⁂ I found out in the morning that my young friend's father was that oddest of oddities, a collector of clocks—that he had a passion for them, seeking out a choice clock as a connoisseur seeks out a choice picture—that he was continually multiplying his superfluities—that he boasted clocks of every form and principle, down to the latest inventions—clocks that played the genteelest of tunes, and clocks that struck the hour a dozen times over as many different ways—and that there were eighty-five, more or less calculated to strike, in the apartment wherein I had—slept; in the Clockery!
A PEEP POETIC AT THE AGE.
BY A. BIRD.
Oh when I was a little boy, how well I can remember,
The jolly day we had upon the fifth of each November!
But now the march of intellect has changed the matter quite,
And Boyhood's day of merriment is turned to sober night:
His hoops are made of iron, like our ships upon the seas;
From infancy to manhood now—from elephants to fleas[18],