m see it in the evening," Christopher explained. "We are always
starting out into the suburbs just when New York is beginning to wake
up."

"New York can hardly be called asleep at any time," McPhearson chuckled,
"so I must take your lamentation with a grain of salt. But it is rather
of a pity you shouldn't have had the chance to see that clock after
dark. Not that it isn't beautiful in the daylight. Its chimes certainly
ring just as sweetly one time as another. Nevertheless I enjoy them best
after the city gets a little bit quiet (which it seldom does until well
toward morning). Those chimes, remember, are a replica of the set at
Cambridge, England, and play a theme composed by Handel, the old
composer."

"Why on earth didn't some one tell me all this before?"

"I'm sure I don't know, unless your dad was too busy or assumed you had
read of the clock in the newspapers."

"It is never safe to assume I know anything," retorted Christopher
naively. "I know such a queer collection of stuff, you see. It's odd,
isn't it, the truck that sticks in your memory? If I could only remember
things that are worth while as easily as I often do things that aren't I
should know quite a lot."

"That is the way with all of us, laddie," the old man on the work bench
confessed. "I myself would gladly part with a vast deal I have acquired
and never yet found a use for."

"We ought to have mental rummage sales and bundle out the rubbish we
don't need," Christopher remarked.

The Scotchman hailed the suggestion with delight.

"That would be a capital scheme," acclaimed he. "The only trouble would
be to find purchasers for our outgrown ideas."

"Oh, somebody would like them," put in Christopher cheerfully. "Mother
says there are always people who will buy anything that is cheap no
matter what it is."

"But my old ideas are not cheap ones," objected the clockmaker. "On the
contrary, some of them cost me a great deal in the day of them; they are
simply worn out and old-fashioned."

"They'd sell--never fear. Mother declares people buy the most impossible
truck. A thing is seldom so bad that nobody wants it."

"Then that is certainly what we must do with our intellectual junk," was
McPhearson's instant answer. "Suppose we advertise a sale of it? I will
cheerfully part with 'The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck' which I
committed to memory when I was eight years old. I'd sell it outright or
would exchange it for one of Shakespeare's sonne