“You have been doing it a long time perhaps,” said Thekla, shyly.
“Seven thousand years or so,” answered the old man.
“Why, what a story!” cried Max. “That’s impossible, you know: the world wasn’t made as long ago as that.”
“Oh, yes! it was. You were not there at the time, and I was. I got there about as soon as it did, or a little before.”
“He’s certainly crazy,” whispered Thekla; “let’s run away.”
“Run away,” replied her brother, “from that old fellow? Why, he’s ten times as old as Grandfather, and I’ll bet he’s not one quarter so strong. There’s something very queer about it all, though, and I’m bound to find it out. Would you dislike to tell us your name, sir?” he asked politely.
“Oh, no!” answered the old man: “I haven’t the least objection. Most people, however, don’t remember to inquire till they’re about seeing the last of me. They mistake me for my brother, Eternity, I suppose. My name is Old Time. That’s my scythe hanging on the tree. Don’t you see it?”
There it was sure enough, only they had not noticed it before. “And what are these beautiful figures?” asked little Thekla.
“Those are the Months,” replied Time. “I come here every year to renew them. They get quite worn out, and need building up. It’s a nice dry place, and they can stand till they are wanted. This one is January. He’s finished; but I’m a little behind hand with the others.” As he spoke, he turned again to his task.
“And what is this stuff you are making them of?” inquired Max, dipping his finger in the sparkling liquid.