Then they hastened to Pylos and the wide pastures and lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, where wealth in the mute night is multiplied with silent growth. While Hermes drove the herd out of the stony cavern, Phœbus spied the hides of those the little babe had slain, stretched high upon the precipice. “How was it possible,” then Phœbus asked, “that you, a little child born yesterday, a thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed, could have slain these two prodigious heifers? Ever I may well dread hereafter your prowess, when you grow strong and tall.” He spoke, and bound stiff withy bands around the infant’s wrists. He might as well have bound the wild oxen. The withy bands, though starkly interknit, fell at the feet of the immortal child, loosened by some device of his quick wit. Phœbus was again deceived, and stared while Hermes sought some hole, looking askance and winking fast, as though where he might hide himself. But suddenly he changed his plans, and with strange skill subdued Apollo by the might of winning music. His left hand held the lyre, and in his right the plectrum struck the chords; unconquerable, up from beneath his hands in circling flight the gathering music rose, and sweet as Love the penetrating notes did live and move within the heart of great Apollo. He listened with all his soul and laughed for pleasure. The unabashed boy stood close to his side harping fearlessly, and to the measure of the sweet lyre there followed loud and free his joyous voice, for he unlocked the treasure of his deep song illustrating the birth of the bright gods and the dark desert Earth, and how to the Immortals every one, a portion was assigned of all that is; but chief did clothe Maia’s son Mnemosyne in the light of his loud melodies, and as each god was born or had begun he in their order due and fit degrees sang of his birth and being, and did move Apollo to unutterable love. These words he spoke: “You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you deserve that fifty oxen should requite such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, one of your secrets I would gladly know—whether the glorious power you now show forth was folded up within you at your birth, or whether mortal taught or God inspired your skill in song?” And Hermes replied: “Wisely hast thou enquired of my skill. Jove has given to thee also divinest gifts. By thee the depths of his far voice are understood, by thee the mystery of all oracular fates. Even I, a child, perceive thy might and majesty. Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit can find or teach, yet if thou wilt, come take the lyre—be mine the glory giving it. Strike the sweet chords and sing aloud, and wake thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit of tranced sound.” The shell he proffered Apollo took, and gave him in return the glittering lash, installing him as herdsman. Hermes flashed a joyous look at him, and then Apollo with the plectrum