But he’s going out like a lamb;
You watch and see!
“When March comes in gentle, easy,
Waggy and warm and mild and breezy,
Little buds bob all down the trail,
Short and white as a lambkin’s tail;
Hedges and ledges with blooms are full,
Fluffy and fair as a lambkin’s wool.
Mighty switchy and sweet, and all that—
But he’s going out like a lion.
Hold on to your hat!”
“There’s not a single solitary clock at this place, anyway,” Amos remarked.
“Don’t be too sure,” J. M. told him. “It may be, you see, that the tree keeps a clock in its trunk. First thing you know, the clock may speak up and tell on itself, the way Tom Tuttle used to do.”
“We never heard of Tom Tuttle,” said little Ann.
“Never heard of Tom Tuttle?” echoed the Journeying Man. “Then you shall hear of him, as soon as—”
From a hole in the tree came the sound of a clock striking loudly. J. M. was bound to go on, then, just as he had begun, and so he said:—
“As soon as ever spring drew near, and brooks and winds were loose,
Tom Tuttle would be late to school with never an excuse.
“So little and so very late! And when the teacher said
That he must take his punishment, he merely hung his head.
“She’d ask him all the hardest things in all the hardest books;
And queerly he would answer her, with absent-minded looks.