Page Four.
THE SALEMITE
Feb. 16. 194y
The Clock That Qot Embarrassed
by Slarguerite Mullin |
It was thundering. Kain poiircil |
down, and liglitning occasionally,
streaked through the air, illuminat
ing the battered face of the town
clock. Midnight had passed, and the
clock was almost completely happy,
or at least as happy as clocks ever
get. There were three facts which
accounted for that state of mind
in this particular clock; first, he
would have to strike only once next
time. Nobo3y knew how he rejoiced
when it was almost one o’clock
again, and he had to strike just once.
Second, it was night—his face could i
not be seen; and, third, the frequent
rolls of thunder would make that
one stroke almost inaudible.
Please don’t misunderstand. This
clock was not lazy—that was not
why he hated having to strike
twelve times. Nor was he unduly
modest, that he sought to hide his
face from the passersby in the
streets below. You see, his voice
was too loud. It was entirely too
loud. When he struck to let people
know the time, the violent noise
produced such strong vibrations that
he shuddered all over. But the hap
less clock could not help this state
of affairs. He had no control over
the mechanism inside him which
caused the heart-breaking strikings
every hour. Why, even if he had been
able to subdue the sound, it w'ould
not have been long until some repair
man climbed laboriously to the place
where the clock was, and fixed things
so that the clock could again be;
heard far and wide. The clock knew ■
all this. He knew that he served a ^
purpose in the community, that |
many people depended on him to
know when it was time to eat their ■
lunch, or when it was time to lock
up their place of business and re
turn to their warm homes and their
families. He knew all this; hasn’t
that always been the life work of
clocks?
But even knowing that he was aid
ing all these people and that perhaps?
he was the only sure thing in the
lives of some did not do much to-
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ward alleviating the blinding pain
that ripped through him when he
had to strike.
So, on this rainy night he struck
once, just as a clap of thunder shook
the air.
“Ttiat was all right,” he murmur
ed to himself, and weakly dosed
his eyes in relief. This time his
face did not become the color of a
ripe tomato, and his hands remain
ed in position.
But, of course, it isn’t always
night, and it doesn’t always rain.
This makes most living creatures
linppy, but not the clock; he hated
morning. There was an extra pain
to striking at six and seven and
eisht A. M. Besides nearly dying
of I'mbarra^smeut at liis own raucous
voii-e, he knew that he dragged many
I'eop!e from their beds and shoved
them off to work. And things grew
steadily worse up until noon. His
face because redder after each strike-
iiig, and his hands flew regularly
+'i”m their rightful places to attempt
;n cover his distorted and quivering
f:'ce. Tears streamed clockwise down
his face.
But afternoon brought relief, as
usual, because, aside from his having
to strike fewer times, people below
were less anxious to know the time,
and glanced less often at the clock’s
apprehensive face.
At six o’clock at night he came
closer to having no regrets about
lieiiig that true slave of time, a
clock. He knew that, at six, most
people were at home and happy. He
was a sensitive clock and really felt
very deeply about the little beings
that raced around below him. But
he was figuring also that, at six,
most people would be inside their
homes, probably eating, and all the
family would be making a lot of
noise, so that nobody would hear
him strike!
Well, by eleven at night, when
he always went through his worst
agony, most people had gone to bed.
He was looking forward to a slight
period of rest, which he deserved,
he believed, in view of the hectic
day he had spent.
‘ ‘ But I wish it were raining,” he
thought. “If it were only thunder
ing and lightning as it did last
night!” But there was really very
little he could do about that, so
he rested his chin gently in his
hand, and gazed out over the dark
little city he guarded and advised.
It was a tranquil moment, and he
felt at peace with the world, not
worrying too much even about the
next time he would have to announce
the hour, though he would have to
hoar twelve strikes.
He looked north toward the river.
Not a light to be seen. His gaze
traveled east, lingering lovingly over
the little black houses with their
chimneys silhlouet/ted against the
dark blue sky. To the south-OH!
His mouth popped open, and his
liands flew into the air, as the hor
rified clock watched little tendrils
of flame curl possessively around tlie
roof of the orphanage on South
Baxter Street.
With hardly a thought, he caused
a roaring volley of sound^ to beat
against the windows of the nearby
homes. He struck once, twice, three
times, finally twelve, furiously, and
louder than any clock had ever
struck before.
Soon the fire truck sped down
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the street, and water spurted over
the flames, while unharmed and
sleepy little children were handed
through windows to men on ladders.
The orphanage was saved from the
tragedy that had come so close to
engulfing it.
A fireman passed by on the street
below the clock.
‘ ‘ Some man phoned me,” he said
to his companion. “Some man who
said the clock had awakened him.
Said he’d glanced out the window,
and had seen the red haze in the
sky, and he wanted to know where
the fire was. If it hadn’t been for
that, there’s no telling when some
body would have knowji. Funny,
though—that clock doesn’t usually
wake people up when it strikes.
We’re all used to it. Though there
were several others who told me to
night that the clock w’oke ’em up
striking twelve. Well, guess they’re
just light sleepers. Good thing we
caught the fire though—those kids
—,” and the men passed on down the
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The clock’s hands rested, raised I
the sky. Something happened in thj
metallic heart. He did not say
word. But soon he struck once,
deep, melodious sound that sp»
through the night with silver beautjj
His face remained a placid, weathffl
ed grey, and his hands still pointej
skyward.
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