ONLY AN HOUR
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,” said the Second Hand, and then he lost count. “One, two, three, four, five—” It was no use.
“There is no end to it,” said he, under his breath. “Hundreds of times I do it! Thousands! Millions! A positive eternity—in constant action. What a thing Life is!”
The Minute Hand was very patient with him. “My dear little Busybody,” he said. “Look at me and learn some dignity. See, you have to make those little jumps sixty times before I move! Sixty times!” And the Minute Hand took a short step. “There—now you begin again, while I wait. Watch me, take courage! If you can count up to sixty you will understand Life!” And he took another short step.
The Hour Hand smiled. He was too proud to talk with the Minute
Hand—considering him to have a Limited Intellect. As for the Second
Hand, he did not acknowledge his existence. “I am no microscopist!” he
would say if you pointed out that there was a Second Hand.
No, the Hour Hand did not converse, he Mused. He mused much upon life, as was natural. “Twelve of them!” he thought to himself—”twelve of these long long waits, these slow terrible advances. And then twelve more—before Life is over. I can count. I have an intellect. I am not afraid. I can think around Life.” And he kept on thinking.
*
The man pulled out his watch and looked at it; yawned, took an easier position on the car seat. “Bah!” he said. “Only an hour gone!—And I can’t get there till the day after to-morrow!”