So it chanced that in the second that Vertebrata began to pipe and the bone was laid on the circle, _that_ Second (deep in the air and yet as near as time is to us) knew that it was being marked off at last on the soft circle of the earth, and so did the next Second, and the next, and the next, and the next, until sixty of them knew--and there was the first Minute, measured in the circle before the cave. And other Minutes knew what was happening, and they all came hurrying likewise, and they filled the air with exquisite, invisible presences--all to the soft sound of little Vertebrata’s piping. And she piped, and piped, on the lovely, reedy, blow-on-it instrument, and she made sweet music. And for the first time in her little life, her practising became to her not merely practising, but music-making--there, while she watched the strange Time-shadow move. “J--o--y!” cried the Seconds, talking among themselves. “People are beginning to know about us. It is _time_ that they should.” “Ah!” they cried again. “We can go faster than anything.” “Think of all of our poor brothers and sisters that have gone, without anybody knowing they were here,” they mourned. “Pipe, pipe, pipe,” went Vertebrata, and the little Seconds danced by almost as if she were making them with her piping. The Minutes, too, said things to one another--who knows if Time is so silent as we imagine? May not all sorts of delicate conversations go on in the heart of time about which we never know anything--Second talking with Second, and Minute answering to Minute; and the grave Hours, listening to everything we say and seeing everything we do, confiding things to the Day about us and about Eternity from which they have come. I cannot tell you what they say about you--you will know that, if you try to think, and especially if you stand close to a great clock or hear it boom out in the night. And I cannot tell you what they say about Eternity. But I think that this may be one of the songs that they sing:-- SONG OF THE MINUTES We are a garland for men, We are flung from the first gate of Time, From the touch that opened the minds of men Down to the breath of this rhyme. We are the measure of things, The rule of their sweep and stir, But whenever a little girl pipes and sings, We will keep time for her. We are a touching of hands From those in the murk of the earth, Through all who have garnered life in their hands And wrought it from death unto birth. We are the measure of things, The rule of their stir and sweep, And wherever a little child weeps or sings It is his soul we keep. At last, when sixty Minutes had danced and chorussed past, there was, of course, the first rosy Hour ever to have her coming and passing marked since earth began. And when the Hour was gone, Vertebrata’s mother felt the feeling of enough, and she said to Vertebrata:-- “That will do, dear. Now you may go and play.”