TICK TOCK
The old clock smiled serenely down from its place upon the man-tel-shelf. Its steady ticktock was the only sound in the quiet room, for the members of the family had retired for the night, and the clock was left to muse upon memories of bygone days. What memories they were: pathetic, yet at the same time brimming over with happiness. Memories of a radiant bride, of toddling children, with round faces and solemn eyes, who had learned their first lessons in punctuality from the old clock. Memories of the angel Death, when he visited that house; memories of life—the feeble cry of a child, just turning its face on the pearly gates of heaven. Memories, memories; the old clock's tick grew fainter and fainter, as it became wrapped in thoughts of long ago. The tired wheels slept; the weary hands slumbered, to wake to life no more. .... Soon the old clock was nothing but a memory itself. —PEGASUS, Opawa.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/CHP19350914.2.179.9
Bibliographic details
Press, Volume LXXI, Issue 21578, 14 September 1935, Page 2 (Supplement)
Word Count
161TICK TOCK Press, Volume LXXI, Issue 21578, 14 September 1935, Page 2 (Supplement)
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