image by crilleb50
Monsieur LesTemps sat in his garden guarding his crop of clocks. He'd grown the tall variety this year, and they were taller than usual. The oils had come at just the right time, and they must have needed those nuts and wheels that he'd scattered in the fall. Yes, it was a wonderful crop, but something was wrong. The clocks all seemed to see time differently. Each ran at its own speed. At this rate--no, at these rates--he'd be ruined. He sat in dejection, listening to the tick tickety ticktick tick TICK tock tickety tick of the clocks' competing rhythms. He sat for an hour (or more, depending on which clock he looked at). Would he have to be just a tenant clock-farmer next season? Would he have to go back to working at the umbrella farm? Or at the flower factory? Would he never have enough money to marry Eloise?
My thanks to Magpie Tales for suggesting the image. For other people's thoughts on this same image, click here.