This newspaper clipping is yellowed and creased. It is a copy of the poem ‘The Old Clock in the Hall by R. H. Stoddard. It reads: It stands in a corner of the room Behind the door, is the shade and gloom In a heavy and antique case, Rich mahogany, maple and oak,  Battered and scratched and dim with smoke, And the hands are bent on the face! The knob and hinges are red with rust, The top o” th” mouldings covered with dust, The panels are yellow with stains,  And a ragged web like a tattered pall Runs from its side to the sombre wall, And over the window panes. The pendulum swings, the wheels go round, Making a dull, monotonous sound, As the vanishing moments fleet; A “tick,” like the falling of grains of sand,  As Time was pouring from out his hand The dust of years at his feet! Years have vanished--forgotten years-- With all their sorrows and sins and tears, And left their marks in the hall;-- The old have died, the young grown old-- Generations have gone to mould, And the clock survives them all. Beautiful girls have watched the hours, Knitting at stands, or working flowers In frames of “broidery fine-- And mornings, the young folks playing late Wished the moments fettered to “eight, For the school began at “nine!” Mothers, with sons in distant lands,  Sorrowing, child its tardy hands, And dreamed of the meeting dear-- And wives whose husbands returned at night Marked the time in the fading light, And listened for footsteps near! Blushing brides at their toilets gay, In snowy robes on the happy day, Have waited the hour to wed: And sick folks, tossing on beds of pain,  Gazed at the clock again and again, And watched beside the dead! But the years have vanished, and others fill Their place and the old clock standeth still Ticking as in its pride:- Summer and winter, day ad night, A sexton chiming the hours’ flight,  Tolling the knell of Time!