WHAT THE CLOCK HAD TO DO WITH IT

A little boy sat on a stool one day,

While the swinger of shiny brass

In the big hall clock swung to and fro

In its little cell of glass;

And he thought a thought, did that little boy,

As he watched the hours pass.

Week in, week out, from year to year,

Had the old clock ticked away;

On the nights that he couldn’t go to sleep,

It had ticked the same as day;

And when he lay sick he had heard it tick,

The same as he had at play.

20And its steady tick was his only toy

In those days he spent in bed,

When he tried to count the minutes, and play

They were soldiers marching instead;

Till his little brain, it was all confused

In his little, feverish head.

But now he was better, though not quite strong

Enough to go out and play;

And he sat alone on the little stool

All of the long, slow day;

And he thought a thought, did that little boy,

As the hours wore away.

The clock struck twelve, and the clock struck one,

And the swinger down below

Seemed to nod “Good-bye” to the parting hours

That took their leave so slow,

Till the drowsy bell it rang again,

It was time for “Two” to go.

And the little boy blinked his sleepy eyes,

And he said, “I wish I knew

Where the hours go as they pass away,

And what in the world they do.”

And his eyes shut tight, and he hung his head,

And the clock struck half past two.

21And the sly old hand, it crept up-hill,

For its way was long and steep,

But the little boy didn’t see it move,

For he lay in the hall asleep,

And all was still but the drowsy tick,

And the sleeper, breathing deep.

When all of a sudden, he heard a sound,

Like the ring of a distant bell,

And following this an hilarious roar,

And then a terrific yell.

It’s a wonder it didn’t wake him up—

Which it didn’t, I’m glad to tell,—

And there, in front of his very face,

On the arm of his father’s chair,

Stood the queerest imp that you ever saw,

A-smoothing his ruffled hair;

And he smiled and winked, and danced a jig,

With a very sporty air.

And he touched the child who was fast asleep,

In a manner soft, but gay—

It’s surprising that such an exuberant imp

Could have such a gentle way—

And the little boy looked with wondering eyes,

As he heard his caller say,

22“Oh, I am the hour the boys all like,

I’m the glorious hour of Three,

And I’m no sort of hand at studies and books,

And I never pretended to be!

“And I don’t care a rap, or a slap, or a bang

For all of the schools in creation,

And there’s only one thing about school that I like,

And that is the summer vacation.

“I never could draw on a blackboard or slate,

And I always dance rapidly by,

For I cannot be slow like some hours that I know,

And I have no intention to try.

“And I always arrive with a cheer and a roar,

And a laugh, and a run, and a shout.

I’m the hour that every child welcomes with joy,

The hour when school is out.

“And I say to the boys, ‘Now, out with your toys!

Climb up in the fences and trees,

For I am the hour that gives you the power,

Thank Goodness! to do as you please!’”

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