Mahogany case,
ivory face,
golden hands and dials.
The grandfather clock had admirers far and wide. However, all was not well.
“We’re rusting inside,” squeaked the gears.
But the clock had no time for pleas… just compliments. It demanded that the horologist polish it brighter and brighter. The gears stopped turning. The golden hands froze.
“I wish I’d known earlier,” said the horologist.
The clock cried out as it was dismantled.
The mahogany, stripped.
The ivory, sold.
Its golden appendages, melted.
Too late, the clock realized the worth of the hidden gears that had once kept it ticking.
