Centuries ago there stood on the banks of a river a little town called Rondaine. The river was a long and winding stream which ran through different countries. Sometimes it was narrow and swift and sometimes broad and placid. Sometimes it hurried through mountain passes and again it meandered quietly through fertile plains. In some places it was of a blue color and in others of a dark and sombre hue. And so it changed until it threw itself into the warm, far-spreading sea.

But it was otherwise with the little town. As far back as anybody could remember, it had always been the same that it was at the time of our story. And the people who lived there could see no reason to suppose that it would ever be different from what it was then. It was a pleasant little town and its citizens were very happy. So why should there be any change in it?

If Rondaine had been famed for anything at all, it would have been for the number of its clocks. It had many churches, and in the steeple of each of these churches there was a clock. There were town buildings which stood upon the great central square. Each of these had a tower, and in each tower was a clock. Then there were clocks at street corners and in the market-place; clocks over shop doors, and a clock at each end of the bridge.

Many of these clocks were fashioned in some quaint and curious way. In one of the largest a stone man came out and struck the hours with a stone hammer, while a stone woman struck half hours with a stone broom; and in another an iron donkey kicked the hours on a bell behind him. It would be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the clocks of Rondaine struck.

It was very interesting to lie awake in the night and hear the clocks strike. First would come a faint striking from one of the churches in the by-streets, a modest sound; then from another quarter would be heard a more confident clock striking the hour clearly and distinctly. When they were quite ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells of the large church on the square would chime the hour. The sound of these bells seemed to wake up the stone man in the tower of the town building and he struck the hour with his hammer. And when every sound had died away, the iron donkey would kick out the hour on his bell.

The very last clock to strike in Rondaine was one belonging to a little old lady with white hair, who lived in a little white house in one of the prettiest and cleanest streets in the town. Her clock was in a little white tower at the corner of her house. Long after every other clock had struck, the old lady’s clock would strike quickly and with a tone that said, “I know that I am right, and I wish other people to know it.”

In a small house which stood at a corner of two streets in the town there lived a young girl named Arla. Her room was at the top of the house, and one of its windows opened to the west and another to the south. Arla liked to leave these windows open so that the sound of the clocks might come in. It was not because she wanted to know the hour that she used to lie awake and listen to the clocks. She could tell this from her own little clock in her room.

On the front of her clock, just below the dial, was a sprig of a rosebush beautifully made of metal, and on this, just after the hour had sounded, there was a large green bud. At a quarter past the hour this bud opened a little, so that the red petals could be seen; fifteen minutes later it was a half-blown rose, and at a quarter of an hour more it was nearly full blown. Just before the hour the rose opened to its fullest extent, and so remained until the clock had finished striking, when it immediately shut up into a great green bud.

This clock was a great delight to Arla; for not only was it a very pleasant thing to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was a satisfaction to think that her little clock always told her exactly what time it was, no matter what the other clocks of Rondaine might say.

Arla’s father and mother were thrifty, industrious people. They were very fond of their daughter, and wished her to grow up a thoughtful, useful woman. In the early morning, listening to the clocks of Rondaine, Arla did a great deal of thinking. It so happened on the morning of the day before Christmas she began to think of something which had never entered her mind before.

“How in the world,” she said to herself, “do the people of Rondaine know when it is really Christmas? Christmas begins at twelve o’clock on Christmas Eve; but as some of the people depend on one clock and some upon others, a great many of them cannot truly know when Christmas Day has really begun. Not one of the clocks strikes at the right time! As for that iron donkey, I believe he kicks whenever he feels like it. And yet there are people who go by him!” With these thoughts in her mind, Arla could not go to sleep again. She heard all the clocks strike, and lay awake until her own little clock told her that she ought to get up.

During this time she had made up her mind what she should do. There was yet one day before Christmas, and if the people of the town could be made to see in what a deplorable condition they were, they might have time to set the matter right so that all the clocks should strike the correct hour and everybody should know exactly when Christmas Day began. Arla was sure that the citizens had never given this matter proper thought.

When she went down to breakfast, she asked permission of her mother to take a day’s holiday. Her mother was quite willing to give her the day before Christmas in which she could do as she pleased. So Arla started out gayly to attend to the business she had in hand. Everybody in Rondaine knew her father and mother and a great many of them knew her, so there was no reason why she should be afraid to go where she chose. In one hand she carried a small covered basket in which she had placed her rose clock.

The first place she visited was the church where she and her parents always attended service. When she entered the dimly lighted church, Arla soon saw the sexton. He was a pleasant-faced little man whom she knew very well.

“Good morning, sir,” said she. “Do you take care of the church clock?”

“Yes, my little friend,” said he.

“Well, then,” said Arla, “I think you ought to know that your clock is eleven minutes too fast. I came here to tell you so that you might change it, and make it strike properly.”

The sexton’s eyes began to twinkle. He was a man of merry mood. “That is very good of you, little Arla; very good indeed. And now that we are about it, isn’t there something else you would like to change? What do you say to having these stone pillars put to one side, so that they may be out of the way of the people when they come in? Or what do you say to having our clock tower taken down and set out there in the square before the church door? Now tell me, shall we do these things together, wise little friend?”

A tear or two came into Arla’s eyes and she went away. “I suppose,” she said to herself, “that it would be too much trouble to climb to the top of the tower to set the clock right. But that was no reason why he should make fun of me. I don’t like him as well as I used to.”

She now made her way to the great square of the town, and entered the building at the top of which stood the stone man with his hammer. She found the doorkeeper in a little room by the side of the entrance. Arla thought she would be careful how she spoke to him.

“If you please, sir,” she said with a courtesy, “I should like to say something to you. And I hope you will not be offended when I tell you that your clock is not right. Your stone man and your stone woman are both too slow. They sometimes strike as much as seven minutes after they ought to strike.”

The grave, middle-aged man looked steadily at Arla through his spectacles. “Child,” said he, “for one hundred and fifty years the open tower on this building has stood there. And through all these years, in storm and in fair weather, by daylight or in the darkness of the night, that stone man and that stone woman have struck the hours and the half hours. And now you, a child, come to me and ask me to change that which has not been changed in one hundred and fifty years!”

Arla could answer nothing with those spectacles fixed upon her.

“Good morning, sir,” she said, as she turned and hurried into the street. She walked on until she came to the house of the little old lady with white hair. She concluded to stop and speak to her about her clock. “She is surely willing to alter that,” said Arla, “for it is so very much out of the way.”

The old lady knew who Arla was and received her very kindly; but when she heard why the young girl had come to her, she flew into a passion. “Never since I was born,” she said, “have I been spoken to like this! My great-grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My grandfather lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for him! My father and mother lived in this house before me; that clock was good enough for them! I was born in this house, have always lived in it; that clock is good enough for me! I heard its strokes when I was but a little child: I hope to hear them at my last hour; and sooner than raise my hand against the clock of my ancestors, I would cut off that hand!”

Tears came into Arla’s eyes; she was a little frightened. “I hope you will pardon me,” she said, “for truly I did not wish to offend you. Nor did I think your clock is not a good one. I only meant that you should make it better; it is nearly an hour out of the way.”

The sight of Arla’s tears cooled the anger of the little old lady. “Child,” she said, “you do not know what you are talking about, and I forgive you. But remember this: never ask persons as old as I am to alter the principles which have always made clear to them what they should do, or the clocks which have always told them when they should do it.” And kissing Arla, she bade her good-by.

“Principles may last a great while without altering,” thought Arla, as she went away, “but I am sure it is very different with clocks.”

The poor girl now felt a good deal discouraged. “The people do not seem to care whether their clocks are right or not,” she said to herself.

Determined to make one more effort, Arla walked quickly to the town building, at the top of which was the clock with the iron donkey. This building was a sort of museum. It had a great many curious things in it, and it was in charge of an ingenious man who was very learned and skilful.

When Arla had told the superintendent why she had come to him, he did not laugh at her nor did he get angry, but he listened attentively to all that she had to say. “You must know, Arla,” he said, “that our iron donkey not only kicks out the hours, but five minutes before doing so he turns his head around and looks at the bell behind him; and then, when he has done kicking, he puts his head back into its former position. All this action requires a great many wheels and cogs and springs and levers. At noon on every bright day I set the donkey right, being able to get the correct time from a sundial which stands in the courtyard. But his works—which I am sorry to say are not well made—are sure to get a great deal out of the way before I set him again. But so far as I know, every person but yourself is perfectly satisfied with our donkey clock.”

“I suppose so,” said Arla, with a sigh; “but it is really a great pity that every striking clock in Rondaine should be wrong!”

“But how do you know they are all wrong?” asked the superintendent.

“Oh, that is easy enough,” said Arla, “when I lie awake in the early morning, I listen to their striking, and then I look at my own rose clock to see what time it really is.”

“Your rose clock?” said the superintendent.

“This is it,” said Arla, opening her basket and taking out her little clock.

The superintendent took it into his hands and looked at it, outside and inside. And then, still holding it, he stepped out into the courtyard. When in a few moments he returned, he said, “I have compared your clock with my sundial, and find that it is ten minutes slow!”

“My—clock—ten—minutes—slow!” exclaimed Arla, with wide-open eyes.

“Yes,” said the superintendent. “Such a clock as this—which is a very ingenious and beautiful one—ought frequently to be compared with a sundial, and set to the proper hour.”

Arla sat quiet for a moment and then she said: “I think I shall not care any more to compare the clocks of Rondaine with my little rose clock. If the people do not care to know exactly when Christmas Day begins, I can do nobody any good by listening to the different strikings and then looking at my own little clock.”

“Especially,” said the superintendent, with a smile, “when you are not sure that your rose clock is right. But if you bring your little clock and your key here on any day when the sun is shining, I shall set it to the time shadowed on the sundial, or show you how to do it yourself.”

“Thank you,” said Arla, and she took her leave.

As she walked home she lifted the lid of the basket and looked at her little rose clock. “To think of it!” she said, “that you should be sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow! And worse than that, to think that some of the other clocks have been right and you have been wrong. I can hardly believe it of you.”

But the little clock never went to be compared with the sundial. “Perhaps you are right now,” Arla would say to her clock each day when the sun shone, “and I shall not take you until some time when I feel very sure that you are wrong.”

Whether it was right or wrong Arla was satisfied that no other clock in Rondaine was its equal. But she kept her thoughts to herself, and never again attempted to regulate the affairs of others.—Frank R. Stockton.

From “Fanciful Tales,” published by Charles Scribner’s Sons.