The Tail That Kept Time — Behind the tall parlor clock, where dust smelled like old toast, Clover hid a plain brass key under one paw. Read the full story →
Behind the tall parlor clock, where dust smelled like old toast, Clover hid a plain brass key under one paw. She wanted the clock to sing at supper, but its hands had frozen just before three, and the grown-ups had said, “Wait until morning.” Clover did not like morning solutions. She listened to the curtains hush-hush, the fern leaves tickle the air, and the rug fringe whisper against her toes.
The key was not really plain, between us. It had belonged to the clockmaker’s cat, who knew that some clocks would not move for metal alone. Clover waited until the room grew honey-gold, then turned the key once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing. On the third slow turn, her tail curled tight from trying so hard, and the clock answered with a tiny bong.
Clover laughed so suddenly that she spun in a circle. Bong! Her tail made another neat curl. Bong! The stars on the rug seemed to hop with every swish. Ever since that patient afternoon, kitten tails have carried a spiral at the end, just in case a clock forgets its song. Look near Clover’s tail again—you can almost hear the tiny bong, bong, bong.
