Chapter III: Part 3

In fact, the little boy spent a most enjoyable evening among the old-fashioned hours, hearing about the things they had seen and asking them questions. When the time came to go, he thanked the good old hours who had been so perfectly free and candid for a “most enjoyable treat,” which were the words his mother had told him to say when he went to a little neighbour’s birthday party. He and his three friends, the host, the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, then made their way back to the inn, where they sat about the fire eating cold ticklets and discussing plans for the morrow.

They all tried very hard to persuade the kindly host to go to Tickerleen with them on the morning train, and he finally yielded to their arguments and said that he would accompany them on their visit to the capital city.

“And now,” said the kindly landlord “it is time to wind you up.” So they all rose and the host accompanied the little boy to his room, where he actually did wind the little fellow very comfortably up in a soft quilt, with Roman numerals worked all over it, and then betaking himself to his own apartment was soon fast asleep.

THE DREADFUL NEWS FROM TICKERLEEN

Early in the morning the host closed his inn and the four travellers hastened to the railroad station by a different road from that which they had taken the day before, for the little boy was anxious not to cross the tumultuous lake again. When they got within sight of the Cuckoo Clock Station, they noticed that the train was in and that the crowd was much larger and more excited than it had been the day before. Imps were flying here and there with their date badges blowing in the breeze, and all seemed bustle and confusion.

The little boy was very much interested in examining the train which seemed to consist of little cars made from hall clocks, with a clock-work engine in front. He was just trying to determine how he should accommodate himself in one of these cars for the long ride, when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and looking around, he saw the host standing at his elbow.

“What is it?” asked the little boy.

“Look at the bulletin; it has been corrected. This is dreadful news! Much more serious than we supposed yesterday!” said the host.

The little boy, who had been very much engrossed in his examination of the curious train, turned about and walked over with the host to the spot where the crowd was standing. As soon as his eyes fell upon the bulletin, he gave a shout of joy, for the whole thing had been changed.

“Don’t faint!” said the Continental Imp, rushing up to him.

“What’s the matter now?” said Mr. Three O’clock.

“There is nothing the matter,” said the little boy, “but, ha, ha, ha! They’ve changed it just as I knew they’d have to, and you see I was right yesterday!”

“There is nothing to laugh about,” said the host.

“Have you read it?” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy.

“No, I haven’t,” said the little fellow. “I was laughing at its being all changed. Will one of you please read it, because you can read it better, you know?”

So the good host, who was deeply concerned about this corrected information from the capitol, read the revised bulletin, which appeared as follows:

+=FATHER TIME Flavors more Soups and Demands=+ +_FATHER TIME Favors more Troops and Demands_+

_Better Gravy_ _BETTER NAVY!_]

“What does it all mean?” asked the little boy, when the host had finished reading. “I think it is sensible enough now, but just what does it mean?”

“What does it mean?” shouted the Continental Imp. “Why, it means that the old Duke of Procrastination is threatening the kingdom of Father Time, and that the poor King—but wait! See there!”

They all looked at the bulletin, to which the Errorgraph Imp from the Cuckoo Clock Station was adding another item.

“Father Time Not Dead,”

read the host, in a reassuring tone.

“Then the kingdom is _not_ lost!” shouted the Continental Imp, drawing his sword.

“And I, who heard a famous whop—”

“Stop!” screamed the little boy.

“Will fight to save the country’s pop!” continued the Continental Imp.

“That is no way to speak of Father Time!” said the little boy.

“Well, if you don’t let me say whopper,” said the Continental Imp, “how can I say popper? It’s your own fault.”

“Come,” said the kindly host. “It is not a time for quarrelling. You will have to stop saying unpleasant things about General Washington if the boy doesn’t like it. Washington was the father of _his_ country, you know, and he got the best of the—”

“Yes, and Father Time got the best of _him_, didn’t he?” said Mr. Three O’clock, who was always inclined to take sides with the Continental Imp.

“Never mind that now,” said the host. “The fact that stares us in the face is that Father Time, our beloved sovereign, and the mightiest king that ever wielded a scythe or a sceptre, is threatened by Procrastination and that we, his subjects and dependents, are called upon to defend his throne!”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Three O’clock, addressing the little boy, “that you had better go home and not be mixed up in this civil war. What say you?”

But the little boy did not answer, for he was thinking. He was thinking what his mother would say if the news were brought to her that he had fallen fighting in the army of Father Time. Then he thought of how he had once heard Procrastination spoken of as a thief, and how if this wicked old rebel were to gain control, all the clocks in the world would become slow and there would be no depending on them. Then he thought of something else, and meanwhile the crowd began to move toward the waiting train.

“Come,” said the host. “You had better let your friend, Mr. Three O’clock, take you to the frontier, and you can go home on the pendulum alone. Then he can follow us to the city, for we shall all join the army, of course.”

But the little boy was silent, and they all waited. Suddenly he looked up, and for the first time since they had known him, there were tears in his eyes.

“I think I will go with you and help,” he said. “Maybe I can’t do much, but I can help a little. Father Time was once very good to my mother, and I want to see him and thank him and help him so that I can tell her when I go home. Do you mind if I go with you?”

“All aboard for Chymerline, Snooze, and the Royal City!” called an imp, and at this there was a great rush for the train.

“Come on,” said some.

“Hurry up,” said others.

“Step right in,” said the guard.

And in less than another minute, the little clock-work train, loaded with sturdy volunteers from good, old-fashioned Minutel, and carrying in its foremost car the little boy, the host, the Continental Imp and Mr. Three O’clock, went whizzing through the beautiful, rolling country, following in its rapid course the road which marked the aimless wanderings of the poor Wollerp, ticking steadily the while, and ringing its drowsy bell occasionally like the old hall clock in the little boy’s home.

ON TO TICKERLEEN!

Through the beautiful Land of Tockerlore
Went the queer little clock-work train,
Past many a valley fair to see,
And many a mountain chain;
And merrily ticked as it sped along
Through the Precious Moments Plain.

And the echoes answered its chiming bell
From the cliffs and the mountains gray,
Till it seemed as if a thousand clocks
Were ticking the time away;
As if, in the hazy mountain tops,
The hours were all at play.

And now it would traverse some mountain ledge,
As it pleasantly ticked the while,
And now rush through a fairy grove,
Or some gloomy forest aisle;
And the boy, he counted the minute-hands
Which noted each fleeting mile.

They were placed in the pathway all along
By the side of the little track
Like spectres pointing up at the sky
Or sentinels tall and black;
And soon they arrived at a signal post
And the speed began to slack.

It was nothing more than a pendulum
With its shiny disk in the air,
For they’d wisely placed it upside down
So it shed a dazzling glare;
For life it was precious in Tockerlore
And the roads were run with care.

And now they were travelling on again
With as many as fifty more
Of sturdy and loyal volunteers
With glittering scythes galore,
And now were apparent on every hand
The signs of impending war.

For the woods rang out with the thrilling strains
Which they sang as they sped along,
And the boy joined in the chorus loud
And cheered at each martial song;
And at every village they glided through
Was a mighty cheering throng.

And the tall, gray trees, as they bowed and bent
In the path of the clock-work train,
Seemed urging them on to fight and save
Their glorious King’s domain,
And never, oh, never, to cease the fight
Till the wretched Duke was slain.

Past the beautiful Lake of Passing Years,
In the region of Speeding-Quick,
Through many a grove and flowered slope
And wilderness, dark and thick,
They sang to the chime of the clock-work train
And its steady, rapid tick.

And, skirting the edge of the Mopish Hills
On a treacherous ledge, they flew
Toward a dark ravine among the cliffs,
Which, rapidly ticking through,
They beheld in the hazy lowlands, fair,
A beautiful distant view.

For there in the Valley of Sleepitude,
On the river of Tymerlooze,
Rose the traitor’s castle, grim and black,
Near the drowsy town of Snooze;
And here they expected to pause a while
To gather the latest news.

For none of the passengers really knew
From the bulletin board just what
The lazy old Duke had planned to do,
Nor the details of his plot,
But they all were anxious to know the truth
And whether he’d gone or not.

They were all aware of the evil name
Which attached to the town of Snooze,
And they knew full well of the evil wrought
By the Duke’s disgraceful views,
And they knew that time was a thing he’d steal,
But probably never use.

So, ticking along at a dreadful rate,
They went whizzing across the lawn
Of the old Duke’s place, which stood alone
In the tranquil suburb, Yawn;
And were more than amazed at learning there
That the duke had really gone.

And they heard that his troops were all togged out
And were marching in splendid shape;
That each of them had a night cap on
In place of a soldier’s cape;
That all of them carried hot water bags,
And their war-cry was a gape!

And the little boy caught a passing glimpse
Of the castle, all grim and dark
(The estate was known as Idlewhile,
As he heard the host remark).
And he thought it strange they should run the trains
On the old Duke’s private park.

But the Duke had threatened a hundred times
To compel them to change the route.
He had even sent them notices,
And threatened to prosecute,
But they only laughed as the time went on,
For he never brought the suit.

There wasn’t a sound as the train pulled in
From the hours which moped about,
And nobody waved a handkerchief,
And nobody gave a shout;
And that Snooze supported her wretched Duke
There wasn’t the slightest doubt.

But nobody tried to attack the train,
And nobody fired a gun,
For the hours of Snooze, they dragged about
Too lazy to fight or run,
Too sluggish and wicked to give three cheers,
Or two—or even one!

They paused but a moment in wicked Snooze
Which appeared to be almost dead,
For most of the hours which hadn’t gone
Were soundly asleep, in bed,
But two of them boarded the clock-work train
And the boy heard what they said.

_And this was the tale of the coming fight,
As told by a sleepy Snoozelite_:

“The mighty Duke Procrastinate
Came from his castle grim
While thousands gathered at his gate
To get a look at him.

“‘Now, mark me, fellow countrymen,
For what I’m going to say
I never shall repeat again—
At least, I won’t to-day!

“‘Upon the throne in Tickerleen
You’ll probably admit,
There sit an ancient king and queen
Who think that they are _It_!’

“He scanned his mighty legion o’er
And said, ‘My soldiers, I
Will take the throne of Tockerlore
Or know the reason why!’

“_The throng which cheered him as they heard
Each daring and courageous word
Responded, ‘We will try.’_

“_And as the tumult slowly ceased,
A few said, ‘If we don’t, at least,
We’ll know the reason why!’_

“‘The slur those monarchs hurl at me
I’ve borne from ancient days,
And what they say has come to be
A rather hackneyed phrase.

“‘Within these walls, I’d like to state,
I’ve known each royal scoff,
Intending to retaliate,
But always put it off.

“‘And so these insults to my name
Have always been condoned,
And my attempts to check the same
Incessantly postponed.

“‘But now, with confidence serene,
To-morrow morning, I
Will lead you into Tickerleen
With banners waving high!’

“_And as the echo died away,
He heard his loyal soldiers say,
‘My lord, you mean we’ll try._

“‘_And if they put us to the rout,
Why, then, my lord, without a doubt,
We’ll know the reason why!_’”

“‘_For though defeat we can’t conceal,
Though failure may attend our zeal,
We’re well repaid if we can feel
We know the reason why!_’”

Now out of the slothful and sluggish town
Did the little train tick away
Toward the live and dazzling Tickerleen,
With its soldiers staunch and gay;
And above them floated the Tockish flag—
A scythe, with the word, “To-day.”

And so, toward the beautiful Tickerleen,
Did the little train tick along,
With its load of rural volunteers,
A hundred and fifty strong,
And the hills re-echoed the martial strains
As they sang this stirring song:

“Ye Hours of Tockerlore,
Know ye the crime
That a villain hath planned
Against old Father Time?

“How the Duke of Procrastinate
Published his views
To a gathering crowd
At his castle in Snooze?

“How he tempted and lured them,
To quiet their fears,
Till the heavens were shocked
At their treacherous cheers?

“How he offered them places,
With salaries, at court?
How he promised them favours
To win their support?

“How they stood there and listened
Without a rebuke
To the claims of the lazy
And sluggish old duke?

“Then, Hours of Tockerlore,
Rise in your might
And put the old duke
And his rebels to flight!

“Was time made for wasting,
Or is it to use?
Then down with the sleepy
Old sluggard of Snooze!

“Down, down with the wretch
Till he wriggles and writhes
’Neath the glittering blades
Of our national scythes!

“Till he’s swept from the land
In a manner sublime
By the beautiful whiskers
Of good Father Time!

“Then, Hours of Tockerlore,
Rise up and say,
‘No time like the present;
We’ll do it to-day!’

“Was time made for wasting?
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.

“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!

FATHER TIME GIVES HIS OPINION

“_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!”

“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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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?

“And if I help you win,
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.

“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.

“‘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!”

“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?”

“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.”

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?”

“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.”