Along the road I jogged and never dusted my shoes, and all the time the
pleasant sun shone and never burned my back, and the little white clouds
floated across the blue sky and never let fall a drop of rain to wet my
jacket. And by and by I came to a steep hill.
I climbed the hill, though I had more than one tumble in doing it, and
there, on the tip top, I found a house as old as the world itself.
That was where Father Time lived; and who should sit in the sun at the
door, spinning away for dear life, but Time’s Grandmother herself; and
if you would like to know how old she is you will have to climb to the
top of the church steeple and ask the wind as he sits upon the
weather-cock, humming the tune of Over-yonder song to himself.
“Good-morning,” says Time’s Grandmother to me.
“Good-morning,” says I to her.
“And what do you seek here?” says she to me.
“I come to look for odds and ends,” says I to her.
“Very well,” says she; “just climb the stairs to the garret, and there
you will find more than ten men can think about.”
“Thank you,” says I, and up the stairs I went. There I found all manner
of queer forgotten things which had been laid away, nobody but Time and
his Grandmother could tell where.
Over in the corner was a great, tall clock, that had stood there
silently with never a tick or a ting since men began to grow too wise
for toys and trinkets.