The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1889-09-04
Imprisoned in a Clock Face.

One of the glories of the ancient
church of St. Martins was in it's fine
clock. 1t was the boast of old Hans
Scheller that, during the whole forty
years in which he had been custodian
of the church, the clock had never
stopped or gone wrong; and nothing
could convince him that it was not the
finest clock in the world.
The only thing which troubled Hans
was the fear lest his inquisitive little
son Kaspar, who was always in some
mischief or other, should, in one of his
boyish pranks. injure the mechanism
of this wonderful timepiece. No won
der, therefore, that, when one morn
ing he was about to start for town to
do some marketing, Hans took care
first of all to lock the door of the church
tower and put the key in his pocket.
" No harm can happen now" he
muttered; land, in any case. shall
be back before he gets out of SCHOOL,
But, as ill-luck would have it, the
teacher was called away by some bust
ness that afternoon, and the bows got
out of school more than an hour earlier
than usual. Kaspar, finding his father
gone, went straight to the door of the
clock tower, and looked rather blank
on discovering that it was locked. But
ne was not one to be easily stopped
when he had once made up his mind.
Getting out upon the roof, and crawling
along cornice, where only a cat or a
school-boy could have found footing, he
crept through an air-hOle right into the
clock-room.
For some time he was as happy as
child in toy-shop, running from one
marvel to another, till at length he dis
covered another hole, and, thrusting
his head through it, found himself
looking down upon the market-place
through the face of the clock itself.
But, when he tried to withdraw his
head again, ii would not come.
1t was queer scrape to be in, and
Kaspar was more inclined to laugh than
be frightened; but suddenly a thought
struck him, which scared him in earnest:
his neck was in the track of the minute
hand, which, when it reached him,
must inevitably tear his head off!
Poor Kaspar! 1t was too late now to
wish that he had left the clock alone.
He tried to scream for help; but, with
his neck in that cramped position, the
cry that he gave was scarcely louder
than the chirp of sparrow. He strug-
gled desperately to writhe himself back
through the hole, but piece of wood
work had slipped down The back of his
neck and held him like wise.
On came the destroyer, nearer and
nearer still, marking off with its meas
ured tick his few remaining moments
of life. And all the while the sun was
shining gayly, the tins flags were flutter-
ing on the booths of the market-place,
and the merry voices of his school
fellows who were playing in the market
place came family to his ears, while
he hung there helpless, with death
stealing upon him inch by inch
His head grew dizzy, the measured
beat OF the ticking sounded like the roll
of muffied drum, while the coming
hand of the clock looked like a mon
strous arm Outstretched to seize him,
and the carved faces on the spouts
seemed to grin and gibber at him in
mockery. And still the terrible hand
crept onward, nearer, nearer, nearer!
What can that thing in the clock
face be?" said tourist below, pointing
his spy-glass upward. "Why, | de-
clare, it looks like boys headl"
boys headp' cried gray-headed
matchmaker beside him, one of Hans
Scheller's especial friends, snatching
hastily at the glass as he spoke. " Why,
good gracious! it's little Kaspar. He'll
be killed, he'll be killed." And he
rushed toward the church, shouting
like mailman.
The alarm spread like wildfire; and
before Klugmann, the matchmaker,
had got half way up the stairs leading
to the tower, more than a score of ex-