there was once a little clock which had gone steadily for years and years.
it was a good, conscientious little thing, pretty too, but very modest, and it had always kept splendid time.
then it stopped suddenly one day exactly at eleven. its works were worn out, and the clock-maker to whom it was sent for repairs returned it with the message that it was not possible to make it go again.
the people to whom it belonged decided to leave it on the mantelshelf where it had always stood. “it’s such a nice little thing,” they said, “and some day we can have new works put into it.” so there it stood without making a movement or uttering the faintest tick. but it was very unhappy. it felt that it was of no real use in the world.
the other things in the room weren’t very nice about it. they used to whisper to one another, and the little clock caught an unkind word now and then that made it unhappier than ever.
[56]“i don’t know why they keep it there. what on earth’s the good of it if it doesn’t go?” said the big grandfather clock. “it never was much use anyway. no chime, and a very poor tick. of course it’s got no constitution to speak of.” and his brazen face grew even shinier than it had been before, and he gave a self-satisfied little cough and then sang out his quarters as loudly as ever he could.
the cuckoo clock, which lived in the hall, and used to join in the talk when the door was open, actually went so far as to make up a little rhyme about it.
“cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo,” it sang. “what’s the use of you? what’s the use of you? cuckoo, cuckoo.”
the chairs, which were chippendale, and tremendously proud of the fact, were quite as rude.
“there’s no doubt about it,” they said, “quality is what tells. you can’t expect a thing to last unless it is really well made, inside and out. perfect workmanship will wear practically for ever.” and they held up their backs as straight as could be and curved their shapely arms and legs into the most elegant lines imaginable.
the little chelsea flower-seller and flute-player, who stood on each side of the clock on the mantelshelf,[57] were much kinder, and did their best to console it.
they had always been on friendly terms with it, and they used to peep round it and smile and wave to one another.
“the fairy queen is probably coming to see us soon,” said the flower-seller. “perhaps she may be able to help you.”
the little clock felt happier; it would be wonderful to be introduced to the fairy queen, who had often been to see the chelsea figures but had so far never taken notice of any of the other things.
[58]you see, those two were old friends of hers. they came from fairyland originally, but the tale went that a wicked witch had cast a spell over them which was to last for seven hundred and seventy-seven years. at the end of that time they would be able to go back to fairyland, but meanwhile the queen used to come and visit them now and then in order to cheer them up. sure enough, the very next time she came, the flower-seller remembered about the little clock and told her how unhappy it was.
the queen came and stood in front of it and stroked its face with her tiny hand and patted its pretty ormolu pillars.
finally she sat down on the little green marble slab on which it stood, and asked it to tell her all its troubles.
and the little clock opened its heart to her and told her how miserable it was to think that it would never, never be able to tell the time again.
she pulled a tiny dandelion-clock from her pocket and began to blow and to count
“but you will,” said the queen. “every day and every night at eleven o’clock you will be exactly right. none of the other clocks”—she glanced round almost contemptuously at the grandfather—“can be quite sure of ever being perfectly right. but you will be. why, it must be about eleven now.” she pulled a dandelion-clock from her pocket and began to blow and to count. “one, two, three, four....” the[59] white darts floated away and went drifting about the room. at last only one remained.
at that moment the cuckoo clock was heard striking in the hall. the queen stopped blowing to listen.
“he’s fast,” she said, and waited till he had finished. “five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,” she went on, and, as she ended, the last white morsel of down rose in the air. she glanced at the little clock. “you see, you’re quite right,” she said triumphantly. “and to-morrow morning you’ll be right again at eleven o’clock.”
the little clock beamed, and it beamed still more when the fairy queen opened its glass door and gently clasped its hands in hers and said how much she looked forward to seeing it again.
just then the grandfather cleared his throat and went through his pompous performance of chiming out the quarters and hour.
“you’re five minutes slow,” said the queen, and she waved her hand and vanished through the ventilator.
