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Title: The Little Clock
Author: Hattie Howard [
More Titles by Howard]
Kind friend, you do not know how much
I prize this time-ly treasure,
So dainty, diligent, and such
A constant source of pleasure.
The man of brains who could invent
So true a chrono-meter
Has set a charming precedent,
And made a good repeater.
It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,
Suggestive of the donor;
And 'tends to business--never sick
A bit more than the owner.
It goes when I do; when I stop
(As by the dial showing)
It never lets a second drop,
But simply keeps on going.
It tells me when I am to eat,
Which isn't necessary;
When food with me is obsolete,
I'll be a reliquary.
It tells me early when to rise,
And bother with dejeuner;
To sally forth and exercise,
And fill up my porte-monnaie.
I hear it talking in the night,
As if it were in clover:
You've never lost your appetite,
You've never been run over.
It makes me wish that I might live
More faithful unto duty,
And unto others something give
Like this bijou of beauty.
It holds its hands before its face,
So very modest is it;
So like the people in the place
Where I delight to visit.
Sometimes I wonder if it cries
The course I am pursuing;
Because it has so many I-s
And must know what I'm doing.
Sometimes I fear it makes me cry--
No matter, and no pity--
Afraid at last I'll have to die
In some far, foreign city.
It travels with me everywhere
And chirrups like a cricket;
As if it said with anxious air,
"Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"
Companion of my loneliness
Along my journey westward,
It never leaves me comfortless,
But has the last and best word.
I would not spoil its lovely face,
And so I go behind it,
And hold it like a china vase,
So careful when I wind it.
A clock is always excellent
That has its label on,
And proves a fine advertisement
For Waterbury, Conn.
Those Yankees--ah! they never shun
A chance to make a dime,
And counterfeit the very sun
In keeping "Standard Time."
Ah, well! the little clock has proved
The best of all bonanzas;
And thus my happy heart is moved
To these effusive stanzas.
[The end]
Hattie Howard's poem: Little Clock
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