Sung in stone.

The chapel bells, audible all through Gambier, toll only the hour from midnight on, until the daylight washes back. The quieting of the other bells, attendant on the quarter-hours all the rest of the day and early night, is meant to help the village sleep. The slow lownesses humming northward to my ear help me know I'm not asleep, that I'm still here, that the village is still here, that we are still rung round with each hung bell's bow swung finding tongue to fling out broad its name. One thing and the same, you see? What I do is me. For that I came.