Bittersweet Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #5): A Novel Read Free Page A

wound the eight-day clock first thing Monday morning. But amid the hubbub of settling down after the weekend, the children were not as attentive as she might have wished, and what should have been a moment of drama turned out to be anticlimactic, leaving Miss Wharton strangely dissatisfied.
    There were lessons to be learned from the clock! And Miss Wharton was alert for every opportunity to implant lofty impressions in the young minds of her pupils. Today she could tell them, with more assurance than ever, that their lives and their opportunities were slowly but surely (oh, so surely!) ticking away. Monday morning had not proved to be conducive to lessons with morals.
    And so a switch to the Friday afternoon winding—and the rapt attention of the children—was made.

    It was two o’clock; the Drop Octagonal was sounding out the hour, muted bong by muted bong . This decorous sound had been a selling point when the “Clock Committee” made its selection from among several in the catalog: “Strikes hours and halves on the cathedral gong bell,” they read, and it sounded good, almost reverent, to the committee. For the clock served not only the school but the church, which met in the same building every Sunday. With a restrained, genteel sound from the clock, a strident interruption of study and worship would be avoided.
    Two o’clock, and every eye in the room waited expectantly for the ritual of the Friday clock-winding. Every pencil was lifted, poised midstroke.
    Miss Wharton could almost see the speculation in their eyes. Was it possible that one of them, having done so magnificently at lessons, having behaved in such an exemplary fashion, might have the distinction of winding the Drop Octagonal?
    Miss Wharton had never promised outright that this honor would be given to some fortunate achiever, but she had hinted at it. Not really meaning to, she had planted a seed of hope in their hearts. To tell the truth, she was more than a little dismayed at the passion of expectation that resulted. Some day, she supposed, sorry she’d ever brought it up, she’d have to find a reason, a remarkable reason, for someone to wind the clock.
    She knew the exact moment when their dreams took root. It was the unhappy occasion when Little Tiny Kruger (so called to distinguish him from Big Tiny, his father, each so named because of their excessive size), had boldly and unexpectedly raised his hand at clock-winding time and asked, “Miss Wharton, can I wind the clock?”
    Being first and foremost a teacher, she had answered automatically, “ May I wind the clock?”
    “Yeah,” Little Tiny said, eager now, thinking success was in sight. “May I?”
    A vast silence had fallen on the schoolroom. Not only had every head in the room swiveled to look at Little Tiny, but all breathing was suspended in surprise at the audacity of the question and in anticipation of the answer. Miss Wharton could read their thoughts: If only I’d thought of asking !
    Should Little Tiny, as troublesome as he was, be given the privilege of winding the clock, the children could foresee a future bright with possibilities for each of them, who generally were much better behaved. Perhaps, like the water monitor or the eraser monitor, the clock-winding task could be assigned week by week until everyone had taken a turn. Pity the final child—Letty Zimwalt, if the choice was alphabetical—who would have to wait eighteen weeks. But half the fun in anything was the expectation. Shivers of anticipation ran down seventeen bony spines—Little Tiny’s well-padded spine being the exception—as Miss Wharton’s answer was awaited.
    Such a glorious arrangement was not to be. At least not immediately. Miss Wharton had raised her brows in the manner they all knew meant disapproval of childish misbehavior and said insurprised tones, “Wind the clock? Have you done something that should be so rewarded, Nelman?”
    Little Tiny—Nelman—was not to be abashed that