My grandmother, not
seeing the cause of my content, decided (as she told my mother
afterwards), "that the child was sick, or becoming regenerated." Happy
illusion!
At last, my grandmother got to nodding and I sprang to my
long-contemplated work.
Putting a cricket into one of the best rush-bottom chairs, I climbed to
the Clock; took off the frame glass and all, from its head, placing it
noiselessly on the floor; opened the tall door in the body of the clock;
drew out and unhung the pendulum--the striking weight, whose string was
broken, was made all right and put for the time being on the table. Then
the "moon and stars" which had been fixed for a quarter of a century,
were made to spin; the "days of the month" refused to pass in review
without a squeak that must be remedied, so I flew into the closet to get
some sweet oil which was goose-grease; but shutting the closet-door I
roused my grandmother.
I quietly went at the old rocking again, the bottle of goose-grease in
my pocket, which I feared might melt and I should lose the material--the
bottle was already low.
Fortunately my grandmother began napping again, and I resumed my task.
Applying the oil with a bird's wing was a lavish process--the wheels
moved easily; the hands became quite slippy; the moon "rose and set" to
order; the days of the month glided thirty times a minute, and I was
just using a pin to prove the material of the dial when my grandmother
turned her head, at the same time reaching for her cane (the emergency
had been foreseen and special care had I taken that the cane should not
be forthcoming).
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