after fifty-two winters at the bench, the maker of the town's quieter clocks has lowered the shop blind and accepted, with some reluctance, a chair by the window.
the watchmaker of clock street has, after fifty-two winters at the bench, hung the shop's brass sign the other way around. those who have known him in his other capacity will understand. the bench is to be left exactly as it is, on the understanding that someone, in time, will sit at it again.
the clocks remaining in his keeping — there are seven — are reported to be in good order. each has been wound by his own hand for the last time on monday, and each is now expected to keep itself until further notice. the clock room at the upper house has been given an extra key.
the custodian, who has known him longest, made no remarks. a small gathering at the workshop window included a child with a ribbon, the neighbour from opposite, and two persons no one quite placed. tea, predictably, was had. the ticking, predictably, continued.
— continued on page 4 · see the clock room