SHE PULLED A TINY DANDELION-CLOCK FROM HER POCKET AND BEGAN TO BLOW AND TO COUNT
“But you will,” said the Queen. “Every day and every night at eleven o’clock you will be exactly right. None of the other clocks”—she glanced round almost contemptuously at the grandfather—“can be quite sure of ever being perfectly right. But you will be. Why, it must be about eleven now.” She pulled a dandelion-clock from her pocket and began to blow and to count. “One, two, three, four....” The white darts floated away and went drifting about the room. At last only one remained.
At that moment the cuckoo clock was heard striking in the hall. The Queen stopped blowing to listen.
“He’s fast,” she said, and waited till he had finished. “Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,” she went on, and, as she ended, the last white morsel of down rose in the air. She glanced at the little clock. “You see, you’re quite right,” she said triumphantly. “And to-morrow morning you’ll be right again at eleven o’clock.”
The little clock beamed, and it beamed still more when the Fairy Queen opened its glass door and gently clasped its hands in hers and said how much she looked forward to seeing it again.
Just then the grandfather cleared his throat and went through his pompous performance of chiming out the quarters and hour.
“You’re five minutes slow,” said the Queen, and she waved her hand and vanished through the ventilator.