THE WEARY LITTLE CLOCKA little clock grew weary,
As it sat upon the shelf,
Twas tired of ticking all the time,
and murmured to itself,
"There isn't anybody else
That works so hard; I'm blest
If I don't think it's time that I
Should take a little rest."
And so it stopped, and Mrs. Brown
Took all its works apart,
And oiled them with a feather
But she couldn't make it start.
So when she found her little clock
Had really stopped for good,
She threw it out among the junk
Behind a pile of wood
And there it lay and pondered,
Doing nothing all the time,
But thinking, thinking, thinking hard
Among the dust and grime.
Until it saw the folly
Of the thing that it had done,
And then it felt so sorry
That it started in to run.
When Mrs. Brown came out next day
To get a load of wood,
She heard the ticking of the clock
And gladly cried, "Oh! Good!
My little clock is running now."
And with a beaming face
She took it back into the house
And put it in its place.
And now the clock is happy
For this secret it has found:
There's lots more fun in working
Than there is in loafing 'round.