little boy, in great surprise, of
the imp who stood nearest him.
“Do!” answered the imp. “Why, we’re going home to Snooze! Hurrah!
Hurrah!”
“Hurrah! Hu-u-rra-ah!” yawned several other imps, throwing their
night-caps into the air. “The King has the land, but we have the reason!
Hurrah! Hurrah!” And in less than a minute the camp was all bustle and
confusion.
But the little boy did not wait. He had seen enough precious moments
wasted already, and he stalked out of the camp and bent his steps toward
the capital city. He was old enough to know that _people_ who put things
off from day to day end by never doing them at all. “And I suppose,”
thought he, “that it is the same with imps that have once been hours in
the world; it is the same everywhere.” He was beginning to see now how
foolish it is to endeavour to get the best of old Father Time, and he
wondered as he went along why so many sensible people really try to do
it.
“I shall tell the King,” said he, as he trudged along the path where the
poor little Wollerperleck had once wandered in search of himself, “I
shall tell the King that those who are always putting things off and
waiting, who are always _going_ to do things, really never do them at
all; that is what I shall tell him! Then I will hunt up my three
friends, and as soon as they have been mustered out, I will go back with
them to Minutel and then start home on the first swinger.”
So he trudged boldly on, like the sturdy little fellow that he was,
until he saw far ahead of him the tower on the outskirts of the city
where he had paused to rest. On he trudged, keeping his big eyes on the
tower as he came closer and closer to it, and hurrying as fast as he
could.
“There are probably soldiers in it,” said he, “and I will stop there and
tell them the news, and then go straight on to Tickerleen.”
On, on he trudged, until finally he stopped short and looked quite
perplexed.
“It is a very funny thing,” said he, “that the nearer I get to that
tower, the smaller it grows; ’most always it’s the other way. Yet I can
see it plainer all the time. I can see something moving in that round,
white window up at the top. I guess it’s the soldiers.”
So he marched straight along until finally he was very near to the
tower.
“I didn’t notice it before,” he thought, “but it’s just like all the
other buildings and houses here. It’s in the shape of a clock, I do
believe!”
[Illustration: A four-stage illustration showing the progressive
transformation of a stone tower into a grandfather clock.]
He stalked boldly toward the door and tripped over something and gave it
a kick in his anxiety to enter and see the soldiers. It went tumbling
away to one side of him and left his path clear. Then going straight up
to the door, he began to knock and, receiving no answer, he banged and
kicked on the space beside it, calling,
“Come down! Come down! I have wonderful news! I’m going to Tickerleen.
Stop drilling up there and come down! The old Duke has gone back to
Snooze—he made a speech. Come down! I’m going to tell the King. I can’t
wait here!”
He was still calling and trying to get in, when suddenly he heard a door
open. But it was not the one which he was trying to enter.
“Gracious me!” said a pleasant and familiar voice. “What are you trying
to do to the clock, little man? Stop the pendulum?”
The little boy rubbed his sleepy eyes; then he looked around, and stood
staring.
For it was only the governess!
[Illustration: A woman leaning forward with her right arm extended
outward and her left arm back against a wall.]
And there was the clock in his father’s hall,
With its swinger of shiny brass,
Still swinging steadily to and fro
In its little cell of glass,
And everything just as it was before,
When he watched the hours pass.
And the carved design on his father’s chair,
In which he was wont to rock,
Smiled wide at the little waking boy
And gave him a sudden shock,
For it seemed to be in the very shape
Of Mr. Three O’clock!
[Illustration: A young child kneeling on the floor, holding onto the
edge of a piece of furniture while looking up and ahead.]
And the fitful blaze, as it flickered low
From the logs in the big hall grate,
Was the only light within the hall,
So he knew it must be late—
When, hark! And his wandering eyes looked up,
For the clock was striking eight!
_Seated in our easy chair,
When the rainy day is o’er,
See, the sunset’s lurid glare
Says to-morrow will be fair;
That’s an end of fairy lore._
_Charmless, then, each mystic tale;
How they seem to fade away!
How each whimsical detail,
Sadly rivalled, seems to pale
In the sunlight’s magic ray!_
_Go, and seek out pleasures new,
Think no more of nonsense rhyme,
And before my dreaming’s through
I will ask for all of you
Blessings from old Father Time._
[Illustration: Good Bye THE END]
[Illustration: A large clock face on a green background with Roman
numerals, featuring characters interacting with the hands and rim.]
[Illustration: A continuation of the clock face illustration on a green
background, showing various characters interacting with the Roman
numerals I through VI and the clock]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed line-through font in +plus signs+.
● Enclosed bold or blackletter font in =equals=.