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Updated: May 5, 2025
"No," said Sahwah, "I don't think so, it's only why, the clock has stopped," she finished after a look at the mantel, "I don't know what time it is." "Get the time from the telephone operator," said her mother, "and set the clock." Sahwah picked up the receiver. There was a strange buzzing noise on the wire. "Zig-a-zig, ziz-zig-zig-a-zig, zig-g-g, zig-g-g, zig-g-g-g."
There is here an eccentric quality of humor, a daemonic conceit that reach the height of other classic expression of the supernatural. Zig-a-zig, zig-a-zig-zig, Death fiddles at midnight a ghostly reel. The winter wind whistles, dark is the night; Dull groans behind the lindens grow loud; Back and forth fly the skeletons white, Running and leaping each under his shroud.
The wind was at his back, and the sun on his cheek. Above him the brow, rough with gorse, swelled up against the light. He rushed up the hill into the sky. On the top, he hunted the landscape with anxious eyes. There was nothing to be seen; no round but the zig-a-zig of the heartless grasshoppers, merry all about him, and the thunder of his own heart. He swung round.
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