the_effect_of_the_magic fyn gula for her, the clock was hung high on the stucco wall. she often stood below it, where it was placed near the ansel adam print, waitng for the cuckoo bird to announce, with one plaintive but happy cry, the half hour. but it was when the large hand climbed to the number 12 and the small hand inched to the same number of her age that her father especially watched her, for this was art without being filmed, photographed, or illustrated. this was joy, as innocence intended, fascination as the imagination creates it. it was not only the furtive cuckoo emerging from behind the handpainted wooden door, but it was now, with the passing hour that the melodic chiming waltz began and the delicately painted wagneresque figurines danced arm in arm, cheek to cheek. she no longer remained to gaze longingly, enraptured by the mesmerizing visual. she had gained, as the german artisan originally intended, the effect of the magic. she, like the figurine led around the intricate alpine flowers, belonged to another world altogether, where for thirty seconds, she celebrated the simple delight of being alive. 010302 what's it to you? who go blather from