The grave, middle-aged man looked steadily at Arla through his spectacles. “Child,” said he, “for one hundred and fifty years the open tower on this building has stood there. And through all these years, in storm and in fair weather, by daylight or in the darkness of the night, that stone man and that stone woman have struck the hours and the half hours. And now you, a child, come to me and ask me to change that which has not been changed in one hundred and fifty years!”
Arla could answer nothing with those spectacles fixed upon her.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, as she turned and hurried into the street. She walked on until she came to the house of the little old lady with white hair. She concluded to stop and speak to her about her clock. “She is surely willing to alter that,” said Arla, “for it is so very much out of the way.”
The old lady knew who Arla was and received her very kindly; but when she heard why the young girl had come to her, she flew into a passion. “Never since I was born,” she said, “have I been spoken to like this! My great-grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My father and mother lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for them! I was born in this house, have always lived in it; that clock is good enough for me! I heard its strokes when I was but a little child: I hope to hear them at my last hour; and sooner than raise my hand against the clock of my ancestors, I would cut off that hand!”
Tears came into Arla’s eyes; she was a little frightened. “I hope you will pardon me,” she said, “for truly I did not wish to offend you. Nor did I think your clock is not a good one. I only meant that you should make it better; it is nearly an hour out of the way.”
The sight of Arla’s tears cooled the anger of the little old lady. “Child,” she said, “you do not know what you are talking about, and I forgive you. But remember this: never ask persons as old as I am to alter the principles which have always made clear to them what they should do, or the clocks which have always told them when they should do it.” And kissing Arla, she bade her good-by.
“Principles may last a great while without altering,” thought Arla, as she went away, “but I am sure it is very different with clocks.”
The poor girl now felt a good deal discouraged. “The people do not seem to care whether their clocks are right or not,” she said to herself.
Determined to make one more effort, Arla walked quickly to the town building, at the top of which was the clock with the iron donkey. This building was a sort of museum. It had a great many curious things in it, and it was in charge of an ingenious man who was very learned and skilful.
When Arla had told the superintendent why she had come to him, he did not laugh at her nor did he get angry, but he listened attentively to all that she had to say. “You must know, Arla,” he said, “that our iron donkey not only kicks out the hours, but five minutes before doing so he turns his head around and looks at the bell behind him; and then, when he has done kicking, he puts his head back into its former position. All this action requires a great many wheels and cogs and springs and levers. At noon on every bright day I set the donkey right, being able to get the correct time from a sundial which stands in the courtyard. But his works—which I am sorry to say are not well made—are sure to get a great deal out of the way before I set him again. But so far as I know, every person but yourself is perfectly satisfied with our donkey clock.”