Chapter II: Part 2

So they both fell to and helped him undo the buttons, and then the host showed him to his room. He felt a little homesick as he curled himself up in the strange bed, and wished that he had his Teddy bear to talk with and tell things to. However, as he couldn’t do that, he did the next best thing, and talked to himself, which, as even grown up people know, is one of the greatest pleasures in the whole world.

“If that Imp were only fond of school and knew something about history; if he really cared for them, how nice it would be, for I suppose he’ll stay here all the rest of his life. I don’t suppose he ever had a governess to tell him things—it isn’t his fault. How many things Father Time must know! Just to think how that landlord saw the Declaration of Independence signed, maybe! I wonder if it was signed after lunch. I think the host’s badge said 4 P. M. Anyway, if he didn’t see it signed he saw some of the excitement after it was signed. Maybe he saw Benjamin Franklin. I wonder if he’ll tell about it while I’m asleep. I wonder what that place was where the young Imp had to go back; I suppose they all laughed at him when they saw him come walking in. It served him right; he was too sure. I wonder what that Nickub—that Nickuber—I wonder what that name was.” But while he tried to think of it he fell fast asleep.

When he awoke he knew it must be morning, for he heard voices in the yard beneath his window. There seemed to be several voices and all of them were very loud and angry in tone. Some were saying, “No, he didn’t!” Others were calling, “Yes, he did!” And still others were exclaiming, “Don’t you believe a word of it.” Then all the voices would be heard together in excited argument, and it sounded as if the owners of these voices might resort to blows at any minute if the matter under discussion were not settled very soon. Finally the little boy heard someone shout,

“Go on with what you were saying.”

“I intend to,” another voice answered.

“If it’s the truth, we want to hear it.”

“You’re going to hear it.”

“He’d better look out!”

“Who had?”

“You had.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Don’t you believe in free speech?”

“Not that kind.”

“Go on, tell the rest of it.”

“We’d like to see you do it!”

“You’ll _hear_ me do it.”

“He knows what he’s talking about.”

“He thinks he does, anyway.”

“Go on, tell it!”

“Where did I leave off—oh, I know—

“He did not always justify
The view that you have taken,
And when you say he couldn’t lie—
Why, simply, you’re mistaken.

“And now, in view of all this talk
I think it only proper
To say that on a certain day
I _heard_ him tell a whopper!”

“A _whopper_, did you really say?”

“We can’t believe it—name the day!”

“’Twas just before I came away,—
I _heard_ him tell a _whopper_!”

At this the little boy, who had risen and begun to dress, threw open the window and gazed on the assemblage below. On the fence sat his friend, Mr. Three O’clock, swinging his legs and laughing uproariously as if the disclosure which had just been made pleased him greatly. There were several little imps about the yard, all in colonial costume, some standing, others sitting, and in the centre stood the imp who had experienced such difficulty in telling his story. He had on a ragged Continental uniform, and his badge said “June 15, 1775. 2 P. M.” Altogether, he was very defiant looking and out of patience.

“Good morning,” said the little boy.

“How do you do,” said the Continental Imp.

“I am very well, thank you; what is the trouble?”

“No trouble at all; who are you?”

“I’m a little boy visiting Minutel. May I ask you what the quarrelling was about? Did you say someone told a whopper?”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“You ought not to say it unless you’re sure it’s true. May I ask who you said it about: who it was that told the whopper? It wasn’t my friend, was it?”

“No.”

“May I ask who it was?”

“You may; it was George Washington.”

The little boy started. “Oh, that is a dreadful thing to say about George Washington. I’m sure that George Washington never told a whopper; you know all the school books—”

“Now you see how much good the school books are!” said Mr. Three O’clock, from the fence. “Ha, ha, ha!”

The little boy gave an indignant look at his hilarious friend, for it was no laughing matter, and continued his conversation with the Continental Imp.

“How do you know he told a whopper?”

“I heard him.”

“With your own ears?”

“Yes, whose ears do you suppose I heard him with?”

The little boy felt to make sure his flower was safely fastened in his buttonhole, for he did not know what the conversation might lead to, and he wanted to be perfectly reasonable.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, “but are you sure it was a w-h-o-p-p-e-r?” He was gaping as he said this, and it stretched the word out a little.

“Positive,” said the Continental Imp.

“Perhaps it was a small whopper?”

“There is no such thing.”

“Or a middle-sized one?”

“No such thing.”

“Oh, I’m sure there must be some mistake, for I’m sure that a wh-a-a-a-aap-” and he gaped so that he couldn’t finish the word. “Just wait a minute,” said he, “and I’ll come down there.”

In less than a minute the little boy came out into the yard arranging the belt of his Russian suit.

“I have couldn’t all the didn’ts that I buttoned, but I didn’t the couldn’ts that I didn’t when I buttoned the didn’ts,” said he, “and I hope you will excuse me.”

“Go back to bed,” said Mr. Three O’clock, “you’re not awake yet.”

“I _am_ awake,” said the little boy.

“He said he couldn’t the didn’ts,” observed one imp.

“No, he didn’t, he said he didn’t the buttons that he couldn’t,” said another.

“He said he buttoned the couldn’ts when he didn’t,” called a third.

“I didn’t,” said the little boy, “how could I?”

“Well, how could you didn’t if you couldn’t?”

“He said he buttoned the didn’ts.”

“He didn’t.”

“He said he _couldn’t_ the didn’ts that he buttoned when he didn’t the buttons—what _did_ you say?”

“Now wait a minute,” said the little boy. “How easily you get into a quarrel! I will tell you just what I said. I said that I buttoned all the buttons that I _could_ button, but that I didn’t button the buttons that I couldn’t button. There!”

“Talk about whoppers!” said the Continental Imp. “Well, now what is it you want to know? Let’s get through with it.”

“I want,” said the little boy, “to know when George Washington told a whopper.”

“On the 15th of June, 1775, at 2 P. M., just after they made him commander of the army.”

“Would you mind telling me what the whopper was? You know all the stories say that George Washington couldn’t—”

“Oh, yes,” said the Continental Imp, smiling at Mr. Three O’clock, “we understand, of course, that George Washington couldn’t if he didn’t and that if he didn’t—”

“He didn’t,” shouted the little boy, stamping his foot. “What was the whopper?”

“He said, right in my hearing,” said the Continental Imp, “that he wasn’t fit for the exalted position. There!”

“Well?” said the little boy.

“Well, he _was_, that’s all,” replied the Continental Imp.

“You mean,” said the little boy, “that you think that was a whopper?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t true, was it?”

“N-no, perhaps not, but he—well, it wasn’t a whopper.”

“He said he wasn’t fit for the position when he _was_, and he said he couldn’t win the war, and he _did_.”

Here the Continental Imp looked toward Mr. Three O’clock, who was still sitting on the fence, and said,

“What do _you_ think about that?”

“Do I understand you to say that George Washington said he wouldn’t win the war?” asked Mr. Three O’clock.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I think that, as a gentleman, he should have kept his word.”

“That is perfectly ridiculous!” said the little boy. “If he hadn’t won the war there wouldn’t be any America, and if there wasn’t any America there wouldn’t be any Tockerlore, and where would you all be, I’d like to know?”

“You don’t think Tockerlore is in America, do you?” asked one.

“Where is it, then?”

“It’s right here where Father Time put it.”

“He didn’t,” said the little boy, whose patience was almost exhausted.

“He tried to button it here when he couldn’t, so he didn’t!” roared the Continental Imp.

“He couldn’t,” said the little boy, white with rage.

“Well, then, if he couldn’t, he probably didn’t!” yelled Mr. Three O’clock.

“He didn’t, he couldn’t!” screamed the little boy, quite beside himself. “And if I say he didn’t, he couldn’t, and don’t say that he couldn’t when he buttoned the couldn’ts to the didn’ts, if he didn’t the couldn’ts when the buttons didn’t—!!!”

“Come to breakfast!” called the genial host, standing in the doorway and smiling broadly at the little boy. So they all scampered in to the dining-room, where a large platter of delicate little second hands (done, of course, to a turn), with delicious eight day gravy, was awaiting them.

MR. THREE O’CLOCK’S AWFUL CONFESSION

And now could be heard in the village street
A monotonous calling sound,
And many a drowsy sluggard rose
From a slumber all profound;
’Twas the village crier of Minutel
On his early morning round.

“Be up and astir!” they could hear him cry,
As he paused at each door to knock,
And hearing no sound, would bang and call,
And angrily try each lock.
“Did ye sleep like this in ye olden time,
When ye lived inside the clock?”

For the old-fashioned hours in Minutel,
Regarding their duties as through,
Would frequently lie asleep all day,
At least, till their time was due;
For example, the “Twelves” would rise at noon,
But the “Twos” would sleep till two.

“You are up betimes,” said the genial host,
As he ladled the breakfast out,
“And to-day, I expect, you’ll see the town
By wandering all about.
Will you have your ticklets, my honoured guest,
With twinkling sauce, or without?

“These ticklets were made in Seventy-six,
They are nice as a second course.
Just hear the crier along the street;
He’s turning them out by force!
May I trouble you, Mr. Three O’clock,
To pass the twinkling sauce?”

“How luscious and rich,” said the little boy,
“Is this ‘pendulum shake’ with ice.”
“Ha, ha!” said the host, “Indeed it is,
But think of the dreadful price
To bring it a couple of billion miles!
These hunting case flips are nice.

“Won’t you have this dickery dock croquette,
The only one left on the plate?
That soft whipped cream which you see inside
Was whipped in Seventeen eight.
Ah, the rod, little boy, was seldom spared
At that very early date.”

“Yes, indeed,” said the host, as he wiped his mouth, and folded his calendar-page napkin, “yes, indeed, they seldom spared the rod in those good old days in your world. That’s why the children grew up so good, I suppose, and that is probably why the good old cooking was so much better than the cooking of to-day. Such mashings as the potatoes and turnips got, such unmerciful beatings as the poor little eggs had to undergo; it’s no wonder that few eggs were bad! And how they used to whip the cream—no wonder it was good; if you were whipped as much as this cream was, _you’d_ be good; they whipped it till it was white in the face.”

“I _am_ good,” said the little boy. “Did you say that in Minutel they do the same things they used to do when they lived in the world?”

“Don’t you be afraid,” said the Continental Imp. “They’ll not hurt _you_.”

“No indeed,” said Mr. Three O’clock, as they all rose, “we’ll stay together and protect ourselves.”

“By the way,” said the Continental Imp, “do you know, I believe I’ll run up to Tickerleen when you go; it’s too slow and old-fashioned for me here. I wonder if you’d have any objection to my going along?”

By this time, they had come out of the house and were looking about them to determine which way they would go. The host said he would lock up the inn for the day and join them. The other imps, whom the kindly landlord had invited to breakfast out of the goodness of his heart, scampered off about their business, and the little boy, the host, the Continental Imp, and Mr. Three O’clock proceeded leisurely along the road.

All through the beautiful little village of Minutel were the houses where the old-fashioned hours lived. They were queer houses with domes, and from a distance they looked like so many alarm clocks with the alarm bells up on top. There was a low, drowsy ticking in the air all the time which the little boy couldn’t locate. He heard it clearly enough, yet it seemed to be far away—or rather, it seemed to be all about, like the very breeze. Every now and then the church bell would chime, which the little boy fancied to be a clock striking the hour, and he pictured to himself the village of Minutel as a huge clock with the church bell as a striker to notify each hour when it was time to get out, just as the real striker did on the real clock.

The host and the Continental Imp pointed out to the newly arrived pair the homes of the principal hours. The little boy was interested to see the house where the hour lived who saw the Pilgrim Fathers land, and also the hour which had the pleasure of witnessing the arrival of Columbus on the shores of the western world. He also gazed for sometime at the house where the host told him the hour resided which had seen George Washington chop down the cherry tree.

“That hour,” said the Continental Imp, “is the greatest bore in Minutel; he’s always telling what he saw, and nobody cares anything about it.”

“You know all about it, I suppose,” said the little boy.

“Yes, I know all about it; he claims that George Washington never told a lie simply on the strength of his having told the truth on one particular occasion when he was a little boy. I don’t deny that he told the truth about the cherry tree, but I do say that on the 15th of June, 1775, I _heard_ him tell a whop—”

“Stop!” said the little boy.

“per. There!”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” said the little boy, “because I don’t consider that that _was_ a whopper.”

“Yes, it was,” said Mr. Three O’clock, “and I agree with our Continental friend here that the hour you’re speaking of—that Cherry Tree Hour—is a bore.”

“How do _you_ know he’s a bore when you’ve never met him?” said the little boy.

At this Mr. Three O’clock turned very white and seemed quite uncomfortable.

“I don’t see how _you_ know anything about this land, anyway,” persisted the little boy. “You’ve never been here before.”

“Yes, how _is_ that?” asked the Continental Imp; “of course, you’re right, but I don’t see how you know that you’re right.”

“_My_ understanding,” said the host, “is that you just arrived—it seems rather unusual—have you any explanation?”

There was a pause after this, and Mr. Three O’clock looked very confused. Finally he looked all about him, and said, “Shh-h!”

“What is it?” asked the little boy.

“He said, ‘Shh-h,’” said the host.

“I know he did,” said the Continental Imp.

“There is a mystery about my life,” said Mr. Three O’clock, speaking in an impressive whisper, “a mystery which I cannot reveal. But under my light and airy nature, there is a burden on my soul. Do not force me to reveal it!”

“I am sure you may confide in me,” said the little boy. “What is the trouble? You seemed so free and happy when you came out of the clock. I hope—Oh, I _hope_ that you have never done anything wrong!”

“Alas!” said Mr. Three O’clock, “I am not what you think I am—I have a past!”

“Have you it with you?” asked the Continental Imp.

“Suppose you let us see it,” said the host.

“Tell us all about it,” said the little boy, soothingly, “and then you will feel better. Maybe you are not as bad as you think you are. Tell us, anyway.”

“I suppose I might as well,” sighed poor little Mr. Three O’clock, “for Father Time’s secretary, Old Calendar, will only find it out when I apply for my date badge, and the whole thing will be made public. They have a great system; they say the red tape in the government offices is longer and more tangled than the Wollerp’s neck! Try not to think ill of me, and as we walk along I’ll tell you my sad tale.”

They all looked very grave as they paced along in silence and waited for the culprit to begin. The poor little imp who had recently danced and laughed so happily experienced a great deal of difficulty in starting and several times began with, “’Twas in a little district—” and had to break off again. Finally he succeeded in conquering his feelings, and told the following extraordinary tale:

“’Twas in a little district school,
Which I remember well;
A hundred restless little boys
Were waiting for the bell.
’Twas just about a year ago
This awful thing befell!

“The scene was in a country town;
The teacher, she was new.
It lacked an hour of closing time,
And tasks were nearly through.
And high upon the schoolroom wall
The clock was striking Two.

“Two hundred eyes were on that clock
To watch the minutes flee;
One hundred weary little boys
Were waiting there for me;
For, in pursuance of the rule,
They always closed at Three.

“Before me, in the old round clock,
Dragged out the hour Two—
The slowest hour in all the day,
As every urchin knew.
The tempter whispered in my ear,
‘I’ll tell you what you do!’

“I listened to his wicked voice,
And sought the hand at Two.
I had no business to go out
Till Two O’clock was through;
Another hour yet must pass
Before _my_ time was due.

“But there upon the figure Two
I straightway took my stand,
While just above me, moving down,
I saw the Minute Hand.
Alas, alas, he did not know
The scheme that I had planned!

“How innocent he seemed to me,
As slowly down he stole.
I watched him pass the figure One,
And then the winding hole.
Ah, would that they who clean the clock
Could cleanse my guilty soul!

“Past figure Two the two hands met.
My time had come at last!
Together they must pass to Three
(I see you stand aghast),
Yes, yes, I will confess it all;
I fixed those two hands fast!!

“In just five little minutes more,
Those children heard with glee
The teacher, glancing at the clock,
Exclaim, ‘Why, goodness me!
’Twas Two O’clock a moment since,
But now ’tis after Three!’

“In just one minute more, my friends,
In just one minute more,
The scuffling sound of many feet
Was heard upon the floor,
And full a hundred happy boys
Were romping through the door.

“But now the thought of what I’d done
Came home with dreadful force;
An exile, I, before my time!
And, stricken with remorse,
I could not then undo the deed
And had but one recourse.

“One frightened glance about I gave,
And then resolved to flee.
But, glancing upward at the clock,
I sank upon my knee.
For, lo, ten thousand Minute Hands
Were pointing down at me!

“One desperate dash, with hidden face,
And I had passed the door,
And closed it fast to keep those hands
From pointing at me more;
I dragged my heavy, guilty soul
To merry Tock-Tock-k-k-k-el—”

“We understand,” said the host, “don’t try to finish.”

“There’s only one syllable more, and I want to s-s-s-ay it!” said the poor, little Imp, “it’s lore. There!”

There was a moment of silence after this pitiful narrative, during which the poor, little Imp turned away and wept copiously. They all respected his feelings, and no one spoke until his little fit of sorrow and remorse had passed, when he faced about and began to put away a little chamois handkerchief which had been the receptacle of his tears.

“It was a pen-wipe-ipe-ipe-ipe-er,” said he, trying in vain to control himself. “I picked it up-up-p-p after the little boys had gone out, and I have kept it ever since as a bub-bub-bb-bub-b-bub—”

“He means a memento,” said the host.

“No, he doesn’t,” said the Continental Imp, “he’s trying to say something that begins with ‘bub.’”

“As a bub-bub-bub-b-bub-b-b—” cried the poor little Imp.

“Perhaps he means to say memento,” suggested the little boy. “You know, if you try to say memento when you’re crying hard, you will say it through your nose and it will sound like ‘bubento.’”

“No, I think he means bubble,” said the host.

“As a bub-bub-ba-ba-a-dge of my shame!” said the poor little Imp, at last.

“Well, it wasn’t memento,” said the Continental Imp.

“No, and it wasn’t bubble either,” said the little boy, and then, turning to his little friend, he said,

“Don’t feel so bad; I am sure you didn’t mean to do anything wrong. You must cheer up and be happy again just as you were on the journey here.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said the Continental Imp. “You were just a little fast, that’s all. There are many human beings worse than you and faster than you too who get credit. Take George Washington—look at that whop—”

“Don’t, please,” said the little boy.

“per,” said the Continental Imp.

“Yes,” said poor little Three O’clock, “but that whop-op-op-op-p—”

“Don’t,” said the little boy. “There isn’t any use in talking about that now. Tell us how you happened to get back to the world again.”

“Remorse!” said the poor little Imp. “I applied for my date badge at Old Calendar’s office, but they were suspicious—said I arrived too soon—and wouldn’t give it to me. So I wandered about the land, an outcast, for an hour without a badge is always looked on with discredit. Other hours asked me what I had seen and I could not tell them. ‘Begone!’ they would then say, ‘thou idle hour that saw no deed accomplished, no duty done, no heroism performed in the great world; where hast thou been?’ Wherever I went I was stared at and shamed and shunned. I heard the hours tell what they had seen, but had nothing to tell myself. You see, our lives in the world are short; each one has but sixty minutes in which to build his character, and therefore a whole life may be ruined by one bad deed. You know, an hour’s standing here depends on what he has seen during his working life. In my wanderings I met the glorious hour that watched Abraham Lincoln sign the paper which freed the slaves.

“‘Ah,’ said I, without thinking, ‘I, too, freed some slaves.’ And then he asked me how, and I told him by a wrong I had committed, and this got about and I was asked to leave Chymerline, where I had met him. Then, I dared not look behind me, for I always saw hundreds of long, thin Minute Hands pointing at me and reminding me of my crime. Alas, how dearly was the liberty of those little boys purchased! At last, weary and lonely and penitent, I sought the frontier, succeeded in passing the minstrel guards, and found my way back into the world. I never went to the little country town again, but wandered into the great city and succeeded in getting into the big, handsome clock in your father’s house. I found, to my delight, that the clock had once lost an hour, and I resolved to make that hour up and come forth again unstained and having done my duty. That is the story of my sad life.”

“You see,” said the little boy, seriously, “all that came from your disliking school so—I noticed that fact when I first met you. But come, try to forget all about it now and we will walk along.”

The little boy had meant to ask a few questions about how the big hall clock had become slow, and how it could be put right again in the manner described, but he thought it would be wiser to change the subject altogether, as his little friend seemed to be feeling so sorrowful. So he began to ask who the various little alarm-clock houses belonged to, and was especially interested to hear of all the wonderful and famous things which their little occupants had once seen. Each appeared to have seen just one thing, and the little boy was informed that each hour usually made a practice of telling his own particular story and never got tired of repeating it. He was on the point of asking if each hour knew of all the things which had happened all over the world at that particular time, but he saw at once that this question might lead to a very complicated explanation, and would probably result in a quarrel, which he always dreaded.

“Surely,” said he, to himself, “an hour which saw Columbus land could well afford to go without knowing anything else.”

The Continental Imp explained to him how many hours who arrived on particularly auspicious days, and who had seen exceptionally great things, were swelled up with importance, like the host, who had arrived on the Fourth of July, 1776, and had undoubtedly seen Benjamin Franklin, who was very much in evidence on that day.

So they ambled along, through the pleasant, hazy village until soon they came upon a sheet of water which was very rough and which, the host said, was called the Hour Glass Lake because it consisted really of two sheets of water joined together by a little strait through which the water ran, so that the whole thing had not a little the appearance of an hour-glass with the sand running through it. The road ran straight down to the banks of the water and the little boy could see how it came right down to the shore on the opposite side also. He thought how it marked the aimless wanderings of the poor, lost Wollerp while he was hunting for himself, and he wondered if the lake was there then, and if so, how the poor little creature had crossed it.

Down at the shore was a curious boat which looked like the long box of a hall clock, and into this they all stepped for a row over to the other side. The little boy tried to talk as they rowed him across the lake, but the water was so rough that he could not talk properly, and he held on with all his might as the little craft rose and fell on the tumultuous waves.

“Do you suppose,” said he, “that we shall be able to start for Tickerleen in the morning? I want very much to

“That,” said the host, “is the station where you’ll take the train for Tickerleen in the morning. Hello, there seems to be a crowd there; there must be something the matter! Row a little faster, and we’ll see what the trouble is! They seem to be all reading the bulletin.”

So the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, who were rowing, made haste, and soon the party had landed and were hastening up the road in the direction of a queer, little cottage building with a roof and doors like a cuckoo clock, and about which fully a hundred imps were congregated, all talking in a most excited fashion. When they got a little nearer they could see that upon the outer wall hung a large placard, with a heading which said,

TICKERLEEN MAINSPRING. EXTRA!!!

and it was evidently the information on this sheet which had created all the excitement.

“What do you suppose it can be?” asked the little boy.

“News from the capital. I suppose the old Duke is at it again,” said the Continental Imp.

“I don’t understand,” said the little boy.

“Why, it’s the _Mainspring’s_ local bulletin,” said the host. “The _Mainspring_ can’t run down, you know—ha, ha, ha—so they have the news sent up by the errorgraph.”

They hastened on as fast as they could to the little building, and sure enough, there stood a cuckoo in the doorway, calling,

“Tick-tick-tickerleen—
Tickerleen Extra!”

and the crowd was all excitement.

“Isn’t it dreadful!” some were saying.

“Things must be in a pretty state at court,” others observed.

“She shouldn’t have left it for the king to do; she should have stayed at home and done it herself,” one persisted.

The party elbowed their way right down to the front of the crowd, as newcomers are expected to do, till they reached a position where the words of the bulletin were quite legible.

“Read it,” said Mr. Three O’clock. So the host, who was a little to the front, read the following startling announcement.

FATHER TIME Flavors more Soups and Demands _Better Gravy_ _CROWN PRINCE IN A CAGE—REASON CONCEALED!_ _QUEEN DYING IN BED OF STRAW AFTER EATING PEBBLES!_ _Hundreds of PIES thrown in LOYAL faces!_]

_SPOOK, DANCES ON KING’S REMAINS_ _Real Estate is Boomed!_]

Instantly when the host finished reading the little boy felt in his buttonhole for his wonderful flower, and then gave one despairing cry—for it was gone. He looked all about on the ground, but it was nowhere to be seen. He had evidently dropped it from the boat while leaning over the edge in his fit of sea sickness.

“Will you please read that bulletin again?” he said to the host, and the host read it again, very slowly and carefully. Then the little boy looked again for his treasured flower, but it had disappeared, and he was all bewildered and confused. Meanwhile, his three companions were discussing the news from Tickerleen with great earnestness.

“Of course,” said the Continental Imp, “if the Queen goes out sleighing, leaving the soups unflavoured, why, many will use buns, that’s obvious. There’s more or less flavouring in a bun, you know.”

“It’s a natural consequence,” said the host. “Take my own soups, for instance—”

“Why, certainly,” said Mr. Three O’clock. “I don’t blame the King at all, but it’s awful to think of his dying that way; he probably was about to get some of the lard for flavouring. I don’t believe he meant to kill himself. You couldn’t make me think so!”

The little boy listened to this conversation with an expression of great wonder, for, to be sure, the news from the capitol was unusual.

“What do _you_ think about it?” asked Mr. Three O’clock.

“Isn’t it unusual?” said the little boy.

“Certainly,” answered his friend, “most extras are unusual in the news they give. You don’t suppose things like this happen every day, do you? This is dreadful—dreadful!”

“Do you think it really happened?” asked the little boy, whereupon a dozen imps turned and stared at him with contempt.

“Happened!” said Mr. Three O’clock. “Why, of course, it happened! Do you think the _Mainspring_ lies?”

“It seems to _me_,” said the little boy, in the host’s ear, “that it is just a little—well, just a little bit crazy, you know; but, of course, I may be mistaken. I wish I had my flower!”

“Crazy?” said the host. “But wait! There goes an imp up the ladder again! See there, he’s crossing out that first line. It _was_ a mistake, after all! Now see what he puts in its place.”

“You see,” said the little boy, as he watched the Imp on the ladder, drawing a line through the first announcement. “I knew it must be wrong. Now he’s going to correct it, and it will be sensible.”

“Wait!” said Mr. Three O’clock.

“Watch!” said several others.

“See there!” said the little boy. “He has put something in place of it. Now it will be all right. Will you read it, Mr. Host, please?”

The dextrous little imp came down the ladder and disappeared into the Errorgraph Office in the station, and the host read aloud:

+QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!+ _QUEEN RACES FOR A BITE INSTEAD!_]

“That _is_ crazy!” said the little boy. “It’s perfectly crazy and I know it is. The Queen wouldn’t—she couldn’t—”

“She couldn’t and she wouldn’t and she didn’t!” laughed the Continental Imp.

“She buttoned the didn’ts to the—Oh, see there!” called Mr. Three O’clock. “He’s coming out to change it again, maybe. There he goes up the ladder!”

“Good,” said the little boy. “He’ll get it right at last.”

The little bulletin imp came dancing down the ladder and the little boy, with a merry, hopeful face, turned to his good friend, the host, and said:

“Now he’s fixed it so that it’s all right. Would you mind reading it just this once more?”

So the host read, in a loud and very serious voice:

+QUEEN CHASES FOR A KITE IN SLED!+ +_QUEEN RACES FOR A BITE INSTEAD!_+ QUEEN BRACES FOR A FIGHT IN BED!]

This was too much for the poor little boy. His hand went unconsciously to his buttonhole in one last desperate hope of finding his precious flower, and then, with a piercing shriek and a long gasp, he reeled and fell fainting to the ground, his hat blowing off and landing a foot or so from his outstretched form, so that he presented the appearance of an enormous exclamation mark.

AN EVENING WITH THE COLONIAL HOURS

As the boy awoke from his fainting spell,
And presently opened his eyes,
He glanced about with a startled look
Of the most intense surprise,
For he found himself on a little couch
Of a quite convenient size.

And he saw that the couch was in a room
Where he never had been before,
With old-fashioned mottoes on the wall
And a queer, old-fashioned door,
And a regular, antique warming pan
In a corner on the floor.

And, staring down from around the wall,
From portraits all faded and old,
Were men with the queerest neckties on,
And features severe and cold;
And the frames which encased these dreadful men
Were covered with greenish mould.

And off to one side in the queer, old room
He noticed, in looking about,
A chair and a rickety spinning wheel,
And it seemed, without a doubt,
As if he awoke in a room from which
Priscilla had just stepped out.

For articles such as are sold to-day
At a perfectly shocking price
Were placed about in that queer, old room
In a manner all precise,
And the only ornament to be seen
Was a worsted work device.

And, gazing about, he rubbed his eyes,
While he puzzled his brain and tried
To find out how he had gotten there,
When the old door opened wide.
“And how do you do?” said his friend, the host,
And cheerily walked inside.

“I am very well,” said the little boy,
“And delighted to see you here,
For I really don’t know where I am,—
In a bygone age, I fear;
Or else I’ve been sold for a live antique
On account of being queer.

“Would you mind,” he said, as the host advanced,
“Informing me what you have heard
From Tickerleen since I went to sleep;
Is there any further word?
For the statements on that bulletin board
I’m certain were quite absurd.”

“Oh, never you mind the bulletin board,”
Said his merry and genial friend,
“For this is the good old-fashioned club,
And the members all extend
A welcome to little old-fashioned boys,
And invite you to attend.

“For to-morrow morning you’ll all be off
To the dazzling Tickerleen
With its wondrous streets of custard pies,
And after you all have seen
The local conditions prevailing there
You’ll know what the posters mean!”

So the host and the little boy came out,
Down a creaky old-fashioned stair,
And paused outside of the queer old door
Of a double parlour where
They heard an unearthly and dreadful sound
Which startled the very air.

’Twas a rollicking, boisterous, noisy song,
Which was not in the least bit sweet,
For every voice sang a different air,
Accompanied by a beat,
And they heard a banging which sounded like
The stamping of many feet.

The little boy peered through the keyhole small,
And there, on a bench in a row,
Were fully a dozen antique imps
In costumes of long ago,
But their noisy behaviour seemed to him
Like a modern minstrel show.

“Now, try it again!” cried the leader imp,
“And try to imagine that you
Are really whipping a little boy
With a slipper or a shoe,
In the genuine, good, old-fashioned way,
As parents used to do!”

So they all started over again with great earnestness and enthusiasm, and sang so fast that the little boy had a good deal of difficulty in following what they sang.

“With their old, old ways,
In the old, old days,
The little boys, they bowed and were polite,
lite,
lite.

“Every prank, prank, prank.
Had a spank, spank, spank,
They were spanking them from morning until night,
night,
night.

“When the small, small boys
Made a noise, noise, noise,
And simply wouldn’t sit up and be still,
still,
still,

“Every back, back, back,
Had a whack, whack, whack,
And they whacked ’em with a vigour and a will,
will,
will.

“Every child, child, child,
That was wild, wild, wild,
Was very promptly laid out on a couch,
couch,
couch,

“And a slap, slap, slap,
With a strap, strap, strap,
You could hear the little urchins crying, ‘Ouch!
Ouch!
Ouch!’

“With a whack, whack, whack,
On the back, back, back,
How much better than the foolishness of modern ways

“Is a slap, slap, slap,
With a strap, strap, strap,
And they did it to perfection in the olden days.

“And we say, say, say,
That to-day, day, day,
When a boy is in a temper or a grouch,
grouch,
grouch,
“’Mid the yelling and distraction,
There’s a singular attraction,
And a pleasant satisfaction,
In an Ouch!
Ouch!!
_Ouch!!_
OUCH!!
OUCH!!!”

“I have changed my mind,” said the little boy, “I don’t want to go in there.”

“Oh, they won’t hurt you,” said the host.

“No, I know they won’t,” said the little boy, “because I won’t give them a chance; I’ll stay outside.”

“Don’t you believe in spanking?” asked the host.

“I don’t believe in spanking _me_,” said the little boy.

“Have you never been spanked?”

“No, never!”

“Then you don’t know what you’ve missed.”

“Oh, yes, I know what I missed! I _wanted_ to miss it.”

“And the pain, pain, pain,
From a cane, cane, cane,—”

“There they go again,” said the host. “Let us walk right in; your two friends are in there.”

The little boy gave his hand rather reluctantly to his good friend, and the two walked into the room from which the threatening and anything but pleasant sound had emanated.

And such a looking room as it was! The Continental Imp was there in full glory, and so was Mr. Three O’clock, who was making himself very much at home withal, considering that he was a new arrival in the village and a stranger to the old-fashioned set. There must have been as many as twenty or thirty old-fashioned imps, each one wearing a badge with a date, and they were all breathing heavily and seemed to be very much exhausted. And the appearance of the room was frightful!

“If Nurse could only see this,” said the little boy to himself, “she would never complain of my nursery again! I never saw such a litter!”

The floor indeed was simply covered with words which had been spilled and scattered about in singing.

“They have been trying to sing too fast,” said the little boy, whispering in the host’s ear. “Did you ever see anything like this!”

“It looks as if the dictionary were on a picnic, doesn’t it?” said the host. “See those ‘chances’ over there! Be careful not to step on these!”

The members of the old-fashioned club stood staring at the little boy, and the little boy stood staring on the floor. Meanwhile, his two friends, the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, came up and asked him if he was feeling quite himself again, and why he had been overcome so at the railroad station. But the little boy could not take his eyes from the floor. He had heard of people being slovenly with food, and he knew how careless _he_ often was about his own toys, but he had never before seen such untidiness caused by loose words.

“It is all because,” thought he, “they tried to use too many words at once, and tried to sing them too fast. They ought to have tin trays to sing on!”

The more he looked, the more amazed he became, for the floor appeared something like this:

“I hope you will excuse the appearance of things,” said one of the hours, stepping up. “I’m not accustomed to such untidiness myself, but we were singing of the good old days, and I’m afraid we lost all control of ourselves. Won’t you be seated?”

“Are you an hour?” asked the little boy.

“Yes, indeed, I am; I’m the hour that saw the Boston Tea Party—saw all the—”

“Wait a minute,” said another. “I’m the hour that saw the battle of—”

“And I’m the hour that saw Cornwallis surrender at Yorktown!”

“And I’m the hour that saw John Alden carry Myles Standish’s proposal to Priscilla.”

And so all the hours gathered about him, clamouring to tell what they knew, and it was fully ten minutes before the little boy could get an opportunity to speak. As soon as he could he asked what the words all over the floor meant.

“Oh, that’s a verse,” said one of the hours. “We can’t bother to pick it up now.”

“I should like to know what the verse is,” said the little boy. “I’m going to Tickerleen to-morrow.”

“Well, then,” said the hour who had first addressed him, “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. When we get these words all picked up, we’ll put them together the way they ought to go to make the verse and send it to Tickerleen. You must leave your address.”

“Is the verse about spanking?” asked the little boy.

“Yes, indeed, that was a spanking chorus, you know. It has to be sung fast to be realistic. It ought to sound like the dear, old-fashioned spankings—”

“Let us talk about something else,” said the little boy. “I—I don’t like to talk about spankings. I wonder if any of you hours knew Benjamin Franklin. You know he lived in those old days, and I once heard a story about him—”

“Benjamin Franklin!” said half a dozen imps. “Certainly; we all saw him at different times.”

“Isn’t that wonderful!” said the little boy. “Could any of you tell me about him?”

“Certainly,” said one of the hours. “I’ll tell you what _I_ know about him. He was a great sluggard, you know.”

“What?” said the little boy.

“Just listen,” said the hour, “and I’ll say you a little poem I wrote.”

So they all sat down and the hour who had volunteered to give the little boy some information about Benjamin Franklin, told the following story.

“Of course, you’ve all heard of Electrical Ben,
With spectacles massive in size,
Who claimed, it is said, if you’re early to bed,
You’ll be healthy, and wealthy, and wise.

“He ordered his coffee in slices, you know,
And he drank buttered toast from a cup;
And the fact is he never retired at all,
And he always refused to get up.

“Instead of attending to business, you know,
Or joining the army to fight,
He spent all the day in ridiculous play,
And was constantly flying a kite.

“He wore a fur hat that came over his ears
To keep the wind out of his brain,
And his gaiters came up to the top of his head,
And he carried a gold-headed cane.

“He got up an almanac once on a time
To amuse the Colonial folks,
And he filled it with morsels of useful advice
And he packed it with horrible jokes.

“He hated the red-coats with all of his heart,
And he simply detested a pun,
And he never went out in the street after dark
For fear he’d be struck by the sun.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Three O’clock. “That’s pretty good! Tells people to get up early so as to be healthy and wealthy and wise, and then sleeps all day! Now you see how much truth there is in the school books!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” said the Continental Imp. “You’ll have to excuse me for 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.

“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_!!”

“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.