The Old Clock
Oing! Going!” said the auctioneer. “Is seven dollars all I hear bid for this old family clock. Going! Going! Gone! Who bought it?” We looked around, and found that a hard - visaged dealer in old furniture had become the possessor of the venerable time - piece. It was not like the clocks you turn out of a factory, fifty a day, unprincipled clocks that would as lief lie as tell the truth, and that stand on the shelf a-chuckle when they find that they have caused you to miss the train. But such a clock as stood in the hall of your father’s house when you were a boy. No one ever thought of such a time-piece as having been manufactured, but took it for granted that it had been born in the lOO THE OLD CLOCK.
ages past, and had come on down In the family from eeneratlon to oreneration.
The old clock In the auction room, which had been talking persistently for so long a time, said not a word. Its hands were before Its face, unable to hide Its grief. It had lost all its friends, and In old age had been turned out on the world. Its fortunes, like its weights, had rtm dow7i. Looking through Its glasses, It seemed to say:
“Have I come to this? I have struck the hours, and now they come back to strike me!”
It first took Its place on the old homestead about seventy years ago. Grandfather and grandmother had just been married. That was a part of their outfit. It called them to their first meal. There were the blue - edeed dishes, and bone - handled knives, and homely fare, and an appetite sharpened on the woodpile, or by the snow - shovelling. As the clock told twelve of noon, the rugged pair, in home-made garments, took their position at the table, and keeping time to the rattle of knives, and forks, and spoons, the clock went Tick — lock, Tick — tock!
THE OLD CLOCK. lOI
There were the shining tin pans on the shelf. There were the woollen mittens on the stand. There were the unpolished rafters over head. There was the spinning - wheel in the corner. There was the hot fire, over which the apples baked, till they had sagged down, brown, and sissing hot, and the saucepan, on the hearth, was getting up the steam, the milk just lifting the lid to look out, and sputtering with passion, until with one sudden dash it streams into the fire, making the housewife rush with holder and tongs to the rescue. The flames leaped up around the back -log, and the kettle rattled with the steam, and jocund laughter bounded away, and the old clock looked on with benignant face, as much as to say:
“Grand sport. Happy pair. Good times. Clocks sympathize. Tick — tock! Tick — tock!”
One day, at a vendue, grandfather was seen, with somewhat confused face, bidding on a high chair and a cradle. As these newly-purchased articles came into the house, the old clock in its excitement struck five, when it ought to have sounded foury but the pendulum cried “Order! “and ever)^thing came back to Its former composure, save, that as a dash of sunshine struck the face of the clock, it seemed to say, “Time - pieces are not fools!” Clocks sound the march of generations. A time to be born, as well as a time to die. Tick — tock! Tick — tock!
A mischievous child trying to catch the pendulum: a crying child held up to be quieted while listening to the motion of the works: a curious child standing on a chair trying to put his fingers among the cogs to see what they are made of: a tired child falling asleep in a cradle. Henceforth the clock has beautiful accompaniment. Old-time cradle with a mother’s foot on It, going “Rickety — rack! rickety — rack!” All infantile trouble crushed under the rocker. Clock sinmnof, “I started before you were born.” Cradle responding, “That which I swing shall live after you are dead.” Clock chanting, “I sound the passing of Time.” Cradle answering, “I soothe an heir of Eternity.” Music! cradle to clock. Clock to cradle. More tender than harp, more stirring than huntsman’s buo-le.
The old time -piece had kept account of the birthday of all the children. Eighteen times it had tolled the old year out, and rung the new year in, and fair Isabel was to be married. The sleighs crunched through the snow, till at the doorway with one sudden crash of music from the bells the horses halted, and the guests, shawled and tippeted, came in. The stamp of heavy boots in the hall knocked off the snow, and voices of neighborly good-cheer shook the dwelling. The white - haired minister stood mid -floor waiting for the hour to strike, when the clock gave a premonitory rumble to let them know it was going off, and then hammered eight. The blushing pair stepped into the room, and the long charge was given, and at the close a series of explosive greetings, no simpering touch of the lips, but good, round, hearty demonstrations of affection into which people threw themselves before kissing was an art. The clock seemed to enjoy it all, and every moment had something to say:
‘* I stood here when she was born. I was the only one present at the courtship. I told the young man when it was time to go, althoughsometimes he minded me not, and I had to speak again. I ordered the commencement of ceremonies to-day. I will dismiss the group. Good luck to Isabel, and an honest eight - day clock to bless her wherever she may go. Tick — tock! Tick — tock!”
After many years grandfather became dull of hearing, and dim of sight. He could not hear the striking of the hours, but came close up and felt of the hands, and said:
“It is eight o’clock, and I must go to bed.”
He never rose again.
He could not get his feet warm. The watchers sat nioht after nicrht, listenine to the delirious talking of the old man, the rehearsal in broken sentences of scenes long ago gone by — of how the Tories acted, and how the Hessians ran.
All spake in a whisper, and moved around the room on tiptoe; but there was one voice that would not be quieted. If the watchers said — “Hush!” it seemed to take up a louder tone. It was the old clock in the next room. It looked so sad when, watching for the hour to give the medicine, the candle was lifted to its face. At the wedding it laughed. Now it seemed to toll. Its wheels had a melancholy creak; its hands, as they passed over the face, trembled and looked thin, like the fingers of an old man moving in a dying dream.
Poor old clock!
The hand that every Saturday night for forty years has wound it up will soon be still. The iron pulses of the old time-piece seem to flutter, as though its own spirit were departing. Its tongue is thick; its face is white as one struck with death.
But, just as grandfather’s heart, after running for eighty years, ceased to tick, the old clock rallied, as much as to say:
“It is the last thing I can do for him, and so I must toll the death-knell — one! two! three! four! ‘vv! six! seven! eight! nine! ten! eleven! twelve!”
With that it stopped.
Ingenious craftsmen attempted to repair it, and oiled the wheels, and swung the pendulum. But it would not go!
Its race was run; its heart was broken; its soul had departed. When grandfather died, the clock died with him.
What if the furniture dealer did set it down and cover it up with his rubbish. If the soul go straight, it makes but little difference to us where we are buried.
It Is time that dust and ashes should cover the face and hands of the dear old clock. Dust to dust!