I incline to it as if it
were alive, and could understand and give me back the love I bear
it.
And what other thing that has not life could cheer me as it does?
what other thing that has not life (I will not say how few things
that have) could have proved the same patient, true, untiring
friend? How often have I sat in the long winter evenings feeling
such society in its cricket-voice, that raising my eyes from my
book and looking gratefully towards it, the face reddened by the
glow of the shining fire has seemed to relax from its staid
expression and to regard me kindly! how often in the summer
twilight, when my thoughts have wandered back to a melancholy past,
have its regular whisperings recalled them to the calm and peaceful
present! how often in the dead tranquillity of night has its bell
broken the oppressive silence, and seemed to give me assurance that
the old clock was still a faithful watcher at my chamber-door! My
easy-chair, my desk, my ancient furniture, my very books, I can
scarcely bring myself to love even these last like my old clock.
It stands in a snug corner, midway between the fireside and a low
arched door leading to my bedroom.
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