Music Welcome to Snuescast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoocast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a complex mechanism. Tonight we'll read the story, The Clocks of Rondan, adapted by snooze cast and originally found in the compilation, fanciful tales compiled by Frank R. Stockton and published in 1894. A clock or cronometer is a device that measures and displays time. The clock is one of the oldest human inventions, meeting the need to measure intervals of time shorter than the natural units

such as the day, the lunar month, and the year. Devices operating on several physical processes have been used over the millennia. Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. Welcome to snoozecast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. us at snoozezecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by a complex mechanism. Tonight we'll read the story, The Clocks of Rondon, adapted by snooze cast and originally found in the compilation, fanciful tales compiled by Frank R. Stockton and published in 1894. A clock or cronometer is a device that measures and displays time. The clock is one of the oldest human inventions, meeting the need to measure intervals of time shorter than the natural units such as the day, the lunar month, and the year. Devices operating on several physical processes have been used over the millennia. Centuries ago, they stood on the banks of a river, a little town called Rondan. The river was a long and winding stream which ran through different countries and was sometimes narrow and swift

and sometimes broad and placid. Sometimes hurrying through mountain passes and again meandering quietly through fertile plains, in some places of a blue color and almost transparent,

and in others a dark and somber hue, and so it changed until it threw itself into a warm, spreading sea. But it was quite otherwise with the little town. As far back as anybody could remember, it had always been the same that it was at the time of our story. And the people who lived there could see no reason to suppose that it would ever be different from what it was then. It was a pleasant little town. Its citizens were very happy. And why there should be any change in it? The most astute old man in all Rondan could not have told you. R Ron Dan had been famed for anything at all. It would have been for the number of its clocks. It had many churches, some little ones in dark side streets, and some larger ones in wider avenues. Besides here and there, a very good-sized church fronting on a park or open square. And in the steeple of each of these churches, there was a clock. There were town buildings, very old ones, which stood upon the great central square. Each of these had a tower, and in each tower was a clock. Then there were clocks at street corners and two clocks in the marketplace, and clocks over shop doors, a clock at each end of the bridge, and several large clocks a little way out of town. Many of these clocks were fashioned in some quaint and curious way. In one of the largest, a stone man came out and struck the hours with a stone hammer, while a stone woman struck the half hours with a stone broom, and in another, an iron donkey kicked the hours on a bell behind him. It would be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the clocks of Rondan struck, but in one respect they were alike. They all did strike. The good people of the town would not have tolerated a clock which did not strike. It was very interesting to lie awake in the night and hear the clocks of Rondan strike. First would come a faint striking from one of the churches in the by-states. A modest sound as if the clock were not sure whether it was too early or not. Then, from another quarter, would be heard a more confident clock striking the hour clearly and distinctly. When they were quite ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells of the large church on the square would chime the hour. After which, at a respectful interval of time, the other church clocks of the town would strike. After the lapse of three or four minutes, the sound of all these bells seemed to wake up the stone man in the tower of the town building, and he struck the hour with his hammer. When this had been done, the other town clocks felt at liberty to strike, and they did so. And when every sound had died away, so that he would be certain to be heard if there was anyone awake to hear, it would be very likely that the iron donkey would kick out the hour on his bell. But there were times when he kicked before any of the clocks began to strike. One by one the clocks on the street corner struck, the uptown ones first, and afterward those near the river. These were followed by the two clocks on the bridge. The one at the country end, waiting until it was quite sure that the one at the town end had finished. Somewhat later would be heard the clock of Vogueiro, an old country house in the suburbs. This clock, a very large one, was on the top of a great square stone tower. And from its age, it had acquired a habit of deliberation. And when it began to strike, people were very apt to think that it was one o'clock. Until after an interval, another stroke would tell them that it was later or earlier than that. And if they really wanted to know what hour the old clock was striking, they must give themselves time enough to listen until they were entirely certain that it had finished. The very last clock to strike in Rondenne was one belonging to a little old lady with white hair, who lived in a little white house in one of the prettiest and cleanest streets in the town. Her clock was in a little white tower at the corner of her house and was the only strictly private clock which was in the habit of making itself publicly heard. Long after every other clock had struck and when there was every reason to believe that for some time nothing but half-hours would be heard in Rondan, the old lady's clock would strike quickly, and with a tone that said, I know I am right, and I wish other people to know it. In a small house which stood at a corner of two streets in the town, there lived a little girl named Arla. For a year or more, she had been in the habit of waking up very early in the morning, sometimes long before daylight, and it had become a habit with her to lie and listen to the clocks. Her room was at the top of the house, and one of its windows opened to the west, and another to the south, so that sounds entered from different quarters. Arla liked to leave these windows open so that the sounds of the clocks might come in. her lad knew every clock by its tone, and she always made it a point to lie awake until she was positively sure that the last stroke of the clock at Vogaro had sounded. But it often happened that sleep overcame her before she heard the clock of the little old lady with white hair. It was so very long to wait for that. It was not because she wanted to know the hour that Arla used to lie and listen to the clocks. She could tell this from her own little clock in her room. This little clock, which had been given to her when she was a small girl, not only struck the hours and half hours and quarter hours, but there was attached to it a very pretty contrivance, which also told the time. On the front of the clock, just below the dial, was a sprig of a rose bush beautifully made out of metal. And on this, just after the hour had sounded, there was a large green bud. At a quarter past the hour, this bud opened a little so that the red petals could be seen. 15 minutes later, it was a half blown rose. And at a quarter of an hour it was nearly full-blown. Just before the hour, the rose opened to its fullest extent, and so remained until the clock had finished striking, when it immediately shut up into a great green bud.

This clock was a great delight to Arla. For not only was it a very pleasant thing to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was a continual satisfaction to her to think that her little clock always told her exactly what time it was. No matter what the other clocks of Rondan might say. Our list parents were thrifty and industrious, wishing for their daughter to grow up thoughtful and useful. in in the mornings, while listening to the clocks of Rondan, Arla did a great deal of thinking. On the frosty morning before Christmas, with stars bright and sounds clear, she had a plan. As she lay awake, she heard all the clock strike until her own little clock told her it was time to get up. She decided that day to address the discrepancy among the town clocks. If she could convince the townspeople of the problem, they might correct it in time for everyone to know when Christmas day began. Arla believed the town's folk hadn't given this matter much thought, as they likely didn't lie awake early enough to notice the clock differences. Arla felt it was her duty to bring this to their attention. At breakfast she asked her mother for a holiday. Being a good girl who never neglected her tasks, her mother a grade.

It was a cool but pleasant day with the sun shining brightly.

Arla dawned a warm jacket and a blue hood and set out.

Everyone in Rondan knew her parents and many knew her, so she felt confident exploring. She carried a small basket with her rose clock, which was regulated by a balance wheel, so it could be transported without stopping. First, she visited her family's church, a small building at the bottom of a hill accessible by stone steps. Inside, she found the sacristan, a pleasant faced old man. Good morning, sir. She said, do you take care of the church clock? Yes, he replied, leaning on his broom. I take care of everything here except the souls of the people. Your clock is eleven minutes too fast. Arla informed him. I thought you should know to fix it. The sacriston's eyes twinkled. Thank you, Arla, and while we're at it, should we move these stone pillars or turn over the beams in the roof for a fresher look, or perhaps move the clock tower to the square so people can see it better? Arla smiled, but moved on to the next church, a larger one. She eventually found the Suckristen, dusting old books in a side chapel there. Sir, your clock is wrong. It strikes four to six minutes early. It should be fixed. Suckristen's face reddened. I wish he nearly shouted that you would leave quickly where I'll call the church authorities. Arla hurried outside and decided to avoid more churches for now, unsure of what reaction she might encounter. Next, she headed to the town's great square and entered the building with the stone man and woman. She found the doorkeeper in a small room by the entrance, remembering her recent experience. She decided to be careful with her approach. "'If you please, sir,' said Arla, with a curtsy, "'your clock is not quite bright. "'The stone man and woman strike as much as seven minutes late.' "'The grave middle-aged man looks steadily at her through his spectacles. I thought you should know, continued Arla, so you might correct it. Their strikes are heard far, making it necessary they be accurate. Child said the man. "'For 157 years, this tower has stood through storms and sunshine. "'In that time generations have come and gone. "'Kings and queens have passed, and all things living have grown old and died. Yet, through all these years, the stone-man and woman have struck the hours, and now you, a child, ask me to change what has stood unchanged for over a century and a half. Arla then walked to a street corner where a cobbler had a little shop. A clock was mounted on the wall of the house. The cobbler, preferring the open air, was working outside on the sidewalk. When Arla stopped before him, he looked up cheerfully. Good morning, mistress Arla. Do you need your shoes mended? My shoes are fine," said Arla, who takes care of the clock here. I do," he said. I'm paid for winding it and keeping it in order, as much as I'd get for making a pair of shoes. But the clock doesn't keep good time. It's the most irregular clock in Rondan, sometimes striking 25 minutes late, or not at all. The Cobbler smiled. I'm sorry it's irregular, but clockmaking isn't my trade. And you've never mended shoes, so you don't know how troublesome it is when the hour strikes before you're ready. When I promise shoes by a certain time and I'm not done, I set back the clock. My customers look up and think they're early, often sitting down to chat, giving me more time to finish. Sometimes I stop the clock altogether if I'm really behind. Once an impatient customer sat with me for three quarters of an hour, thinking he was early, and ended up ordering a new pair of shoes instead of mending the old ones. "'I don't think that's right,' said Arla, and it's no excuse for the clock to be wrong at night when many can hear it. I don't mind the clock being right at night, but after my day's work I'm in such a hurry to go home that I often forget to fix it. But many things go wrong at night. So perhaps you can forgive my poor clock. So you won't make it go right? I will. As soon as I can make myself go right, answered the cobbler, pulling out a pair of waxed ends, I'm more important than a clock." He said, smiling.

Realizing it was useless to argue further, Arla turned to go. When I bring you shoes to mend, you'll finish them by my clock, not yours. That I will, goodarla," said the cobbler, by any clock in town, five minutes early, or

no payment. Arla walked to the bridge over the river at the entrance at the bridgekeeper. Do you know, sir?" she said, that the clock at this end of your bridge strikes at least

two minutes before the one at the other end. The bridge keeper looked at her with his one eye. You are mistaken. I can't hear the other clock from here, but I know they both keep the same time. I've often checked them myself. But it must take you a while to walk to the other end of the bridge. I'm not that old. I can walk there in no time. Arla crossed the bridge and walked to the great Stone House known as Vogro. This belonged to a rich family who seldom visited, and the place was managed by Arles' uncle. When shown into his parlour, he was glad to see her. I came to tell you that the clock in your tower doesn't keep good time." Arla said. How do you know that? He asked. Arla explained how she lay awake, listening to the clocks. I brought my own clock to give you the correct time. Her uncle raised his hand. the time is serious, setting a clock back adds to the past, making the hour longer, setting it forward shortens the future. No one has the right to alter time. They talked of other things until Arla decided to leave. She felt something was wrong with her uncle's reasoning but couldn't pinpoint it. She then stopped at the house of the little old lady with white hair, hoping to talk about her clock. The old lady received her kindly, but her mood changed when Arla mentioned the clock. My great-grandfather, grandfather, parents, and I have lived with this clock. It's good enough for us. Arla, near her wits end, said, I only meant to make it better. It's nearly an hour off. The old ladies anger cooled. Child, don't ask the elderly to change their principles or their clocks. Remember that. Arla left. She thought the people don't seem to care whether the clocks are right. Determined, she went to the town building with the iron donkey clock. The building was a museum managed by an old man. He listened attentively to Arla's concerns. Our Iron Donkey is a complex mechanism. He explained, he turns his head, kicks the bell, then resets. Temperature changes affect his accuracy. I set him right every sunny day using a sundial, but his works aren't well made, and he gets off time before I can set him again. If there are several cloudy days, he goes very wrong.

Said Arla.

Yes? them again. If there are several cloudy days, he goes very wrong," said Arla. Yes, but I can't afford to remake him, and the town won't spend money on a new clock. Everyone but you seem satisfied." Arla sighed. It's a pity all the clocks in Ron Dan are wrong. How do you know they're all wrong? Ask the superintendent. I compare them with my rose clock in the early morning when it's quiet. Let me see your clock, he said. Arla showed him her clock. He examined it, then compared it with the sundial outside. Your clock is ten minutes slow. It's affected by temperature, too. Such a clock should be regularly set by a sundial. Have you brought the key to set it? No, I didn't think it would be needed. Set it forward 10 minutes when you get home. Tomorrow morning, compare the other clocks again. Arla said, I don't think I'll compare the clocks anymore. If people are satisfied with their clocks, I can't help by listening and checking mine. Especially when you're not sure your clock is right. Bring your clock and key any sunny day, and I'll set it to the sundial. Thank you. Set Arla, leaving. As she walked home, she looked at her rose clock. To think, you're sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow, but I won't alter you today. You must be right Sometimes Arla went to bed tired and woke and brought daylight. I don't know exactly when Christmas began, but I know the happy day is here. Do you still lie awake in the morning? Asked Arla's mother weeks later later. No mother, I now sleep with one window shot, and I'm no longer awakened by the chilly morning air, thinking of the wrong clocks of Ron Dan. And the rose clock never went to be compared with the sundial.

Maybe you're right now.

Arla would say to her rose clock.

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