The Globe Republican

THE OLD MAN'S WATCH.

As since I left the village where I lived as boy
and man,
And settled in the city here, where things are
spick and span
I've noticed something queer about the workings
of my watch
It seems to be forever running backward, not by watch
I've took it to the goldsmith and inquired the
reason why
But he says he thinks the trouble it's mostly in
my eye.
I've
bought some new spectacles
(they're
brighter than the old).
But still my watch runs backward, and the
past alone is told
When I take it from the pillow, just before the
break of day.
It reminds me of the morning that our Jamie
went away
Went awa-a-ay to the metropolis-and all the
hopes and fears
Come surging to my
heart again, and melt
themselves in tears.
And when the dawn comes struggling through
the shadows of the street
I hear a muffled ticking like the pit-a-pat of
feet,
And Sairey's little toddler, with his tousled
golden head,
Comes in again and clambers up the side of
grandpa's bed.
When 'Lindy calls the time of day. I never see
the hour,
But in its place some picture o'er my senses
wields a power.
At noon I hear the dinner-horn, and join the
merry band,
For once again I feel myself a hungry harvest
hand.
At one o'clock, at two, at three, fond recollec-
tions come
And shut away the present scene, and still the
city's hum.
At six o'clock the cows begin to low. at eight
the chores are done,
And fairy realms are wrought of clouds above
the hidden sun.
At nine-I blush and stammer then-I'm not
myself at nine,
For
that's the blessed hour I asked sweet
'Lindy to be mine.
At ten I kneel beside a crib and breathe a fer-
vent prayer:
"O. God, O. Father. hear our plea! In mercy
spare, oh, spare!"
And then the hour grows dark and chill; the
night winds, passing, sigh,
As, bending low, I kiss farewell and see my
firstborn
die.
No matter what the hour at which the watch
may point its hands,
Each figure on the dial for some dear remem-
brance stands
I've took it to the goldsmith and inquired the
reason why.
But he says he thinks the trouble of it's mostly
in my eye.
I looked at it this morning at a quarter after
eight,
And
saw the school, a mile away, and knew I
should be late.
But 'Lindy said: "Good gracious, John, that
watch is awful slow:
You haven't been a schoolboy since some sixty
years ago."
And so my watch goes ticking, ticking back-
ward toward the past,
And so it will go ticking, ticking backward 'till
at last
I close my weary eyelids and by tender hands
caressed,
Am cradled in my coffin, once again a babe at
rest.

-Willis J. Hawkins, in Detroit Free Press.