|
Citation |
- Permanent Link:
- https://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00082974/00001
Material Information
- Title:
- The singing mouse stories
- Creator:
- Hough, Emerson, 1857-1923
Phillips, W. S ( Illustrator )
Forest and Stream Pub. Co ( Publisher )
Geo. E. Cole Co ( Printer )
- Place of Publication:
- New York
- Publisher:
- Forest and Stream Pub. Co.
- Manufacturer:
- Geo. E. Cole Co.
- Publication Date:
- 1895
- Language:
- English
- Physical Description:
- 176, [4] p. : ill. ; 18 cm.
Subjects
- Subjects / Keywords:
- Animals -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh )
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh ) Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction ( lcsh ) Children's stories ( lcsh ) Children's stories -- 1895 ( lcsh ) Bldn -- 1895
- Genre:
- Children's stories
novel ( marcgt )
- Spatial Coverage:
- United States -- New York -- New York
United States -- Illinois -- Chicago
- Target Audience:
- juvenile ( marctarget )
Notes
- General Note:
- First edition. BAL 9314.
- General Note:
- Illustrated by W.S. Phillips.
- General Note:
- Author's first book.
- General Note:
- Bound in green buckram; stamped in gold; top edges gilt.
- General Note:
- From the library of B. George Ulizio.
- Statement of Responsibility:
- by E. Hough.
Record Information
- Source Institution:
- University of Florida
- Holding Location:
- University of Florida
- Rights Management:
- This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
- Resource Identifier:
- 026816474 ( ALEPH )
ALH2147 ( NOTIS ) 05691779 ( OCLC )
|
Downloads |
This item has the following downloads:
|
Full Text |
i
te
A i
1
|
Fate ae
iitemaa
Sila
Oty idk
t i
rah Pe at
See aenaees
MET aas
fi
oid
Sele hart Sb
pts SDE: 4
fest.
got
ro
a
ary wee
La a
=
ee wn
“The Singing Mouse came and sat upon
the table.†d
a
The Singing
Mouse
Stories.
BY
E. HOUGH.
NEW YORE:
FOREST AND STREAM Pup. Co.
1895.
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY
E, HOUGH,
CONTENTS.
Tue Land OF THE SINGING MousE lage
THE BURDEN OF A SONG
THe LirrLte RIVER
WHAT THE WATERS SaID
LaxkE BeLie-Marte
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
Tue Man oF THE Mounrain
At’ THe PLace oF THE Oaks
Tue Birtu of THE Hours
Tue TEAR AND THE SMILE
How THE Mountains ATE uP THE PLaINs
THE Brast TERRIBLE
THE Passinc or MEN
Ture House or TRutTH
WHERE THE City WENT
THe BELL AND THE SHADOWS
15
20
31
41
53
63
73
79
95
103
i13
IIg
135
147
159
I71
‘Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances,â€
said the Singing Mouse. ‘It is only
the shadows that are real.â€
ie
The Land of the
Singing Mouse.
THE LAND OF THE
SINGING MOUSE.
*T‘HIS is my room. I live here.
These are my things. My
friends come here sometimes,
such as I have left. ‘They are
welcome to anything I have.
That’s my coat.. Worn a little.
That’s my gun. Yes, the bar-
rels are a trifle brown. ‘That’s
my rifle. ‘The stock was broken &
in the Rockies. - Yes, I know
the tip of the old rod is broken.
And there’s a guide or so gone.
And the silk is fraying in the
lashings. And the silver cord on
the hand-piece is loose. The
silver cord will loosen and break
some day, in the very best of
men—trods, I mean.
There’s the table. T‘here aren’t
any keys. MHere’s the fire. You
are welcome, I know, to anything
there is here... .
But the Singing Mouse will
not come out; not while you are
here. But after you have gone,
after the fire has burned down
15
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
and the room is all still—usually
near midnight, as I sit and muse
alone over the dead or dying
fire—why, then the Singing
Mouse comes out and asks for its
bit of bread; and then it folds
its tiny paws and sits up, and
turning its bright red eye upon
me, half in power and half in
beseeching, as of some fading
memory of the past— why, it
sings, I say to you; it sings!
And J listen .... And the fire
blazes up .... The walls are
rich in art now.... My rod is
new and trig now.... There is
work, but there is no worry now.
- I am rich, rich! I have
‘the Singing Mouse. And so
strange, so wondrous, so real are
the things it sings ; so bewitching
is the song, so sweeter than that
of any siren’s; so broad and fine
are the countries; so strong and
true are the friendships; so brave
and kind are the men I meet—so
beautiful the whole world of the
Singing Mouse, that when it is
16
THE LAND OF THE MOUSE.
over, and in a chill-I start up, I
hardly can bear the shrinking in
of the walls, and the grayness of
the once red fire, and my gold
turned to earthenware, and my
pictures turned to splotches. In
my hand everything I touch feels
awkward ; a pen—a pen—to talk
of that! If one could use it while
in the land of the Singing Mouse
—then it might do. I think the
pens there are not of wood and
iron, stiff things of torture to
reader .and writer. I have a
notion—though I have not exam-
ined the pens there—that they are
made from plumes of an angel’s
wing ; and that they could talk,
and say things which would make
you and me ashamed and afraid.
Pens such as these we do not
have.
eS
ae
The Burden
of a Song.
THE BURDEN
OF A SONG.
HE Singing Mouse came out.
Quaintly and sweetly and
with wondrous clearness it began
an old, old song I first heard long
ago. And as it sang, back with
red electric thrill came the fine
blood of youth, and beat in pulse
with the song :
‘When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then hey! for boot and saddle, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day!â€
And young blood began its
course anew. Booted and spurred,
into the saddle again! Face
toward the West! And off for
round the world away !
‘“There are green fields in
Thrace,’ sighs the gladiator as
he dies. And here were green
fields in the land before us. -
Only these were the inimitable
and illimitable fields of Nature.
Sheets and waves and billows
and tumbles of green; oceans
2t
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
unswum, continents untracked,
of thousandfold green. Then, on
beyond, the gray, the gray-
brown, the purple-gray of the
higher plains; nearer than that, a
broad slash of great golden
yellow, a band of the sturdy
prairie sunflowers; and nearer
than that, swimming on the sur-
face of the mysterious wave which
constantly passes but is never
past on the prairies, bright red
roses, and strong larkspur, and
at the bottom of this ever shifting.
sea, jewels in God’s best blue
enamel. You cannot find this
enamel in the windows. One
must send for it to the land of
the unswum sea.
* * * * *
A little higher and stronger
piped the compelling melody.
Why, here are the mountains!
God bless them! Nay, brother,
God has blessed them; blessed
them with unbounded calm, with
boundless strength, with unspeak-
able peace. Vou can take your
22
THE BURDEN OF A SONG.
troubles to the mountains. If
you are Pueblo, Aztec, you can
select some big mountain and
pray to it, as its top shows the red
sentience of the oncoming day.
‘You can take your troubles to the
sea; but the sea has troubles of
its own, and frets. There is
commerce on the sea, and the
people who live near it are fretful,
-greedy, grasping. The moun-
tains have no troubles; they have
no commerce. The dwellers of
the mountains are calm and
unfretted.
And on the broad shoulders of
the mountains once more was
cast the burden of the young
man’s troubles, and once more he
walked deep into the peace of the
big hills. And the mountains
smiled not, neither wept, but
gravely and kindly folded over,
about, behind, the gray mantle
of the canon walls, and locked
fast doors of adamant against all
following, and swept a pitying
hand of shadow, and breathed
23
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
that wondrous unsyllabled voice
of comfort which any mountain
goer knows. Ai! the goodness
of such strength! Up by the
clean snow; over the big rocks;
by the lace-work stream where
the trout are—why, it’s all come
again! That was the clink made
by a passing deer. That was the
touch of the green balsam—simell
it, now! And there comes the.
mist, folding down the top. And
there is the crash of the thunder ;
and this is the rush of the rain,
and this is the warm yellow sun
over it all—O, Singing Mouse,
Singing Mouse!
Back again now, by some
impulse of the dog which hasn’t
had any day. It is winter now, I
remember, Singing Mouse, and
I am walking by the shore of
the great Inland Seas. There is
snow on the ground. The trees
look black in contrast as you
gaze up from the beach against
the high bank. Itis cold. It is
dark. There is a shiver in the
24
THE BURDEN OF A SONG.
air. There are icicles in the sky.
Something is flying through the
trees, but silent as if it came out
of a grave. I have been walk-
ing, I know. I have walked a
million miles, and I’m tired. My
legs are stiff, and my legging has
frozen fast to my overshoe; I
remember that. And so I sit
down—tright here, you know—
and look out over the lake—just
over there, you see. ‘The ice
reaches out from the shore into
the lake a long way; and it is
covered with snow, and looks
white. I can follow that white
glimmer in a long, long curve to
the right—twenty miles or more,
maybe. Ves, it is cold. But
ah! what is that out there, and
what is it doing? It is setting all
the long white curve of ice afire.
It is throwing down hammered
silver in a broad path, out there
on the water. Those are not
ripples. That is silver! There
will be angels walking on that
pathway before long! That is
25
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
not the moon coming up over
the lake! It is the swinging
open, by some careless angel’s
mischance, of the door of the
White City of Rest !
How old, how sore a man
climbed up the steep bank!
/ There were white fields. In the
distance a dog barked. Away
across the fields a bright and
cheery light shone out from a
window, and as the moon rose
higher, it showed the house
which held the light. It was
not a large house, but it seemed
to be a home. Home !—what is
that? I wondered; and I
remember that I pulled at the
frozen legging, and moved, with
pain, the limbs grown tired and
| sore. And, as one looked at
; that twinkling, comfortable light,
how plainly the rest of the old
song came back:
“When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sports are stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,
Creep home and take your place there,
The sick and maimed among.
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when you were young.â€
26
The light in the little house
went out. I think it was a happy
home. So may yours be always.
The Little
River.
THE LITTLE
RIVER.
HE Singing Mouse came out
andsat upon my knee. It fixed
its small red eye upon me, and
lifted its tiny paws, so thin the
fire shone through them. And
it sang.... Like the voice of
some night-wandering bird of
melody, hid high in the upper
realms of darkness, came. faint
sweet notes falling softly down.
It was as if from the deep air
above, and from the wide air
around, there were dropping and
drifting small links of silken steel, .
gentle but strong, so that one
_ were helpless even had he wished
-tomove. I listened, and I saw.
There were low rolling hills,
covered and crowned with thick
growth of hazel thickets and
' short oaks. Between these hills
ran long strips of green, strung
on tiny bands of silver. And as
these bands moved and thickened
and braided themselves together,
31
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
I seemed to see a procession of
the trees. The cottonwoods
halted in their march. ‘The box-
alders, and maples, and water-
elms, and walnuts and such big
trees swept grandly in with
waving banners, and wound on.
and on in long procession, evén
down to two blue distant hills set
at the edge of the world, unpassed
guardians of a land of dreams.
Ah, well-a-day! I look back at
those two hills now, and the land
of dreams lies still beyond them,
‘it is true, but itis now upon the
side whence I first gazed. It is
back there, where one cannot go
again; back there, along that
crystal, murmuring. mystery of
the little stream I knew when I
was young !
Ah, little river, little river, but
J amcoming back again. Once
-more I push away the long grass
and the swinging boughs, and
look into your face again. Again
I dabble my bare feet, and scoop °
up my straw hat full, and watch
32
THE LITTLE RIVER.
the tiny streams run down.
Again I stand, bare and small
and trembling, wondering if I can
swim across. And-— listen, little
river — again at the same old
place I shall cut me the willow
wand, and down the long slope
to the certain place I knew I am
going to hurry, running the last
quarter of a mile in sheer expec-
tation, but forgetting not the
binding on of the tough linen
line. And now I cast my gaudy
float on that same swinging,
thimpling, gentle eddy, and let
it swim in beneath the bank.
And — No! Canit be? Havel
here, now, again plainly in my
hands the strange and wonderful
creature, the gift of the little
stream? Is this its form, utterly
lovable? Is this its coat, wrought
of cloth of gold and silver? Are
these diamonds its eyes? ... Oh,
little river, little river, give me
back this gift to keep forever! .
Why did they take it from me?
All I have I will give to you, if
; 33 :
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
you will but give back to me, to
have by me all the time, this
little fish from the pool beneath
the boughs. I have hunted well
for him, believe me, hard and
faithfully in many a place, but
he is no longer there. I find him
no longer even in the remotest
spots I search. .... But this is
he! This, in my hands, here in
actual sight, is my first, my
glorious, iridescent, radiant prize !
Pray you, behold the glittering.
But along this little river there
were other things when the
leaves grew brown. In those
low, easy hills, strange creatures
dwelt. Birds of brown plumage
and wondrous, soul-startling burst
of wing. Large gray creatures,
a foot long or longer, with light
tread on the leaves, and long ears
that go a-peak when you whistle
to them. Were ever such beings
before in any land? For the
pursuit of these, it seems, one
must have boots with copper toes,
made waterproof by abundant
34
THE LITTLE RIVER.
tallow. There must be a vast
game-bag—a world too large for
a boyish form—and strange thin gs
to eat therein, such as one sees
no longer; for on a chase calling
for such derring do it may be
needful that one walk far, across
the hills, along the little river,
almost to the Delectable Mount-
ains themselves. Again I see it
all. Again I follow through the
hills that same tall, tireless figure
with the grave and kindly face.
Again I wonder at the uncom-
prehended skill which brought
whirling down ten out of the
dozen of those brown lightning
balls. Again I rejoice beyond
all count or measure, over the
first lepine murder committed by
myself, the same furthered by
means of a rest on a forked tree.
It seems to me I groan secretly
again at the weight of that.
great gun before the night has
come. I could wince again at
, 35
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
the pulling off of those copper-
toed boots at night, there by the
kitchen stove, after the chase is
done. But, ah! how happy I am
again, holding up for the gaze
of a kind pair of eyes this great,
gray creature with the lopping
ears.
Now, as we walk by the banks
of this magic river, I would that
it might be always as it was in
the earliest days. I like best to
think myself mistaken when I
suspect a greater stoop in this
once familiar form which knew
these hills and woods so well. It
cannot be that the quick eye
has grown less bright. Yet why
was the last mallard missed?
And tell me, is not the old dog
ranging as widely as once he did?
Can it be that he keeps closer at
heel? Does he look up once in a
while mournfully, with a dimmer
eye, at an eye becoming also
dimmer—does he walk more
36
THE LITTLE RIVER.
slowly, by a step now not so
fast? Does he look up—My
God !—is there melancholy in a
dog’s eyé, too?
What the
Waters Said.
WHAT THE
WATERS SAID.
HE fire was flickering fitfully,
and painting ghostly shadows
on the wall. It was winter, and
late in winter; indeed, the season
was now at length drawing near
to the end of winter, and
approaching that dear time of
spring which, beyond doubt, will
be the eventual front and closing
of the circle in the land where
winter will not come.
I had drawn the little pine
table close to the heap of failing
embers, and aided by what light
the sulky candle gave, was bend-
ing over and trying to arrange
a patch on my old hunting coat.
It was an old, old hunting
coat, far gone in the sere and
yellow leaf. It was old-fashioned
how, though once of proper cut
and comeliness. It was disfigured,
stained and worn. ‘The pockets
were torn down. ‘The bindings
were worn out. It was quite
willing to be left alone now,
4
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. °
hung by upon a forgotten nail,
and subject to no further requisi-
tion. Nevertheless, if its owner
wished, it could still do a day
or two. I knew that; and some-
‘ thing in the sturdy texture of
its oft-tried nature excited more
than half my admiration, and
all my love.
Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray
coming on in the embers,
symptoms of death in the candle,
a blotch of tallow on the
Shakspere, and the coat not
half done. It must have been
about then, I think, that the
thin-edged sweetness of the
Singing Mouse’s voice pierced
keenly through the air. I was
right glad when the little creature
came and sat on my knee, and
in its affectionate way began to
nibble at my finger-tips. It sat
erect, its thin paws waving with
a tiny, measured swing, and in
its mystic voice, so infinitely
small, so sweet and yet so
majestically strong, began a song
42
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
which no pen can_ transcribe.
Knowing that the awakening
must come, but unwilling to lose
a moment of the dream, I, who
with one finger could have
crushed the little thing, sat
prizing it more and more, as
more and more its voice swept,
and swelled, and rang; rang,
till the fire burst high in noble
pyramids of flame; rang, till the
candle flashed in thousand
crystals ; swelled, till the walls
fell silently apart, and showed
that all this time I had been
sitting ignorant of, but yet
within a grand and stately hall,
whose polished sides bore
speaking canvas and noble
marbles; swept up and around,
till every stately niche, and
every tapestried corner, and
every lofty dome rang gently
back in mellow music—all for
the Singing Mouse and me.
Small wizard, it was cunning
of thee to paint upon the wall
this picture of the old mill dam.
43
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
How naturally the wooded hill
slopes back beyond the mill.
And how, with the same old
sleepy curves, the river winds on
back. How green the trees—
‘ how very green. Ah, Singing
Mouse, they do not mix that
color now. And nowhere do
wide bottom-lands wave and sing
in such seemly grace, so decked
with yellow flowers, with odd
Sweet William and the small
wild rose. And nowhere now on
earth, I know, is there any stream
to murmur so sweetly and so
comfortably, to say such words
to any dreaming boy, to babble
of a work well done, of conscience
clear and of a success and happi-
ness to come, All that was in
the river. If I listen very hard,
and imagine very high and very
deep, I-can almost pretend to
hear them now, those old words,
heard when I was young. The
voices are there, I doubt not,
and there are other boys. God
keep them boys always, and may
44
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
they dream not backward, but
ahead.
This lazy pool beneath the far
wing of the dam, how smooth
it looks. Yet well I know the
sunken log upon its further
side. I have festooned it full oft
with big hook and hempen line.
And from that pool how many
fatuous fishes have I not hauled
forth. Here we came often,
when we were boys; and once
did not certain bold souls sleep
here all night, curled up along
the bank, waking the next morn-
ing each with a sore throat, ’tis
true, but with heart full proud
at such high deed of valor !
And there is the long wooden
bridge. What a feat of engineer-
ing that bridge once seemed to
our untraveled souls. Behold it
now, as it was then, lying in the
level rays of the rising moon, a
brilliant causeway leading over
into a land of mystery, to glory
perhaps; perhaps to failure,
forgetfulness, oblivion and rest.
45
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
And there, I declare, at the other
end of this great roadway—
swimming up, I declare, in the
same old way—is the great round
moon whose light served us
when we stayed late at the dam
in the summer evenings. And
the shadows of the bridge timbers
are just as long and black; and
the ripples over the rocks at the
middle span are just as beautiful
and white. And here, right at
our feet again, the moon is play-
ing its old tricks of painting faces
in the water.
There are too many faces in
the water, Singing Mouse; and
I beg you, cease repeating the
words about the ‘Corpus Delicti!â€
You would make one shudder.
Let us look no more at faces in
the water.
* * * * *
But still you bide by the waters
to-night, wizard; for here is a
picture of the sea. It is the sea,
and it is talking, as it always
does. There are some who
46
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
think the sea speaks only of
sorrow, but this is not wholly
true. If you will listen thought-
fully enough, you will find that
it is not all of troubles that the sea
is whispering. Nor does it speak
always of restlessness and change.
Some find a stimulus beside the
sea, and say it brings forgetful-
ness. Rather let us call it exalta-
tion. Much more than of a petty
excitement, fit to blot a man’s
momentary woes, it speaks in a
sterner and a stronger note. It
throbs with the pulse of a further
shore. It speaks of a quiet tide
making out to the Fortunate
Islands, and tells of a way of
following gales, and of a new
Atlantis, somewhere on beyond.
How dear this dream of a
different land, this story of
Atlantis, pathetically sought.
Certainly, Atlantis is there, out
beyond, somewhere in the sea;
and truly there are those who
have discovered it, and those who
still may do so. I know it,
47
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
Singing Mouse, for I can read it
written in the hollow of this tiny
shell of pink you have found here
by the shore,—borne across -to
us, we may not doubt, by an
understanding tide from a place
happily attained by those who
wrote the message and sought to
let us know.
“Tong time upon the mast our brown sail
flapped ; i
Our keel plowed bitter salt, and
everywhere
The ominous sky in sullen mystery
wrapped,
What side we looked on, éither here or
there, :
The welcome sight of land long sadly
sought ;
And that Atlantis, hid within the sea,
The land with all our hope and promise
fraught, i
We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be.
But as we sailed as manful as we might,
And counted not the sail more fit than oar,
Lo! o’er the wave there burst a vision bright
Of wood, and winding stream, and easy
shore.
Then by the lofty light which shone above,
We knew at last our voyage sad was o’er,
And we hard by the haven for which we
strove,
And soon all past the need to wander
more.
48
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
Then as our craft made safely on the strand,
And we all well our weary brown sail
furled,
We saced as strangers might at that fair
land,
And hardly knew if it might be our world;
Till One took gently every weary hand,
And led us on to where still waters be,
And whispered softly, ‘Lo ! it hath been
planned
That thou at last this pleasant place
shouldst see.’
‘And as those dreaming, so awakened we,
And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair
sky, ;
And whispered, hand in hand and eye to eye,
‘’Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea—
Tis our Atlantis, from the bitter sea !
’Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend,
to thee and me!â€
Lake
Belle-Marie.
LAKE
BELLE-MARIE.
AKE BELLE-MARIE lies far
away. Beyond the forest the
mountains are white. Beyond
the mountains the sky rises blue,
high up into the infinite
Unknown.
I do not know where the
Singing Mouse lives. No man
can tell what journeys it may
make such times as it is absent
from the room that holds the pine
table, and the book, and the
candle, and the open fire. But
last night, when the faint, shrill
sweetness of its little voice grew
apart from the lonely silence of
the room, and I turned and saw
the Singing Mouse sitting on the
corner of the book, the light of
the candle shining in pink
through its tiny paws, almost the
first word it said was of the far-
off Lake of Belle-Marie.
“Do you see it?’ asked the
Singing Mouse.
‘“You mean
â€
53
*
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘‘The moon there through the
window? Do you see the moon,
and the stars? Do you know
where they are shining to-night?
Do you see them, there, deep in
the water? Do you know where
that is? Do you know the water?
I know. It is Lake Belle-Marie.â€â€™
’ And all I could do was to sit
speechless. For the fire was
gone, and the wall was open, and
the room was not a room. The
voice of the Singing Mouse, shrill
and sweet, droned on a thousand
miles away in smallness, but
every word a crystal of regret
and joy.
‘‘A thousand feet deep, or
more, or bottomless, lies Lake
Belle-Marie, for no man has ever
fathomed it. But no matter how
deep, the moon lies to-night at
the bottom, and you can see it
shining there, deep down in the
blue. The stars are smaller, so ©
they stay up and sparkle on the
surface. ‘The forest is very black
to-night, is it not? and the
54
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
shadow of the pines on the point
looks like a mass of actual sub-
stance. Wait! Did you see that
silvern creature leap from the
quiet water? You may know
the shadow is but a shadow, for
you can see the chasing ripples
pass through it and break it up
into a crinkled fabric of the night.
‘‘Do you see the pines waving,
away up there in their tops, and
do you hear them talking? They
are always talking. To-night
they are saying: ‘Hush, Belle-
Marie; slumber, Belle-Marie; we
will watch, we will watch,
hush, hush, hush! Didn’t you
ever know what the pines said?
They wish no one ever to
come near Lake Belle-Marie.
Well for you that you only sat
and looked at the face of Belle
Marie, and cast no line nor fired
an untimely shot around her
shores! The pines would have
. been angry and would have
crushed you. You do not know
how they live, seeking only to
55
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
keep Belle-Marie from the world,
standing close and sturdy
together and threatening any who
approach. It would break their
hearts to have her hiding place
found out. You do not know
how they love her. The pines
are old, old, old, many of them,
but they told me that no foot-
print of man was ever seen upon
those shores, that no boat ever
rested on that little sea, neither
did ever a treacherous line
wrinkle even the smallest portion
of its smoothest coves. Believe
me, to have Belle-Marie known
would break the hearts of the
pines. ‘They told me they lived
all the time, only that they
might every night sing Belle-
Marie to sleep, and every morning
look upon her face, innocent,
pure, unknown and unknowing,
therefore good, sincere and utterly
trustworthy. That is why the
pines live. That is what they
are talking about. In many
places I know the hearts of the
56
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
pines are broken, and they grieve
continually. That is because
there are too many people. In
this valley the pines do not
grieve. They only talk among
themselves. In the morning they
will wave their hands quite gaily
and will say, ‘ Waken, waken,.
Belle-Marie! Sweet is the day,
sweet is the day, God hath
given, given, given!’ ‘That is
what the pines say in the morning.
“The white mountains yonder
are very old. How strong and
quiet they are, and how sure of
themselves! To be quiet and
strong, one needs to be old, for
small things do not matter then.
Do you know what the moun-
tains think, as they stand there
shoulder to shoulder—for they
live only to shield and protect the
forest, here in the valley. They
told me they were thinking of
the smallness and the quickness
of the days. ‘Age unto age!’ is
what the mountains whisper.
57
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘Aon unto zon! Strong, strong,
strong is Time !’
‘And yet I knew these mighty
pillars lived only to shield the
forest which shielded Belle-Marie.
So I stood upon the last mountain
and looked upon the great blue
of the sky, and there again I saw
the face of Lake Belle-Marie ; and
the circle was complete, and I
sought no more, for I knew that
from the abode of perfect, unhurt
nature it is but a step up to the
perfect peace and rest of the land
where lives that Time whose
name the mountains voice in awe.
“And now, do you see what is
happening on Lake Belle-Marie ?
Through the cleft in the forest
the pink of the early day is
showing, and light shines through
the spaces of the pines. And
down the pebbles of the beach,
knee deep into the shining flood,
steps a noble creature, antlered,
beautiful, admirable. Do you see
him drink, and do you see him
raise his head and look about
58
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
with gentle and fearless eye?
This creature is of the place, and
no hand must. harm him.
‘Let the thin, blue smoke die
down. Attempt no foot further on.
Disturb not this spot. Return.
But before you go, take one more
look upon the Lake of Belle-
Marie !â€â€™ A
So again I gazed upon the face
of the lake, which seemed inno-
cent, and sincere, and trust-
worthy, and deserving of the pro-
tection of the league of the pines,
and the army of the mountains,
and the canopy of the unshamed
sky. And then the voice of the
Singing Mouse, employed in some
song whose language I do not yet
fully understand, faded and sank
away, and even as it passed the
walls came back and the ashes
lay gray upon the hearth.
‘
@
9
The Skull and
the Rose.
os
eee
oe
“
et
ae
Go
es
THe SKULL AND
THE ROSE.
HE Singing Mouse peeped out
from the hollow orbit of the
white skull which lies upon the
table next to the volume of
Shakspere. It reached down a
tiny pink paw and touched a
leaf of the brave red rose which
every day lies before the skull.
It plucked the leaf, which made
a buckler for its small, throbbing
breast. It spoke.
“The rose is bold and red,’
said the Singing Mouse. ‘‘ Blood
isted. A skull is white. The
rose and the skull love one
another. They understand. We
do not understand.
‘‘As I sat by the skull I saw a
dream of the past go by. It was
as you see it now.
“Do you see the waving
grasses of the valleys? Do you
see the unmoving front of the
white old mountains? Do you
see the red roses growing down
among the grasses?
63
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘*Tt is peace upon the land. I
can see one who has seen the
_lands. He smiles, but he is sad.
He crosses the wide sea, but
cares not. He travels upon
rails of iron, and he smiles, but
still is sad, because he thinks,
and he who thinks must weep.
He leaves the ship and the iron
rail, and his road is narrower and
slower, for he travels now by
wheels of wood. He sees the
valleys, and his smile has more
of peace. His trail becomes
narrower yet. He goes by saddle,
and the mountains hem him in,
but now he smiles the more.
Now he must leave even the
saddle, and the trail is dim and
hard. See, the trail is gone!
Here, where no foot has trod,
where the mountains close about,
where the trees whisper, he sits
aud looks about him. Do you
see the red rose on his breast?
Always the rose is there. ~ Do
you see him look up at. the
mountains, about him at the
64
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE.
trees? Do you see him lay his
head upon the earth? Do you
still see his smile, the smile which
is weary and yet not afraid? Do
you hear him sigh? And what
is this he whispers, here at the
end of the long and narrowing
way—'‘I know not if this be the
end or the beginning!’ Ah,
what .does this man mean who
whispers to himself in riddles?
“Look ! It is the time of war.
There is music. The blood
stings. The heart leaps. The
eye flames. The soul exults.
Flickering of light on steel, the
flash of servant forces used to
slay, the reverberant growl of
engines made for death, the pass-
ing of men in cloth and men in
blankets, the tramp of hurrying
hoofs, the falling of men who die
—can you see this—can you
catch the horror, the exultation,
the joy of this, I say? They
come, they go; they run their
race, and it is all.
‘““Here are those who ride
65
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
against those who slay. Do you
know this one who rides at the
head, smiling, swinging his sword
well and smiling all the time?
It is he who said in the mountains
that riddle of the end and the
beginning—who knew that to
the heart of Nature we must
come, for either the end or the
beginning of a happy life. Do
you see upon his breast the red
tose? I think he rides to battle
with the rose, knowing what fate
will come.
“You know of this biting
whistle in the air—this small
thing that smites unseen? Do
you know the mowing of the
death scythes? Hark! I hear
the singing of this unseen thing.
See! he of the rose is bitten. He
has fallen. Ai! ai! He was so
brave and strong! His horse has
gone. He isalone. The grass
here was so green, It is red.
The rose upon his breast is red.
His face is white, but still the
smile is there, and now it is
66
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE.
calmer and more sweet, though
still he whispers, ‘I know not if
it be the end or the beginning !â€
“He is alone with Nature
again. The heavens weep for
him. The grasses and leaves
begin with busy fingers to cover
him up. ‘The earth pillows him.
He sleeps. Itis all. It is done.
It is the way of life. It is the
end and the beginning.
‘“Hfe loved the valley, the
mountain, the grass, the rose.
Now, since he cherished the rose
so well, see, the rose will not
leave him. Out of the dust it
rises, it grows, itblooms. Against
his lips it presses. It is the
beginning! He loved, he thought,
he knew. He is not dead. He is
with Nature. It is but the
beginning ! ©
‘‘Let the rose press against
his lips in an eternal, pure caress.
There is no end. ‘They under-
stand. We do not yet under-
stand.â€â€™
% * * * *
67
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
The pink flame of the unreal
light died away. The pageant
of the hills, the panorama of the
battle faded and were gone. The
table and the books came back.
‘ Wondering at these words, I
scarce could tell when the Sing-
ing Mouse went away, leaving
me staring at the barren walls
and at the white skull at my
hand.
For a moment it nearly seemed
to me the hollow eyes had light
and spoke to me. For a moment
almost it seemed to me that the
rose stirred deep down among its
petals, and that a wider perfume
floated out upon the air.
The Man of the
Mountain.
THe MAN .OF THE
MOUNTAIN.
““(\NCE there was a man,â€â€™
said the Singing Mouse,
“who loved to go into the
mountains. He would go alone,
far into the mountains, and climb
up to the tops of the tallest peaks.
Nothing pleased him so much as
to climb to the top of some
mountain where no other man
had ever been. No one ever
knew what he said to the mount-
ains, or what the mountains said
to him, but that they understood
each other very well was sure, for
he could go among the mountains -
where other men would not go.
At the tops of the high mountains
he would sit and look out over
the country that lay beyond. He
would not say what he saw,
for he said he could not tell, and
that, moreover, the people would
not understand it, for they did
not know the way the mountains.
thought.
“‘One time this man climbed
73
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES..
to the top of a.very high
mountain peak in a distant
country. ‘This peak looked out
over a wide land, and the man
knew that from its summit he
could see many things.
‘The man was now growing
old, so when he got to the top of
this mountain he sat down to
rest. When he sat down, he put
his chin in his hand, and his arm
upon his knee ; and so he looked
out over the land, seeing many
things.
‘The sun came up, but the
man did not move, but sat and
thought. The moon came, but
still he did not move. He only
looked, and thought and: smiled.
‘« After many days it was seen
that this man would not come
down from the mountain. The
mountain made him part of itself,
and turned him into stone, as he
sat there, with his chin in his
hand. He is there today, look-
ing out over many things. He
never moves, for he is now of
74
THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
stone. I have seen that place
myself. Once I thought I heard
this man whisper of the things he
saw. He sits there today.’’
At The Place
of the Oaks.
AT THE PLACE.
OF THE OAKS,
Se D2 you know what the oak
says?’ said the Singing
Mouse, as it sat upon my knee.
It had needed to nibble again at
my fingers before it could waken
me from the dream into which
I had fallen, gazing at the
fading fire. ‘‘Do you know
what the oak says?’ it repeated.
‘Do you hear it? Do you hear
the talking of the leaves?
‘‘T know what the oak says,’’
said the Singing Mouse. ‘‘When
the wind is soft, the oak says:
‘Peace! Peace!’ When the
breeze is sharp it sighs and says:
‘Pity! Pity! Pity!’ And when
the storm has fallen, the oak sobs
and cries: ‘Woe! Woe! Woe!’
‘*Do you see the oaks ?’’ asked
the Singing Mouse. ‘‘Do you
sec the little lake? Do you know
this place of the oaks? Behold
it now!’’ It waved a tiny hand.
I gazed at the naked, cheerless
wall, seamed and rent with
79
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
cracks along its sallow width.
And as I gazed the seams and
scars blended and composed into
the lines of a map of a noble
country. And as I gazed more
intently the map took on color,
and narrowed its semblance to
that of a certain region. And as
I gazed yet more eagerly the
map faded quite away, and there
lay in its stead the smiling face
of an enchanted land.
‘There was the little silver lake,
rippling on its shore of rushes.
Around rose the long curved hills,
swelling back from the shore.
The baby river babbled on at the
mouth of the lake, kissing its
mother a continual farewell.
The small springs tinkled metal-
lically cold into the silver of the
lake. The tender green of the
gentle glades rolled softly back,
dividing the two hills in peaceful
separation. And there were the
oaks. At the water’s edge, near
the lesser spring, the wild apple
trees twisted, but upon the hills
80
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
and over the great glades stood
the reserved, mysterious oaks,
tall, strong and grand.
One oak, a mighty one, now
resolved itself more prominently
forth. Did I not know it well?
Could one forget the tortured but
noble soul of this oak? Could
one forget the strong arm of
comfort it extended over this
most precious spot of all the
glade? One must suffer before
he can comfort. The oak had
suffered, somewhere. We do not
know all things. But over this
spot the great tree reached out
sheltering hands, and certainly
from its hands dropped benedic-
tions plenteously down.
Under the arm of the oak I
saw a tiny house of white—neat,
well-ordered, full of cheerfulness.
Through the wall of canvas—for
it now seemed to be after dusk—
there shone a faint pink gleam
of light, the soul of the white
house, its pure spirit of ©
content. As it shone, it scarce
81
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
seemed lit by mortal hand.
Near the small house of white,
and under the oak’s protecting
arm, there burned a little flame,
of small compass save in the vast
shadows it set dancing among
the trees. Those who built this
fire here, so many times, so many
years, each time first craved
pardon of the green grass of that
happy glade, for they would not
harm the grass. But the grass
said yea to all they asked, this
was sure, for each year the tiny
hearth spot was greener than any
other spot, because it remembered
what the fire had said and done.
And each year the oak dropped
down food enough for the little
fire. ‘he oak took pay in the
vast shadows the fire made for it.
That was the way the oak saw
the spirits of the Past, and when
it. saw them it sighed; but still
it welcomed the shadows of the
Past. So the fire, and the grass,
and the oak, and the shadows of
the Past were friends, and each
82
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
year they met here. It had been
thus for many years. Each year,
for many years, the same hand
had lit the little fire, in the same
place, and so given back to the
oak its Past. Now, the Past is a
very sad but tender thing.
Near by the little fire I saw a
small table formed of straight-
laid boughs, and at either side of
this were seats made cunningly
in the workshop of the woods.
There were two forms at this
small table. I saw them both.
One was gray and bowed some-
what, stooped as the oaks are,
silvered as the oaks are in the
winter days. The other was
younger and more erect. Once
the younger looked to the
older for counsel, but now it
‘seemed to me the bowed figure
turned to the one that had
become more strong.
I saw the savory vapors rise.
Even, it seemed to me, I could
note a faint, clear odor of innocent —
potency. I saw the table laid,
83
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
not with gleam of snow and -
silver, but with plain vessels
which, nevertheless, seemed now
to have a radiance of their own.
I knew all this. It was as
though there actually lay at hand
these pleasant scenes, as though
there actually arose the appeal-
ing fragrance of the evening meal.
Now as I looked, the gray
figure bowed its head, there,
under the arm of the oak, and
asked on the humble board the
blessing of the God who made
the oak, and gave the fire and
spread the pleasant waters on the
land. Every meal-time, every
year, for many years, it had been
thus. Ever, the oak knew, the
gray figure would first bow and
ask the blessing of God. And
each time at the close the oak
with rustling leaves pronounced
distinct Amen! Let those jest
who will, I do not know. I
think perhaps the oak knows, or
it would not thus for years have
whispered reverently its distinct
84
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
Amen! I will not scoff. It is
perhaps we who are ignorant.
We do not know all things.
I ask not what nor who these
two were who had come each
year to this place of the oaks, but
surely they were friends. In
shadow, I could hear them talk.
In shadow, I could see them
smile.
These friends sat by the little
fire a time before they went to rest
in the tiny house of white. After
they had gone, the fire did
strange things. All men know
that, though you see the fire
burned down, when you go into
the tent you will some time in the
night see the walls lit up by a
sudden flash or so, now and then,
from the fire which was thought
to be dead. ‘T’hat is the business
of the fire, and of the oaks and of
the shadows. I know that the
shadows dance strangely, and
hover and come near at hand, in
those late hours of the night ; but
what then occurs I do not know.
85
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
These two friends never
questioned this. They knew it
was the secret of the night, and
gave the oak its own request, in
pay for its protection and consent.
They gave the oak its union with
the sacred Past.
In the night I have heard the
oak sob, Vet in the morning,
when the sun was silvering the
wake of all the leaping fishes, the
oak was always gentle, and it
in, 4
i
AN i }
| 4 5 5 :
i said, ‘‘Wake, wake! God is wise.
Waken, waken! God is good.â€
* * * * *
As pure shining beads upon a
thread of gold I saw this small,
dear picture, reiterant and
unchanged, year after year,
always with the same calm and
pure surroundings. Only as year
added itself to year, slipping
forward on the golden string, I
saw the gray figure grow more
gray, more bowed, more feeble.
Alas! it seemed to me I saw the
silver coming upon the head of
the younger man, and his eyes
86
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
grew weary, as one who looks at
the earth too closely (which it is
not wise to do). Yet the years
came, to the oaks and to the
grasses and to the friends.
The grass dies every year, but
itis born again. The oak dies in
centuries, but it is born again.
Man dies in three score years and
ten, but he, too, is born again.
As I looked, I could see the
passing of the years. In all but
the unaltering fire of friendship I
could see change creeping on.
Grayer, grayer, more bent, more
feeble — is it not so, Singing
Mouse? And now, this time,
what was this gentle warning
that the oak tried to whisper
softly down? Perhaps the grayer
_friend heard it, ashe sat musing
by the fire. Herose and looked
about him, as one who had.
dreamed and was content. He
looked up at the solemn stars
unafraid, and so murmured to
himself. ‘‘Day unto day uttereth
speech,’’ he said; ‘‘Night unto
87
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
night showeth knowledge.â€
Day unto day, Singing Mouse.
Day unto day.
* * * * *
Woe is me, Singing Mouse,
and these are bitter tears for that
which you have shown! I see it
all again, the oaks, the glade, the
tiny house of white, the small
pleasant fire. Here again is the
little table, and here is the
evening meal. The table is still
spread for two. A double portion
is served as was wont before. Yet
why? For all is not the same.
At this table there is but one form
now. ‘The younger man is there,
although now he has grown gray
and stooped. Year unto year,
day unto day, the beads have
slipped along the string. Once
young, now old, he keeps the
camp alone!
But is he then alone? Hush!
The squirrels have grownstill, and
even the oak is silent. What is
that opposite, across the table, at
the seat long years held only by
88
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
the elder of these two? ‘Tell me,
Singing Mouse, is it not true that
I see there, sitting as of old at the
table, the same sturdy form, the
same simple, innocent and
believing face? It is the gray
ghost of one grown gray in good-
ness. It is the shadow of a
shadow, the apparition of a soul!
The oné at the table pauses, as
was the wont before the beginning
of a meal. He looks across the
table to the shadow, as if the
shadow were his friend. The
shadow bows its head. ‘The liv-
ing man bows also his head at
the board. The shadow moves
its lips. Doubt not those words
are heard this day.
See, the sun rises through the
trees. The glorious day sets on
once more. Doubt not, fear not,
sorrow not, ye two. Bow the
head still, ye two, and let not my
picture perish, Whisper again
the benediction of the years, and
89
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
let me hear once more the
murmur of the oak’s Amen!
The Birth of
the Hours.
THE BIRTH OF
THE Hours.
“T)O you know the story of the
wedding of the times?’’ said
the Singing Mouse. ‘‘ You know
all life is a wedding. The flowers
love, and the grasses, and the
trees; and the circle of the
wedding ring is the circle of life
and the sign of eternity. Death
and life, not life and then death,
is the order and the law.
“The hours are born of parents,
as are the flowers. The hours of
the day are born of the wedding
of Night and Morning. It is the
way of Life. Come with me.’’
So with the Singing Mouse I
went into a place where I was once
long before. I could see it very
‘well. It was in the deep woods,
faraway. Near by there were
tall, sweet grasses. I could hear
the faint tinkle of a falling stream.
' Other than that, it was silent in
the deep woods. Overhead the
sky was clear and filled with.
stars. The stars trembled and
95
f
“ny,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. |
twinkled and shone radiantly fair.
So now all at once I knew they
were the jewels on the veil of
Night. And the far shadows
were the drapery of the Night,
. and the greater light of the
heavens was the star upon her
coronal.
When I first looked forth, the
Night was a babe, but as I gazed
it grew. The Night is full of
change and charm. Those who
live within the walls do not see
these things. When I saw them,
IT could not sleep, for the Night
in all. her changes seemed to
speak.
The Night grew older, drawing
about her more ornate garb of
witchery. Across her bosom fell
a wondrous tissue, trembling
with exuberance of unprismed
light. These were the gems in
thousands of the skies, all fair
against the blackness of the robes
of Night, and I knew that the
blackness of the one was lovely
as the radiance of the other. Nor
96
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS.
could one separate one from the
other, for there arose a thin mist
of light, so that one saw form or
features only dimly, as through a
cloth of silver lace, such as the
spiders weave upon a morning.
The Night grew on, changing
at every moment, for change is
the law. There were small
frowns of clouds which were
replaced by smiles of light.
Did never you hear the laughter
of the Night? It is a strange
thing. Not all men have heard
it. ‘The Singing Mouse told me
of this.
Now as I lay: and looked at
this glorious apparition, there
came still another change, and
one most wonderful. In the
heart of the Night there came a
tremulous exultation. Upon the
face of the Night appeared a
roseate tinge of joyous perturba-
tion. So then I knew the lover
of the Night was coming, and
knew, too, whence we have derived
the signs of love as among
97
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
human beings we see it indicated.
I saw the flush upon the cheek
of Night flame slow and faintly
up, until it touched her very
forehead. This is the way of
Love. But the Night went on,
for this is the way of Life. Love
and Life, these are ever and
forever. We mock at them and
understand them not, but they
are ever and forever.
And now the Night, I know
not whether startled or in plan,
whether ashamed of her dark
garb, or unconscious of it in the
proud sureness of her beauty,
dropped loose a portion of the
shadows of her robe, and stood
forth radiant, clad with the.
dazzling beauty of her stars.
Then she raised her hand and
laid it on her heart.
- And so the Morning came and
took her in his arms and kissed
her on the brow. So here was
Love again. And of this wedding
there were born the hours.
a
|
Full Text |
i
te
A i
1
|
Fate ae
iitemaa
Sila
Oty idk
t i
rah Pe at
See aenaees
MET aas
fi
oid
Sele hart Sb
pts SDE: 4
fest.
got
ro
a
ary wee
La a
=
ee wn
“The Singing Mouse came and sat upon
the table.†d
a
The Singing
Mouse
Stories.
BY
E. HOUGH.
NEW YORE:
FOREST AND STREAM Pup. Co.
1895.
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY
E, HOUGH,
CONTENTS.
Tue Land OF THE SINGING MousE lage
THE BURDEN OF A SONG
THe LirrLte RIVER
WHAT THE WATERS SaID
LaxkE BeLie-Marte
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
Tue Man oF THE Mounrain
At’ THe PLace oF THE Oaks
Tue Birtu of THE Hours
Tue TEAR AND THE SMILE
How THE Mountains ATE uP THE PLaINs
THE Brast TERRIBLE
THE Passinc or MEN
Ture House or TRutTH
WHERE THE City WENT
THe BELL AND THE SHADOWS
15
20
31
41
53
63
73
79
95
103
i13
IIg
135
147
159
I71
‘Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances,â€
said the Singing Mouse. ‘It is only
the shadows that are real.â€
ie
The Land of the
Singing Mouse.
THE LAND OF THE
SINGING MOUSE.
*T‘HIS is my room. I live here.
These are my things. My
friends come here sometimes,
such as I have left. ‘They are
welcome to anything I have.
That’s my coat.. Worn a little.
That’s my gun. Yes, the bar-
rels are a trifle brown. ‘That’s
my rifle. ‘The stock was broken &
in the Rockies. - Yes, I know
the tip of the old rod is broken.
And there’s a guide or so gone.
And the silk is fraying in the
lashings. And the silver cord on
the hand-piece is loose. The
silver cord will loosen and break
some day, in the very best of
men—trods, I mean.
There’s the table. T‘here aren’t
any keys. MHere’s the fire. You
are welcome, I know, to anything
there is here... .
But the Singing Mouse will
not come out; not while you are
here. But after you have gone,
after the fire has burned down
15
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
and the room is all still—usually
near midnight, as I sit and muse
alone over the dead or dying
fire—why, then the Singing
Mouse comes out and asks for its
bit of bread; and then it folds
its tiny paws and sits up, and
turning its bright red eye upon
me, half in power and half in
beseeching, as of some fading
memory of the past— why, it
sings, I say to you; it sings!
And J listen .... And the fire
blazes up .... The walls are
rich in art now.... My rod is
new and trig now.... There is
work, but there is no worry now.
- I am rich, rich! I have
‘the Singing Mouse. And so
strange, so wondrous, so real are
the things it sings ; so bewitching
is the song, so sweeter than that
of any siren’s; so broad and fine
are the countries; so strong and
true are the friendships; so brave
and kind are the men I meet—so
beautiful the whole world of the
Singing Mouse, that when it is
16
THE LAND OF THE MOUSE.
over, and in a chill-I start up, I
hardly can bear the shrinking in
of the walls, and the grayness of
the once red fire, and my gold
turned to earthenware, and my
pictures turned to splotches. In
my hand everything I touch feels
awkward ; a pen—a pen—to talk
of that! If one could use it while
in the land of the Singing Mouse
—then it might do. I think the
pens there are not of wood and
iron, stiff things of torture to
reader .and writer. I have a
notion—though I have not exam-
ined the pens there—that they are
made from plumes of an angel’s
wing ; and that they could talk,
and say things which would make
you and me ashamed and afraid.
Pens such as these we do not
have.
eS
ae
The Burden
of a Song.
THE BURDEN
OF A SONG.
HE Singing Mouse came out.
Quaintly and sweetly and
with wondrous clearness it began
an old, old song I first heard long
ago. And as it sang, back with
red electric thrill came the fine
blood of youth, and beat in pulse
with the song :
‘When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green,
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen,
Then hey! for boot and saddle, lad,
And round the world away!
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day!â€
And young blood began its
course anew. Booted and spurred,
into the saddle again! Face
toward the West! And off for
round the world away !
‘“There are green fields in
Thrace,’ sighs the gladiator as
he dies. And here were green
fields in the land before us. -
Only these were the inimitable
and illimitable fields of Nature.
Sheets and waves and billows
and tumbles of green; oceans
2t
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
unswum, continents untracked,
of thousandfold green. Then, on
beyond, the gray, the gray-
brown, the purple-gray of the
higher plains; nearer than that, a
broad slash of great golden
yellow, a band of the sturdy
prairie sunflowers; and nearer
than that, swimming on the sur-
face of the mysterious wave which
constantly passes but is never
past on the prairies, bright red
roses, and strong larkspur, and
at the bottom of this ever shifting.
sea, jewels in God’s best blue
enamel. You cannot find this
enamel in the windows. One
must send for it to the land of
the unswum sea.
* * * * *
A little higher and stronger
piped the compelling melody.
Why, here are the mountains!
God bless them! Nay, brother,
God has blessed them; blessed
them with unbounded calm, with
boundless strength, with unspeak-
able peace. Vou can take your
22
THE BURDEN OF A SONG.
troubles to the mountains. If
you are Pueblo, Aztec, you can
select some big mountain and
pray to it, as its top shows the red
sentience of the oncoming day.
‘You can take your troubles to the
sea; but the sea has troubles of
its own, and frets. There is
commerce on the sea, and the
people who live near it are fretful,
-greedy, grasping. The moun-
tains have no troubles; they have
no commerce. The dwellers of
the mountains are calm and
unfretted.
And on the broad shoulders of
the mountains once more was
cast the burden of the young
man’s troubles, and once more he
walked deep into the peace of the
big hills. And the mountains
smiled not, neither wept, but
gravely and kindly folded over,
about, behind, the gray mantle
of the canon walls, and locked
fast doors of adamant against all
following, and swept a pitying
hand of shadow, and breathed
23
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
that wondrous unsyllabled voice
of comfort which any mountain
goer knows. Ai! the goodness
of such strength! Up by the
clean snow; over the big rocks;
by the lace-work stream where
the trout are—why, it’s all come
again! That was the clink made
by a passing deer. That was the
touch of the green balsam—simell
it, now! And there comes the.
mist, folding down the top. And
there is the crash of the thunder ;
and this is the rush of the rain,
and this is the warm yellow sun
over it all—O, Singing Mouse,
Singing Mouse!
Back again now, by some
impulse of the dog which hasn’t
had any day. It is winter now, I
remember, Singing Mouse, and
I am walking by the shore of
the great Inland Seas. There is
snow on the ground. The trees
look black in contrast as you
gaze up from the beach against
the high bank. Itis cold. It is
dark. There is a shiver in the
24
THE BURDEN OF A SONG.
air. There are icicles in the sky.
Something is flying through the
trees, but silent as if it came out
of a grave. I have been walk-
ing, I know. I have walked a
million miles, and I’m tired. My
legs are stiff, and my legging has
frozen fast to my overshoe; I
remember that. And so I sit
down—tright here, you know—
and look out over the lake—just
over there, you see. ‘The ice
reaches out from the shore into
the lake a long way; and it is
covered with snow, and looks
white. I can follow that white
glimmer in a long, long curve to
the right—twenty miles or more,
maybe. Ves, it is cold. But
ah! what is that out there, and
what is it doing? It is setting all
the long white curve of ice afire.
It is throwing down hammered
silver in a broad path, out there
on the water. Those are not
ripples. That is silver! There
will be angels walking on that
pathway before long! That is
25
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
not the moon coming up over
the lake! It is the swinging
open, by some careless angel’s
mischance, of the door of the
White City of Rest !
How old, how sore a man
climbed up the steep bank!
/ There were white fields. In the
distance a dog barked. Away
across the fields a bright and
cheery light shone out from a
window, and as the moon rose
higher, it showed the house
which held the light. It was
not a large house, but it seemed
to be a home. Home !—what is
that? I wondered; and I
remember that I pulled at the
frozen legging, and moved, with
pain, the limbs grown tired and
| sore. And, as one looked at
; that twinkling, comfortable light,
how plainly the rest of the old
song came back:
“When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sports are stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down,
Creep home and take your place there,
The sick and maimed among.
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when you were young.â€
26
The light in the little house
went out. I think it was a happy
home. So may yours be always.
The Little
River.
THE LITTLE
RIVER.
HE Singing Mouse came out
andsat upon my knee. It fixed
its small red eye upon me, and
lifted its tiny paws, so thin the
fire shone through them. And
it sang.... Like the voice of
some night-wandering bird of
melody, hid high in the upper
realms of darkness, came. faint
sweet notes falling softly down.
It was as if from the deep air
above, and from the wide air
around, there were dropping and
drifting small links of silken steel, .
gentle but strong, so that one
_ were helpless even had he wished
-tomove. I listened, and I saw.
There were low rolling hills,
covered and crowned with thick
growth of hazel thickets and
' short oaks. Between these hills
ran long strips of green, strung
on tiny bands of silver. And as
these bands moved and thickened
and braided themselves together,
31
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
I seemed to see a procession of
the trees. The cottonwoods
halted in their march. ‘The box-
alders, and maples, and water-
elms, and walnuts and such big
trees swept grandly in with
waving banners, and wound on.
and on in long procession, evén
down to two blue distant hills set
at the edge of the world, unpassed
guardians of a land of dreams.
Ah, well-a-day! I look back at
those two hills now, and the land
of dreams lies still beyond them,
‘it is true, but itis now upon the
side whence I first gazed. It is
back there, where one cannot go
again; back there, along that
crystal, murmuring. mystery of
the little stream I knew when I
was young !
Ah, little river, little river, but
J amcoming back again. Once
-more I push away the long grass
and the swinging boughs, and
look into your face again. Again
I dabble my bare feet, and scoop °
up my straw hat full, and watch
32
THE LITTLE RIVER.
the tiny streams run down.
Again I stand, bare and small
and trembling, wondering if I can
swim across. And-— listen, little
river — again at the same old
place I shall cut me the willow
wand, and down the long slope
to the certain place I knew I am
going to hurry, running the last
quarter of a mile in sheer expec-
tation, but forgetting not the
binding on of the tough linen
line. And now I cast my gaudy
float on that same swinging,
thimpling, gentle eddy, and let
it swim in beneath the bank.
And — No! Canit be? Havel
here, now, again plainly in my
hands the strange and wonderful
creature, the gift of the little
stream? Is this its form, utterly
lovable? Is this its coat, wrought
of cloth of gold and silver? Are
these diamonds its eyes? ... Oh,
little river, little river, give me
back this gift to keep forever! .
Why did they take it from me?
All I have I will give to you, if
; 33 :
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
you will but give back to me, to
have by me all the time, this
little fish from the pool beneath
the boughs. I have hunted well
for him, believe me, hard and
faithfully in many a place, but
he is no longer there. I find him
no longer even in the remotest
spots I search. .... But this is
he! This, in my hands, here in
actual sight, is my first, my
glorious, iridescent, radiant prize !
Pray you, behold the glittering.
But along this little river there
were other things when the
leaves grew brown. In those
low, easy hills, strange creatures
dwelt. Birds of brown plumage
and wondrous, soul-startling burst
of wing. Large gray creatures,
a foot long or longer, with light
tread on the leaves, and long ears
that go a-peak when you whistle
to them. Were ever such beings
before in any land? For the
pursuit of these, it seems, one
must have boots with copper toes,
made waterproof by abundant
34
THE LITTLE RIVER.
tallow. There must be a vast
game-bag—a world too large for
a boyish form—and strange thin gs
to eat therein, such as one sees
no longer; for on a chase calling
for such derring do it may be
needful that one walk far, across
the hills, along the little river,
almost to the Delectable Mount-
ains themselves. Again I see it
all. Again I follow through the
hills that same tall, tireless figure
with the grave and kindly face.
Again I wonder at the uncom-
prehended skill which brought
whirling down ten out of the
dozen of those brown lightning
balls. Again I rejoice beyond
all count or measure, over the
first lepine murder committed by
myself, the same furthered by
means of a rest on a forked tree.
It seems to me I groan secretly
again at the weight of that.
great gun before the night has
come. I could wince again at
, 35
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
the pulling off of those copper-
toed boots at night, there by the
kitchen stove, after the chase is
done. But, ah! how happy I am
again, holding up for the gaze
of a kind pair of eyes this great,
gray creature with the lopping
ears.
Now, as we walk by the banks
of this magic river, I would that
it might be always as it was in
the earliest days. I like best to
think myself mistaken when I
suspect a greater stoop in this
once familiar form which knew
these hills and woods so well. It
cannot be that the quick eye
has grown less bright. Yet why
was the last mallard missed?
And tell me, is not the old dog
ranging as widely as once he did?
Can it be that he keeps closer at
heel? Does he look up once in a
while mournfully, with a dimmer
eye, at an eye becoming also
dimmer—does he walk more
36
THE LITTLE RIVER.
slowly, by a step now not so
fast? Does he look up—My
God !—is there melancholy in a
dog’s eyé, too?
What the
Waters Said.
WHAT THE
WATERS SAID.
HE fire was flickering fitfully,
and painting ghostly shadows
on the wall. It was winter, and
late in winter; indeed, the season
was now at length drawing near
to the end of winter, and
approaching that dear time of
spring which, beyond doubt, will
be the eventual front and closing
of the circle in the land where
winter will not come.
I had drawn the little pine
table close to the heap of failing
embers, and aided by what light
the sulky candle gave, was bend-
ing over and trying to arrange
a patch on my old hunting coat.
It was an old, old hunting
coat, far gone in the sere and
yellow leaf. It was old-fashioned
how, though once of proper cut
and comeliness. It was disfigured,
stained and worn. ‘The pockets
were torn down. ‘The bindings
were worn out. It was quite
willing to be left alone now,
4
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. °
hung by upon a forgotten nail,
and subject to no further requisi-
tion. Nevertheless, if its owner
wished, it could still do a day
or two. I knew that; and some-
‘ thing in the sturdy texture of
its oft-tried nature excited more
than half my admiration, and
all my love.
Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray
coming on in the embers,
symptoms of death in the candle,
a blotch of tallow on the
Shakspere, and the coat not
half done. It must have been
about then, I think, that the
thin-edged sweetness of the
Singing Mouse’s voice pierced
keenly through the air. I was
right glad when the little creature
came and sat on my knee, and
in its affectionate way began to
nibble at my finger-tips. It sat
erect, its thin paws waving with
a tiny, measured swing, and in
its mystic voice, so infinitely
small, so sweet and yet so
majestically strong, began a song
42
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
which no pen can_ transcribe.
Knowing that the awakening
must come, but unwilling to lose
a moment of the dream, I, who
with one finger could have
crushed the little thing, sat
prizing it more and more, as
more and more its voice swept,
and swelled, and rang; rang,
till the fire burst high in noble
pyramids of flame; rang, till the
candle flashed in thousand
crystals ; swelled, till the walls
fell silently apart, and showed
that all this time I had been
sitting ignorant of, but yet
within a grand and stately hall,
whose polished sides bore
speaking canvas and noble
marbles; swept up and around,
till every stately niche, and
every tapestried corner, and
every lofty dome rang gently
back in mellow music—all for
the Singing Mouse and me.
Small wizard, it was cunning
of thee to paint upon the wall
this picture of the old mill dam.
43
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
How naturally the wooded hill
slopes back beyond the mill.
And how, with the same old
sleepy curves, the river winds on
back. How green the trees—
‘ how very green. Ah, Singing
Mouse, they do not mix that
color now. And nowhere do
wide bottom-lands wave and sing
in such seemly grace, so decked
with yellow flowers, with odd
Sweet William and the small
wild rose. And nowhere now on
earth, I know, is there any stream
to murmur so sweetly and so
comfortably, to say such words
to any dreaming boy, to babble
of a work well done, of conscience
clear and of a success and happi-
ness to come, All that was in
the river. If I listen very hard,
and imagine very high and very
deep, I-can almost pretend to
hear them now, those old words,
heard when I was young. The
voices are there, I doubt not,
and there are other boys. God
keep them boys always, and may
44
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
they dream not backward, but
ahead.
This lazy pool beneath the far
wing of the dam, how smooth
it looks. Yet well I know the
sunken log upon its further
side. I have festooned it full oft
with big hook and hempen line.
And from that pool how many
fatuous fishes have I not hauled
forth. Here we came often,
when we were boys; and once
did not certain bold souls sleep
here all night, curled up along
the bank, waking the next morn-
ing each with a sore throat, ’tis
true, but with heart full proud
at such high deed of valor !
And there is the long wooden
bridge. What a feat of engineer-
ing that bridge once seemed to
our untraveled souls. Behold it
now, as it was then, lying in the
level rays of the rising moon, a
brilliant causeway leading over
into a land of mystery, to glory
perhaps; perhaps to failure,
forgetfulness, oblivion and rest.
45
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
And there, I declare, at the other
end of this great roadway—
swimming up, I declare, in the
same old way—is the great round
moon whose light served us
when we stayed late at the dam
in the summer evenings. And
the shadows of the bridge timbers
are just as long and black; and
the ripples over the rocks at the
middle span are just as beautiful
and white. And here, right at
our feet again, the moon is play-
ing its old tricks of painting faces
in the water.
There are too many faces in
the water, Singing Mouse; and
I beg you, cease repeating the
words about the ‘Corpus Delicti!â€
You would make one shudder.
Let us look no more at faces in
the water.
* * * * *
But still you bide by the waters
to-night, wizard; for here is a
picture of the sea. It is the sea,
and it is talking, as it always
does. There are some who
46
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
think the sea speaks only of
sorrow, but this is not wholly
true. If you will listen thought-
fully enough, you will find that
it is not all of troubles that the sea
is whispering. Nor does it speak
always of restlessness and change.
Some find a stimulus beside the
sea, and say it brings forgetful-
ness. Rather let us call it exalta-
tion. Much more than of a petty
excitement, fit to blot a man’s
momentary woes, it speaks in a
sterner and a stronger note. It
throbs with the pulse of a further
shore. It speaks of a quiet tide
making out to the Fortunate
Islands, and tells of a way of
following gales, and of a new
Atlantis, somewhere on beyond.
How dear this dream of a
different land, this story of
Atlantis, pathetically sought.
Certainly, Atlantis is there, out
beyond, somewhere in the sea;
and truly there are those who
have discovered it, and those who
still may do so. I know it,
47
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
Singing Mouse, for I can read it
written in the hollow of this tiny
shell of pink you have found here
by the shore,—borne across -to
us, we may not doubt, by an
understanding tide from a place
happily attained by those who
wrote the message and sought to
let us know.
“Tong time upon the mast our brown sail
flapped ; i
Our keel plowed bitter salt, and
everywhere
The ominous sky in sullen mystery
wrapped,
What side we looked on, éither here or
there, :
The welcome sight of land long sadly
sought ;
And that Atlantis, hid within the sea,
The land with all our hope and promise
fraught, i
We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be.
But as we sailed as manful as we might,
And counted not the sail more fit than oar,
Lo! o’er the wave there burst a vision bright
Of wood, and winding stream, and easy
shore.
Then by the lofty light which shone above,
We knew at last our voyage sad was o’er,
And we hard by the haven for which we
strove,
And soon all past the need to wander
more.
48
WHAT THE WATERS SAID.
Then as our craft made safely on the strand,
And we all well our weary brown sail
furled,
We saced as strangers might at that fair
land,
And hardly knew if it might be our world;
Till One took gently every weary hand,
And led us on to where still waters be,
And whispered softly, ‘Lo ! it hath been
planned
That thou at last this pleasant place
shouldst see.’
‘And as those dreaming, so awakened we,
And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair
sky, ;
And whispered, hand in hand and eye to eye,
‘’Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea—
Tis our Atlantis, from the bitter sea !
’Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend,
to thee and me!â€
Lake
Belle-Marie.
LAKE
BELLE-MARIE.
AKE BELLE-MARIE lies far
away. Beyond the forest the
mountains are white. Beyond
the mountains the sky rises blue,
high up into the infinite
Unknown.
I do not know where the
Singing Mouse lives. No man
can tell what journeys it may
make such times as it is absent
from the room that holds the pine
table, and the book, and the
candle, and the open fire. But
last night, when the faint, shrill
sweetness of its little voice grew
apart from the lonely silence of
the room, and I turned and saw
the Singing Mouse sitting on the
corner of the book, the light of
the candle shining in pink
through its tiny paws, almost the
first word it said was of the far-
off Lake of Belle-Marie.
“Do you see it?’ asked the
Singing Mouse.
‘“You mean
â€
53
*
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘‘The moon there through the
window? Do you see the moon,
and the stars? Do you know
where they are shining to-night?
Do you see them, there, deep in
the water? Do you know where
that is? Do you know the water?
I know. It is Lake Belle-Marie.â€â€™
’ And all I could do was to sit
speechless. For the fire was
gone, and the wall was open, and
the room was not a room. The
voice of the Singing Mouse, shrill
and sweet, droned on a thousand
miles away in smallness, but
every word a crystal of regret
and joy.
‘‘A thousand feet deep, or
more, or bottomless, lies Lake
Belle-Marie, for no man has ever
fathomed it. But no matter how
deep, the moon lies to-night at
the bottom, and you can see it
shining there, deep down in the
blue. The stars are smaller, so ©
they stay up and sparkle on the
surface. ‘The forest is very black
to-night, is it not? and the
54
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
shadow of the pines on the point
looks like a mass of actual sub-
stance. Wait! Did you see that
silvern creature leap from the
quiet water? You may know
the shadow is but a shadow, for
you can see the chasing ripples
pass through it and break it up
into a crinkled fabric of the night.
‘‘Do you see the pines waving,
away up there in their tops, and
do you hear them talking? They
are always talking. To-night
they are saying: ‘Hush, Belle-
Marie; slumber, Belle-Marie; we
will watch, we will watch,
hush, hush, hush! Didn’t you
ever know what the pines said?
They wish no one ever to
come near Lake Belle-Marie.
Well for you that you only sat
and looked at the face of Belle
Marie, and cast no line nor fired
an untimely shot around her
shores! The pines would have
. been angry and would have
crushed you. You do not know
how they live, seeking only to
55
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
keep Belle-Marie from the world,
standing close and sturdy
together and threatening any who
approach. It would break their
hearts to have her hiding place
found out. You do not know
how they love her. The pines
are old, old, old, many of them,
but they told me that no foot-
print of man was ever seen upon
those shores, that no boat ever
rested on that little sea, neither
did ever a treacherous line
wrinkle even the smallest portion
of its smoothest coves. Believe
me, to have Belle-Marie known
would break the hearts of the
pines. ‘They told me they lived
all the time, only that they
might every night sing Belle-
Marie to sleep, and every morning
look upon her face, innocent,
pure, unknown and unknowing,
therefore good, sincere and utterly
trustworthy. That is why the
pines live. That is what they
are talking about. In many
places I know the hearts of the
56
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
pines are broken, and they grieve
continually. That is because
there are too many people. In
this valley the pines do not
grieve. They only talk among
themselves. In the morning they
will wave their hands quite gaily
and will say, ‘ Waken, waken,.
Belle-Marie! Sweet is the day,
sweet is the day, God hath
given, given, given!’ ‘That is
what the pines say in the morning.
“The white mountains yonder
are very old. How strong and
quiet they are, and how sure of
themselves! To be quiet and
strong, one needs to be old, for
small things do not matter then.
Do you know what the moun-
tains think, as they stand there
shoulder to shoulder—for they
live only to shield and protect the
forest, here in the valley. They
told me they were thinking of
the smallness and the quickness
of the days. ‘Age unto age!’ is
what the mountains whisper.
57
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘Aon unto zon! Strong, strong,
strong is Time !’
‘And yet I knew these mighty
pillars lived only to shield the
forest which shielded Belle-Marie.
So I stood upon the last mountain
and looked upon the great blue
of the sky, and there again I saw
the face of Lake Belle-Marie ; and
the circle was complete, and I
sought no more, for I knew that
from the abode of perfect, unhurt
nature it is but a step up to the
perfect peace and rest of the land
where lives that Time whose
name the mountains voice in awe.
“And now, do you see what is
happening on Lake Belle-Marie ?
Through the cleft in the forest
the pink of the early day is
showing, and light shines through
the spaces of the pines. And
down the pebbles of the beach,
knee deep into the shining flood,
steps a noble creature, antlered,
beautiful, admirable. Do you see
him drink, and do you see him
raise his head and look about
58
LAKE BELLE-MARIE.
with gentle and fearless eye?
This creature is of the place, and
no hand must. harm him.
‘Let the thin, blue smoke die
down. Attempt no foot further on.
Disturb not this spot. Return.
But before you go, take one more
look upon the Lake of Belle-
Marie !â€â€™ A
So again I gazed upon the face
of the lake, which seemed inno-
cent, and sincere, and trust-
worthy, and deserving of the pro-
tection of the league of the pines,
and the army of the mountains,
and the canopy of the unshamed
sky. And then the voice of the
Singing Mouse, employed in some
song whose language I do not yet
fully understand, faded and sank
away, and even as it passed the
walls came back and the ashes
lay gray upon the hearth.
‘
@
9
The Skull and
the Rose.
os
eee
oe
“
et
ae
Go
es
THe SKULL AND
THE ROSE.
HE Singing Mouse peeped out
from the hollow orbit of the
white skull which lies upon the
table next to the volume of
Shakspere. It reached down a
tiny pink paw and touched a
leaf of the brave red rose which
every day lies before the skull.
It plucked the leaf, which made
a buckler for its small, throbbing
breast. It spoke.
“The rose is bold and red,’
said the Singing Mouse. ‘‘ Blood
isted. A skull is white. The
rose and the skull love one
another. They understand. We
do not understand.
‘‘As I sat by the skull I saw a
dream of the past go by. It was
as you see it now.
“Do you see the waving
grasses of the valleys? Do you
see the unmoving front of the
white old mountains? Do you
see the red roses growing down
among the grasses?
63
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘*Tt is peace upon the land. I
can see one who has seen the
_lands. He smiles, but he is sad.
He crosses the wide sea, but
cares not. He travels upon
rails of iron, and he smiles, but
still is sad, because he thinks,
and he who thinks must weep.
He leaves the ship and the iron
rail, and his road is narrower and
slower, for he travels now by
wheels of wood. He sees the
valleys, and his smile has more
of peace. His trail becomes
narrower yet. He goes by saddle,
and the mountains hem him in,
but now he smiles the more.
Now he must leave even the
saddle, and the trail is dim and
hard. See, the trail is gone!
Here, where no foot has trod,
where the mountains close about,
where the trees whisper, he sits
aud looks about him. Do you
see the red rose on his breast?
Always the rose is there. ~ Do
you see him look up at. the
mountains, about him at the
64
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE.
trees? Do you see him lay his
head upon the earth? Do you
still see his smile, the smile which
is weary and yet not afraid? Do
you hear him sigh? And what
is this he whispers, here at the
end of the long and narrowing
way—'‘I know not if this be the
end or the beginning!’ Ah,
what .does this man mean who
whispers to himself in riddles?
“Look ! It is the time of war.
There is music. The blood
stings. The heart leaps. The
eye flames. The soul exults.
Flickering of light on steel, the
flash of servant forces used to
slay, the reverberant growl of
engines made for death, the pass-
ing of men in cloth and men in
blankets, the tramp of hurrying
hoofs, the falling of men who die
—can you see this—can you
catch the horror, the exultation,
the joy of this, I say? They
come, they go; they run their
race, and it is all.
‘““Here are those who ride
65
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
against those who slay. Do you
know this one who rides at the
head, smiling, swinging his sword
well and smiling all the time?
It is he who said in the mountains
that riddle of the end and the
beginning—who knew that to
the heart of Nature we must
come, for either the end or the
beginning of a happy life. Do
you see upon his breast the red
tose? I think he rides to battle
with the rose, knowing what fate
will come.
“You know of this biting
whistle in the air—this small
thing that smites unseen? Do
you know the mowing of the
death scythes? Hark! I hear
the singing of this unseen thing.
See! he of the rose is bitten. He
has fallen. Ai! ai! He was so
brave and strong! His horse has
gone. He isalone. The grass
here was so green, It is red.
The rose upon his breast is red.
His face is white, but still the
smile is there, and now it is
66
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE.
calmer and more sweet, though
still he whispers, ‘I know not if
it be the end or the beginning !â€
“He is alone with Nature
again. The heavens weep for
him. The grasses and leaves
begin with busy fingers to cover
him up. ‘The earth pillows him.
He sleeps. Itis all. It is done.
It is the way of life. It is the
end and the beginning.
‘“Hfe loved the valley, the
mountain, the grass, the rose.
Now, since he cherished the rose
so well, see, the rose will not
leave him. Out of the dust it
rises, it grows, itblooms. Against
his lips it presses. It is the
beginning! He loved, he thought,
he knew. He is not dead. He is
with Nature. It is but the
beginning ! ©
‘‘Let the rose press against
his lips in an eternal, pure caress.
There is no end. ‘They under-
stand. We do not yet under-
stand.â€â€™
% * * * *
67
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
The pink flame of the unreal
light died away. The pageant
of the hills, the panorama of the
battle faded and were gone. The
table and the books came back.
‘ Wondering at these words, I
scarce could tell when the Sing-
ing Mouse went away, leaving
me staring at the barren walls
and at the white skull at my
hand.
For a moment it nearly seemed
to me the hollow eyes had light
and spoke to me. For a moment
almost it seemed to me that the
rose stirred deep down among its
petals, and that a wider perfume
floated out upon the air.
The Man of the
Mountain.
THe MAN .OF THE
MOUNTAIN.
““(\NCE there was a man,â€â€™
said the Singing Mouse,
“who loved to go into the
mountains. He would go alone,
far into the mountains, and climb
up to the tops of the tallest peaks.
Nothing pleased him so much as
to climb to the top of some
mountain where no other man
had ever been. No one ever
knew what he said to the mount-
ains, or what the mountains said
to him, but that they understood
each other very well was sure, for
he could go among the mountains -
where other men would not go.
At the tops of the high mountains
he would sit and look out over
the country that lay beyond. He
would not say what he saw,
for he said he could not tell, and
that, moreover, the people would
not understand it, for they did
not know the way the mountains.
thought.
“‘One time this man climbed
73
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES..
to the top of a.very high
mountain peak in a distant
country. ‘This peak looked out
over a wide land, and the man
knew that from its summit he
could see many things.
‘The man was now growing
old, so when he got to the top of
this mountain he sat down to
rest. When he sat down, he put
his chin in his hand, and his arm
upon his knee ; and so he looked
out over the land, seeing many
things.
‘The sun came up, but the
man did not move, but sat and
thought. The moon came, but
still he did not move. He only
looked, and thought and: smiled.
‘« After many days it was seen
that this man would not come
down from the mountain. The
mountain made him part of itself,
and turned him into stone, as he
sat there, with his chin in his
hand. He is there today, look-
ing out over many things. He
never moves, for he is now of
74
THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
stone. I have seen that place
myself. Once I thought I heard
this man whisper of the things he
saw. He sits there today.’’
At The Place
of the Oaks.
AT THE PLACE.
OF THE OAKS,
Se D2 you know what the oak
says?’ said the Singing
Mouse, as it sat upon my knee.
It had needed to nibble again at
my fingers before it could waken
me from the dream into which
I had fallen, gazing at the
fading fire. ‘‘Do you know
what the oak says?’ it repeated.
‘Do you hear it? Do you hear
the talking of the leaves?
‘‘T know what the oak says,’’
said the Singing Mouse. ‘‘When
the wind is soft, the oak says:
‘Peace! Peace!’ When the
breeze is sharp it sighs and says:
‘Pity! Pity! Pity!’ And when
the storm has fallen, the oak sobs
and cries: ‘Woe! Woe! Woe!’
‘*Do you see the oaks ?’’ asked
the Singing Mouse. ‘‘Do you
sec the little lake? Do you know
this place of the oaks? Behold
it now!’’ It waved a tiny hand.
I gazed at the naked, cheerless
wall, seamed and rent with
79
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
cracks along its sallow width.
And as I gazed the seams and
scars blended and composed into
the lines of a map of a noble
country. And as I gazed more
intently the map took on color,
and narrowed its semblance to
that of a certain region. And as
I gazed yet more eagerly the
map faded quite away, and there
lay in its stead the smiling face
of an enchanted land.
‘There was the little silver lake,
rippling on its shore of rushes.
Around rose the long curved hills,
swelling back from the shore.
The baby river babbled on at the
mouth of the lake, kissing its
mother a continual farewell.
The small springs tinkled metal-
lically cold into the silver of the
lake. The tender green of the
gentle glades rolled softly back,
dividing the two hills in peaceful
separation. And there were the
oaks. At the water’s edge, near
the lesser spring, the wild apple
trees twisted, but upon the hills
80
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
and over the great glades stood
the reserved, mysterious oaks,
tall, strong and grand.
One oak, a mighty one, now
resolved itself more prominently
forth. Did I not know it well?
Could one forget the tortured but
noble soul of this oak? Could
one forget the strong arm of
comfort it extended over this
most precious spot of all the
glade? One must suffer before
he can comfort. The oak had
suffered, somewhere. We do not
know all things. But over this
spot the great tree reached out
sheltering hands, and certainly
from its hands dropped benedic-
tions plenteously down.
Under the arm of the oak I
saw a tiny house of white—neat,
well-ordered, full of cheerfulness.
Through the wall of canvas—for
it now seemed to be after dusk—
there shone a faint pink gleam
of light, the soul of the white
house, its pure spirit of ©
content. As it shone, it scarce
81
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
seemed lit by mortal hand.
Near the small house of white,
and under the oak’s protecting
arm, there burned a little flame,
of small compass save in the vast
shadows it set dancing among
the trees. Those who built this
fire here, so many times, so many
years, each time first craved
pardon of the green grass of that
happy glade, for they would not
harm the grass. But the grass
said yea to all they asked, this
was sure, for each year the tiny
hearth spot was greener than any
other spot, because it remembered
what the fire had said and done.
And each year the oak dropped
down food enough for the little
fire. ‘he oak took pay in the
vast shadows the fire made for it.
That was the way the oak saw
the spirits of the Past, and when
it. saw them it sighed; but still
it welcomed the shadows of the
Past. So the fire, and the grass,
and the oak, and the shadows of
the Past were friends, and each
82
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
year they met here. It had been
thus for many years. Each year,
for many years, the same hand
had lit the little fire, in the same
place, and so given back to the
oak its Past. Now, the Past is a
very sad but tender thing.
Near by the little fire I saw a
small table formed of straight-
laid boughs, and at either side of
this were seats made cunningly
in the workshop of the woods.
There were two forms at this
small table. I saw them both.
One was gray and bowed some-
what, stooped as the oaks are,
silvered as the oaks are in the
winter days. The other was
younger and more erect. Once
the younger looked to the
older for counsel, but now it
‘seemed to me the bowed figure
turned to the one that had
become more strong.
I saw the savory vapors rise.
Even, it seemed to me, I could
note a faint, clear odor of innocent —
potency. I saw the table laid,
83
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
not with gleam of snow and -
silver, but with plain vessels
which, nevertheless, seemed now
to have a radiance of their own.
I knew all this. It was as
though there actually lay at hand
these pleasant scenes, as though
there actually arose the appeal-
ing fragrance of the evening meal.
Now as I looked, the gray
figure bowed its head, there,
under the arm of the oak, and
asked on the humble board the
blessing of the God who made
the oak, and gave the fire and
spread the pleasant waters on the
land. Every meal-time, every
year, for many years, it had been
thus. Ever, the oak knew, the
gray figure would first bow and
ask the blessing of God. And
each time at the close the oak
with rustling leaves pronounced
distinct Amen! Let those jest
who will, I do not know. I
think perhaps the oak knows, or
it would not thus for years have
whispered reverently its distinct
84
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
Amen! I will not scoff. It is
perhaps we who are ignorant.
We do not know all things.
I ask not what nor who these
two were who had come each
year to this place of the oaks, but
surely they were friends. In
shadow, I could hear them talk.
In shadow, I could see them
smile.
These friends sat by the little
fire a time before they went to rest
in the tiny house of white. After
they had gone, the fire did
strange things. All men know
that, though you see the fire
burned down, when you go into
the tent you will some time in the
night see the walls lit up by a
sudden flash or so, now and then,
from the fire which was thought
to be dead. ‘T’hat is the business
of the fire, and of the oaks and of
the shadows. I know that the
shadows dance strangely, and
hover and come near at hand, in
those late hours of the night ; but
what then occurs I do not know.
85
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
These two friends never
questioned this. They knew it
was the secret of the night, and
gave the oak its own request, in
pay for its protection and consent.
They gave the oak its union with
the sacred Past.
In the night I have heard the
oak sob, Vet in the morning,
when the sun was silvering the
wake of all the leaping fishes, the
oak was always gentle, and it
in, 4
i
AN i }
| 4 5 5 :
i said, ‘‘Wake, wake! God is wise.
Waken, waken! God is good.â€
* * * * *
As pure shining beads upon a
thread of gold I saw this small,
dear picture, reiterant and
unchanged, year after year,
always with the same calm and
pure surroundings. Only as year
added itself to year, slipping
forward on the golden string, I
saw the gray figure grow more
gray, more bowed, more feeble.
Alas! it seemed to me I saw the
silver coming upon the head of
the younger man, and his eyes
86
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
grew weary, as one who looks at
the earth too closely (which it is
not wise to do). Yet the years
came, to the oaks and to the
grasses and to the friends.
The grass dies every year, but
itis born again. The oak dies in
centuries, but it is born again.
Man dies in three score years and
ten, but he, too, is born again.
As I looked, I could see the
passing of the years. In all but
the unaltering fire of friendship I
could see change creeping on.
Grayer, grayer, more bent, more
feeble — is it not so, Singing
Mouse? And now, this time,
what was this gentle warning
that the oak tried to whisper
softly down? Perhaps the grayer
_friend heard it, ashe sat musing
by the fire. Herose and looked
about him, as one who had.
dreamed and was content. He
looked up at the solemn stars
unafraid, and so murmured to
himself. ‘‘Day unto day uttereth
speech,’’ he said; ‘‘Night unto
87
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
night showeth knowledge.â€
Day unto day, Singing Mouse.
Day unto day.
* * * * *
Woe is me, Singing Mouse,
and these are bitter tears for that
which you have shown! I see it
all again, the oaks, the glade, the
tiny house of white, the small
pleasant fire. Here again is the
little table, and here is the
evening meal. The table is still
spread for two. A double portion
is served as was wont before. Yet
why? For all is not the same.
At this table there is but one form
now. ‘The younger man is there,
although now he has grown gray
and stooped. Year unto year,
day unto day, the beads have
slipped along the string. Once
young, now old, he keeps the
camp alone!
But is he then alone? Hush!
The squirrels have grownstill, and
even the oak is silent. What is
that opposite, across the table, at
the seat long years held only by
88
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS.
the elder of these two? ‘Tell me,
Singing Mouse, is it not true that
I see there, sitting as of old at the
table, the same sturdy form, the
same simple, innocent and
believing face? It is the gray
ghost of one grown gray in good-
ness. It is the shadow of a
shadow, the apparition of a soul!
The oné at the table pauses, as
was the wont before the beginning
of a meal. He looks across the
table to the shadow, as if the
shadow were his friend. The
shadow bows its head. ‘The liv-
ing man bows also his head at
the board. The shadow moves
its lips. Doubt not those words
are heard this day.
See, the sun rises through the
trees. The glorious day sets on
once more. Doubt not, fear not,
sorrow not, ye two. Bow the
head still, ye two, and let not my
picture perish, Whisper again
the benediction of the years, and
89
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
let me hear once more the
murmur of the oak’s Amen!
The Birth of
the Hours.
THE BIRTH OF
THE Hours.
“T)O you know the story of the
wedding of the times?’’ said
the Singing Mouse. ‘‘ You know
all life is a wedding. The flowers
love, and the grasses, and the
trees; and the circle of the
wedding ring is the circle of life
and the sign of eternity. Death
and life, not life and then death,
is the order and the law.
“The hours are born of parents,
as are the flowers. The hours of
the day are born of the wedding
of Night and Morning. It is the
way of Life. Come with me.’’
So with the Singing Mouse I
went into a place where I was once
long before. I could see it very
‘well. It was in the deep woods,
faraway. Near by there were
tall, sweet grasses. I could hear
the faint tinkle of a falling stream.
' Other than that, it was silent in
the deep woods. Overhead the
sky was clear and filled with.
stars. The stars trembled and
95
f
“ny,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. |
twinkled and shone radiantly fair.
So now all at once I knew they
were the jewels on the veil of
Night. And the far shadows
were the drapery of the Night,
. and the greater light of the
heavens was the star upon her
coronal.
When I first looked forth, the
Night was a babe, but as I gazed
it grew. The Night is full of
change and charm. Those who
live within the walls do not see
these things. When I saw them,
IT could not sleep, for the Night
in all. her changes seemed to
speak.
The Night grew older, drawing
about her more ornate garb of
witchery. Across her bosom fell
a wondrous tissue, trembling
with exuberance of unprismed
light. These were the gems in
thousands of the skies, all fair
against the blackness of the robes
of Night, and I knew that the
blackness of the one was lovely
as the radiance of the other. Nor
96
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS.
could one separate one from the
other, for there arose a thin mist
of light, so that one saw form or
features only dimly, as through a
cloth of silver lace, such as the
spiders weave upon a morning.
The Night grew on, changing
at every moment, for change is
the law. There were small
frowns of clouds which were
replaced by smiles of light.
Did never you hear the laughter
of the Night? It is a strange
thing. Not all men have heard
it. ‘The Singing Mouse told me
of this.
Now as I lay: and looked at
this glorious apparition, there
came still another change, and
one most wonderful. In the
heart of the Night there came a
tremulous exultation. Upon the
face of the Night appeared a
roseate tinge of joyous perturba-
tion. So then I knew the lover
of the Night was coming, and
knew, too, whence we have derived
the signs of love as among
97
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
human beings we see it indicated.
I saw the flush upon the cheek
of Night flame slow and faintly
up, until it touched her very
forehead. This is the way of
Love. But the Night went on,
for this is the way of Life. Love
and Life, these are ever and
forever. We mock at them and
understand them not, but they
are ever and forever.
And now the Night, I know
not whether startled or in plan,
whether ashamed of her dark
garb, or unconscious of it in the
proud sureness of her beauty,
dropped loose a portion of the
shadows of her robe, and stood
forth radiant, clad with the.
dazzling beauty of her stars.
Then she raised her hand and
laid it on her heart.
- And so the Morning came and
took her in his arms and kissed
her on the brow. So here was
Love again. And of this wedding
there were born the hours.
a
The Tear
and the Smile.
THe THAR
AND THE SMILE.
HE Singing Mouse came and
sat near by. Undoubtedly
the room was dingy to the last
degree. The dust lay thick upon
the corner of thetable. It crusted
the window ledge and hung upon
the sallow wall. What was the
use, things being as they were, to
disturb the dust? Let it lie in all
its bitterness. And let the-
charred ends of the fagots roll
out upon the floor. And let the
fire die down to ashes. Dust to
dust. Ashes to ashes. It was
very fit.
But the Singing Mouse came
and sat near by: I could hear
it patter among the dead leaves of
the flowers that lay upon the
table. I turned my head and saw
it sitting close by my fallen hand.
Its tiny paws were waving. I
could see its breast, for which a
rose leaf would have been a giant
buckler, pulsing and_ beating
above its throbbing heart. Its
I03
a
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
eyes were shining. ... A rhythm
came into the swing of the pink-
tinted paws. And then, so high
and thin and sweet that at first I
looked above to trace the sound,
there came the singing of the
Singing Mouse... . Dreams fell
upon my eyes.
I heard that sweet sound of the
woods, the tinkle of falling water,
which is so full of change, now
keen, clear and metallically
musical, now soft, slurred and full
of sleep. I could not see the little
stream, but knew itran down there
beneath the talking pines. But
very well one could see the hill
where the small white house had
stood among the trees. ‘The
white house was gone now,
thoughthe grass pressed down by
the blankets had not yet fully
arisen. The smoke of the camp
fire still wavered up. It followed
one, with long, out-reaching arms
of vapor. With its fingers it
beckoned and begged for its old
companions yet awhile. Did
104
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE.
never one look back at the smoke
of the camp. fire that he leaves?
Always, the heart of the fire will
stir at this time of parting. A
little blaze will burst out among
the embers, and the smoke will
reach out and beckon one to stay.
Itis very hard to leave such a
fire.
Certainly there must be strange
_ things, of which we know but
little. Surely there was a figure
in the wreath of smoke. I could
see the drapery shape itself about
aform. I could see the out-
stretched arms. _I could see the
face, the gravely smiling lips.
‘There are many things in the
land of the Singing Mouse,â€
murmured my small magician.
“It is only there that one sees
clearly.â€â€ So I looked and
listened to the figure which was
in the smoke of the little fire,
“Believe me,â€â€™ said the figure
in the smoke, ‘‘ the ashes and the
dust are not so bitter as you think
them. The tears rain on them,
105
c
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
and they go back into the earth
and are bornagain. Look around
you, as here you may look,
unhindered by any confining
walls. Do you not see the flowers
smiling bravely? Yet every
blossom is a tear. Do you not
see the strong forest trees? Yet
every tree grows on the ashes of
the past. We know not what
you mean by Grief. With us,
all things point to Hope. I have
swum above a thousand forests.
Ask this forest, the youngest of
them all, whether it whispers of
dread and of grief. Rather it
whispers of wonder and of joy.
Come to it, and it may tell you of
its comfort. Turn your eyes up
to the blue sky, and put your
hands out upon this grass, which
is but dust renewed, and at your
eyes and at your fingers
you shall drink peace and
knowledge. ‘The shape ofa
room and of a grave is square and
cruel, but the shape of the earth
and of the great sky is that of
106
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE.
the perpetual circle, and it is
kind. Come to these. Come to
me. I will wave my hands
above you, and you shall sleep.
When you awaken the flowers
will be blooming ; and upon the
lid of each you shall see the tear,
but upon the lips of each shall
rest a smile.â€â€™
So now the figure in the smoke
waved, and nodded, and smiled
and beckoned, until I said to the
Singing Mouse it seemed scarce
like that we ordinarily know.
“Lie down and sleep,’ said
the Singing Mouse.
So I lay down and slept. And
when I awoke there were some
small flowers not far away; and
when I looked I saw it was as
had been said. Each flower had
a tiny tear hidden away beneath
its lid, but upon the lips of each
there rested a brave smile. And
from among the flowers there
arose a sweet odor.
“This,†said the Singing
Mouse, when it saw me note the
107
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
fragrance, ‘‘this is a Memory.
It belongs to you. See how soft
and sweet it is.â€â€™
How the Mountains
Ate up the Plains.
How THE MoUNTAINS
' ATE UP THE PLAINS.
‘“T ONCE knew a man,’’ said
the Singing Mouse, ‘‘ who
had seen the mountains in the
winter time, when they were
covered deep in snow. It is the
belief of most men that the
mountains are then asleep, but
this man said that they are not
asleep, but that they have only
drawn over their heads the white
council-robes, for then they are
sitting in council Now the
mountains are very old and wise.
This man told me he heard
strange sounds coming from
under the council-robes of the
mountains then, voices not
distinctly heard, but wonderful
and strong and of a sort to make
one fear.
‘“This man told me that once
he heard the mountains tell of a
time when they ate up the plains.
‘Once man was a dweller of the
plains,’ sang the mountains in a
great song; ‘there man dug and
113
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
strove. Never he lifted up the
eye, but at his feet, at his feet,
there he still gazed down. The
clouds bore not up his gaze,
neither did the hills comfort him.
Things false, of no worth, these
man sought and prized. ‘Though
we whispered to him, still he
made deaf his ear. Then we
the mountains, we the strong,
the just, the wise, we arose, we
set together our shoulders and so
marched on. ‘Thus we ate up
the plain. Now we stand where
once man was, for man lifted not
up his eyes. Therefore, now let
man look up, let him not make
small his gaze. We the strong,
we the just, the wise, we shall
eat up the plain. For on our brows
sits the light, about our heads is
the calm. ‘That which is high
shall in the days prevail. We
the strong, the just, the wise,
this we have said!’
“This man told me that he
could not hear all the song that
the mountains chanted, nor all
r14
MOUNTAINS ATE THE PLAINS.
they whispered among them-
selves. But he thought they
said that they had swallowed up
and consumed one race of beings
who became fixed only upon the
winhing of what they called
wealth, and had crushed out this
wealth and burned up their
precious things. This may be
true, for today men visit the
mountains to dig there for wealth,
and this which they call gold is
found much scattered, as though
it had been crumbled and burned
and blown wide over the earth
upon the four winds. For these
reasons this man thought that
the mountains had once eaten up
the plains, and that perhaps at
some time they might do this
again,â€â€™
ee
Sa
\ AS
S
The Beast
Terrible.
Tue BEAST
‘TERRIBLE.
HE little room was resplendent
one night with a fire which
flamed and flickered gloriously.
It set in motion many shadows
which had their home in the
corners of the walls, and bade
them cease their sullenness and
come forth to dance in the riot of
the hour. And so each shadow
found its partner in a ray of fire-
light, and there they danced.
They danced about the tangled
front of the big bison’s head
which hung upon the wall.
They crossed the grinning skull
of the gray wolf. They softened
the eyes of the antelope’s head,
and made dark lines behind the
long-tined antlers of the elk and
of the deer. They brought forth
to view in alternate eclipse and
definition the great, grim bear
head which hung above the
mantel. Every trophy gathered in
years of the chase, once perhaps.
prized, now perhaps forgotten,
11g
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
was brought into evidence, nor
could one escape noting each one,
and giving to each, for this one
night more, the story which
belonged to it. Isat and looked
. upon them all, and so there
passed a panorama of the years.
‘“There,’’ thought I, ‘‘is the
stag which once fell far in the
pine woods of the North. This
antelope takes me back to the
hard, white plains. These huge
antlers could grow only amid the
forests of the Rockies. That
wolf—how many of the hounds
he mangled, I remember; and
the giant bear, it was a good
fight he made, perhaps danger-
ous, had the old rifle there been
less sure. Yes, yes, of course, I
could recall each incident. Of
course, they all were thrilling,
exciting, delightful, glorious, all
those things. Of course, the
heart must have leaped in those
days. The blood must have
surged, in those moments. ‘T‘he
pulse must have grown hard, the
120
THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
mouth must have been dry with
the ardor of the chase, at those
times. But now? But why?
Did the heart leap tonight, did
the veins thrill with the rush of
the blood, tumultuous in the joy
of stimulus or danger? Why
did not the old eagerness come
back? Which of these trophies
was the one to bring this back
again? To which of these grim,
silent heads belonged the keenest
story?’
‘“T know,â€â€™ said the Singing
Mouse, which unknown to me
had come and placed itself upon
the table. ‘‘I know.’’ And it
‘climbed upon my arm which lay
across the table. The fire shone
fair upon its little form, so that in
silhouette its outline was delicate
and keen as an image cut from
the fiery heart of a noble opal
stone.
‘‘And what is it that you
know?†ITasked. ‘‘Small _
magician, tell me what it is you
know tonight.â€â€™
I21I
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
‘The Singing Mouse balanced
and moved itself in harmony with
the beat of the fire’s rays. I
bet looked at it so closely that a dream
; came upon my eyes, so that the
voice of the Singing Mouse
sounded far away and faint,
though it was still clear and
resonant in its own peculiar way
-and very fine arid sweet.
“T will tell you which trophy
you most prize,’ it said. ‘‘I
will show you your Iliad of the
chase. Do you not remember, do
you not see this, the most eventful
hunt of all your life?’’
And so I gazed where the
Singing Mouse pointed, quite
beyond the dusty walls, and there
I saw as it had said. I heard
not the thunder of the hoofs of
buffalo, nor the faint crack «= of
twig beneath the panther’s foot.
I saw not the lurching gallop of
the long-jawed wolf, nor the high,
elastic bounding of the deer.
The level swinging speed of the
antelope, the slinking of the lynx,
122
THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
the crashing flight of the wapiti—
no, it was none of these that came
to mind; nor did the mountains,
nor the plains, nor the wilder-
ness of the pines. But when
the Singing Mouse whispered,
““Do you see?’?’? I murmured in
reply, ‘‘I see it all again.â€
I saw the small, low hills, well
covered with short oaks and
hazel bushes, which rolled on
away from the village, far out,
almost to the Delectable mount-
ains, which are well known to
be upon the edge of the world.
Through these low hills a wind-
ing road led on, a road whose end
no man had ever reached, but
which went to places where, no
doubt, many wonders were—
perhaps even to the Delectable
mountains; for so a wise man
once had said, his words
hearkened to with awe. This
was a pleasant road, lined
with brave sumachs, with bushes
of the wild blackberry, and with —
small hazel trees which soon
123
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
would offer fruit for the regular
harvest of the fall, this same to
be spread for drying on the wood-
shed roof. It was perhaps wise
curiosity as to the crop of nuts
which had brought thus far from
home these two figures—an
enormous distance, perhaps at
least a mile beyond what hereto-
fore had been the utmost limit of
their wanderings. .It was not,
perhaps, safe to venture so far.
There were known to be strange
creatures in these woods, one
knew not what. It was therefore
well that the younger boy should
clasp tightly the hand of the
older, him who bore with such
confidence the bow and arrows,
potent weapons of those faye
gone by!
It was half with ‘ean and half
with curiosity that these two
wandered on, along this
mysterious road, through this
wild and unknown wilderness,
so far from any habitation
of mankind. ‘The zeal of
“124
THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
the explorer held them fast.
They scarce dared fare further
on, but yet would not turn back.
The noises of the woods thrilled
them. The sudden clanging
note of the jay near by caused
them to stop, heart in mouth for
the moment. Strange rustlings in
the leaves made them cross the
road, and step more quickly. Vet
the cawing of a crow across the
woods seemed friendly, and a
small brown bird which hopped
ahead along the road was
intimate and kind, and thus
touched the founts of bravery in
the two venturous hearts. Cer-
tainly they would goon. It was
no matter about the sun. This
was the valley of Ajalon,
perhaps, of which one had heard
in the class at Sabbath School:
And surely this was a good,
droning, yellow-bodied bee—
where did the bees go to, when
they rose up straight into the
air? And this little mouse, what |
became of it in winter? And—
I25
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
ah! What was that—that awful
burst of sound? Clutch closer,
little brother, though both be
pale! How should either of you
yet know the thunderous flight
of the wild grouse, this great
bird which whirled away through
the brown leaves of the oaks?
Father must be asked about this
tremendous, startling bird.
Meantime, the heart having
begun to beat again, let the two
adventurers press yet a little
further on.
And so, with fears and tremb-
lings, with doubts and joys,
through briars and flowers,
through hindrances and recom-
penses, along this crooked, wind-
ing, unknown road which led on
out into the Unknown, they
wandered, as in life we all are
wandering today.
But hush ! Listen! What is it,
this sound, approaching, coming
directly toward the road? Surely,
it must be the footfall of some
large animal, this cadenced
126
. THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
rustling on the leaves! It comes
—it will cross near—there, it
has turned, it is near the road!
Look! There it is, a great
animal, half the length of one’s
arm, with bushy, long red tail
arched high for easier running,
its grayish coat showing in the
bars of sunlight, its eyes bright
and black and keen. Had it not
been said there were wild animals
in these woods?
Each heart now thumped hard
with the surging blood it bore;
but it was now the blood of
hunters and not of boys. Fear
vanished at the sight of the
quarry, and the only thought
remaining was that of battle and
of victory. Well for the animal
that it ran—ill for it that it ran
down the road and not back into
the cover. The bow twanged,
the arrow flew—blunt, but
keenly sped. Down went the
smitten prey! Psean! Forward !
Victory !
But ho! the creature rallies—
127
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
recovers! It gathers its forces,
it flies! Pursuit then, but pursuit
apparently useless, for the animal
has found refuge deep in this
hollow stump, beyond the reach
of longest mortal arm !
Rustle now, ye leaves, and
threaten now, all ye boughs with
menacings. Roar, grouse, and
clamor on, all ye jangling jays.
No longer can ye strike terror
into these two souls, small though
they be. The heart of. the
hunter has now been born for
each. Fear and defeat are known
no longer in the compass of their
thoughts. Follow, follow,
follow! So spake the good old
savagery of the natural man.
Better for this creature had it
never disturbed these two with its
footfalls approaching among the
leaves. Out of its refuge now
must it come. Yea, though one
lost. a thousand suppers that
night, and though a thousand
stones lay waiting in the dark
128
THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
along the road to hurt. bare,
unprotected toes.
The sun forgot its part, and sunk
red, though reluctant, beyond
the Delectable Mountains. Thou
moon, this is Ajalon! Be kindly,
for by moonlight one still may
labor, and here is labor to be
done. Every blade in the Barlow
knives is broken. ‘The hole in
the stump yields not to slashings,
nor to attempts to pry it open.
The prey is still unreached.
What is to be done?
The elder hunter bethinks him
of. a solution for this problem.
The broken blade will do to gnaw
off this bough, and it will serve
to make a split in the end of it.
And if one be fortunate, and if
this split bestride the tail of the
concealed animal, and if the stick
be twisted— —
“T’ve got him!†‘cried this
philosopher for his ‘‘ Eureka.â€â€™
And then there was twisting and
pulling, and scratching and
squeaking, and bitten fingers and
129
=e.
C=
«
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
tears; but after all was over, there
lay the squirrel vanquished, at
the feet of these young
barbarians who had wandered
out from home into the unknown
lands of earth.
The moon was over Ajalon
when these two hunters, after all
the perils of the long, black road,
marched up into the door yard,
bearing on a pole between them
their quarry, well suspended by
the gambrels. ‘“My boys, I
feared that you were lost!â€
exclaims the tearful mother who
stands waiting in the door. But
the silent father, standing back of .
her in the glow of the lamplight,
sees what the pole is bearing,
and in his eye there 4s a smile.
After that, motherly reproach,
fatherly inquiry, plenteous bread °
and milk, many eager explana-
tions and much descriptive
narrative simultaneously uttered
by two mouths eager to. both eat
and talk.
% * * * x
130
THE BEAST TERRIBLE.
“‘T see it all,’ I said to the
Singing Mouse. ‘‘It all comes
back again. No chase was ever
or will ever be so great as this
one—back there, near the Delec-
table Mountains, in those days
gone by, those incomparable days
of youth! JI thank you, Singing
Mouse; but I beg you do not go
for yeta time. The heads upon
the wall grin much, and the dust
lies thick ‘upon them all.’’
lp /
a.
The Passing
of Men.
THE PassinGc
oF MEN.
NE night the moon was
shining brightly upon the
curtain, which had been drawn
tightly across the window. Within
the room the light was dim, so
that there could be seen clearly
the pictures which the moon was
drawing on the curtain; figures
which marched, advanced,
receded. One might almost have
thought these the shadows of
some moving boughs, had one
not known the ways the moon
has at certain times.
It chanced that high up in the
curtain there was a tiny hole,
and through this opening the
moonlight streamed, falling upon
the table in a small, silvery
ellipse, of a size which one
might cover ten times with his
hand. It’ was natural that in
this little well of pale and dream-
like radiance the Singing Mouse
should find it fit to manifest
itself. I knew not when it came,
135
y
+
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
but as I looked, the spot had
found a tenant. The small,
transparent paws of the Singing
Mouse displayed no shadow as
they waved and swung across
this pencil of the pale, mysterious
light. Vet its eyes shone opaline
and brilliant as it sat, so that I
could hardly gaze without a
shiver of surprise akin to fear,
fascinated as though I looked
upon a thing unreal. Thus
surrounded, almost one might
say thus. penetrated, by the
translucent shaft of radiance
which came through the window,
the Singing Mouse told me of
the figures on the curtain, which
now began to have more distinct
semblances.
““Do you see the figures
there?’ said the Singing Mouse.
“Do you see the marching men ?
Have you never heard the hoofs
ring on the roof when the wind
blows high? Have you not °
seen their ranks sweep swift
across the sky when storms
136
THE PASSING OF MEN.
arise? Have you never seen
them marching through the long
aisles of the wood at night?
These are the warriors of the
past. Now earth has always
loved the warriors.’’
I looked, and indeed it was
the truth. There was a pano-
tama on the curtain. History
had unrolled her scroll. The
warriors of the nations and the
times were passing.
I. saw the men of Babylon,
and those who came out of
Egypt. Dark were these of hair
and visage, and their arms were
the ancient bow and spear. And
there were those who rode light
and cast back their rapid archery.
These faded, and in their stead
marched men close knit in solid
phalanx, with long spears offer-
ing impenetrable front. In turn
these passed away, and there
came men with haughty brow,
who bore short spears and swords.
Near by these were wild, huge
men of yellow hair, whose shields
137
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
were leather and whose swords
were broad and long. And as
I gazed at all of these, my blood
thrilling strangely at the sight,
the figures blended and formed
into a splendid procession of a
martial day gone by. I saw
them—a long stream of mounted
men, who rode in helmet and
cuirass, and bore each aloft a
long-beamed spear. In front rode
one whose mien was high and
stern, and who might well have
been commander. High aloft he
tossed his great sword as he
rode, and sang the time a song
of war; and as he sang, the
thousands of deep throats behind
him made chorus terrible but
stirring in its chesty melody, for
ictus to the song each warrior
smiting sword on shield in a
mighty unison whose high,
sonorous note thrilled like the
voice of actual war. Steady the
strong eyes gleamed out and
onward as they rode. From the
steel clad breast of each there
138
THE PASSING OF MEN.
shone forward a glancing ray of
light, as though it came direct
from the heart, untamed even by
athousand years of death. My
heart leaped to see them ride,
so straight and stern and fearless,
so goodly, so glorious to look
upon. ‘Came the rattle of chain,
the clang of arms, the jangle
of belt and spur; and still the
brave procession passed, in tens,
in hundreds, in thousands, in a
long wave of stately men, whose
eyes shone each in all the bold
delight of war. Stooped front,
hooked hand and avaricious
eye—these were as absent as the
glow of gold-or silver. It was
the glorious age of steel.
Still on they passed, always |
arising the hoarse swell of the
fighters’ chorus. JI heard the
rumble of the many hoofs,
thrilling even the impassive
earth. The spear points shone.
The harness rattled. The pen-
nants fluttered stiffly in the
breeze. And then afar I heard
139
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
a sweet, compelling melody, the
invitation of the bugle, that
dearest mistress of the heart of
man. My blood leaped. I
started up. I started forward.
‘The sweep of the ranks drew me
on and in irresistibly. I would
have raised my voice.’ I sought
to stay, if for but one instant,
this army of brave men, this
panorama of exalted war, this
incomparable pageant of a day
gone by! It was the Singing
Mouse that checked me; for I
heard it sigh ;
“Alas !�
And yet again the scene was
changed. Across the view
streamed yet a long line of war-
riors. The hair of these did not
float yellow from beneath loos-
ened casque, nor indeed did these
know aught of armor, nor did
they march with banners beckon-
ing, nor to the wooing of the
trumpet’s voice. The skins of
these were red, and their hair
was raven-black. Arms they
140
THE PASSING OF MEN,
had, and horses, though rude the
one and ill caparisoned the
other. Leather and wood, and
flint and sinew served them for
material. Ill armed they were;
but as they rode, with naked
breasts, and painted faces, and
tall feathers nodding in their
plaited hair, out of the eye of
each there shone the soul of the
fighting man, the warrior,
beloved since ever earth began.
Not less than the men of Babylon
were these, nor than they of the
ancient bow and spear, nor than
they of the steel-clad breast; and
as I saw them naked, clad on
only in the armor of a man’s
fearlessness, the word of com-
mendation was as ready as that
of pity.
“They are late, Singing
Mouse,’ said I, ‘‘late in the
day of war.â€
““Yes,’’? said the Singing
Mouse, with sadness, ‘‘they are
late, and they must pass away.
But they are warriors of proof,
I4I
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
as much as any of those who
have passed. Did you not see
the melancholy of each face as
it looked forward? Their fate
was known, yet they rode
forward to meet it fearlessly, as
brave as any fighting men of
all the years. In time, they too
shall have their story, and with
the other warriors of the earth
shall march again upon the page
of history.’
As I looked, the figures of
these men grew dimmer The
tinkling of beaded garments and
the shuffling of the ponies’ hoofs
became less and less distinct, and
the dust cloud of their traveling
became fainter and fainter, and
finally faded and melted away.
The curtain was bare. I heard
the sighing of the wind.
a
a aaa
Nie
a
ee
The House
of Truth.
THE House
oF TRUTH.
NE morning I lay upon my
bed in the little room which
I call my home. Now, among
the eaves which rise opposite to
my window there are many spar-
rows which have also made their
homes. In the morning, before
the sun has arisen, and at the
time when the dawn is making
the city gray and leaden in color
instead of somber and black, these
sparrows begin to chatter and
chirp and sing in discordant
unison, and by this I know the
day has come. Upon this morn-
ing it seemed to me the sparrows
chattered with an unusual com-
motion; and as I listened I heard
from another window near by
mine the voice of grief and lamen-
tation. Then I knew that one
who had long been sick had
passed away. As the gray
morning came on, this spirit, this
spark of life, had gone out from
its accustomed place. As the
147
ke 4
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
day came on, the sounds of
lamentation arose. ‘The friends
of that one wept. So I asked the
sparrows, and the sun, and the
gray sky why these friends wept.
What is grief? I asked of them.
Why should these weep? What
has happened when one dies?
Where has the spark of life gone?
Did it fall to these sodden pave-
ments, forever done, or did it go
on up, to meet the kiss of the
rising sun? And the sparrows,
which fall to the ground, answered
not. The sun rose calm and
passionless, but dumb. ‘The sky
folded in, large but inscrutable.
None the less arose the voice of
lamentation and of woe.
* * * ee *
“‘T ask you, Singing Mouse,â€
said I, one night as we sat alone,
‘“What is the truth? How do
we reach it? How shall we
know it? Tell me of this spark
that has gone out. Tell me,
what is life, and where does it
go? There are many words.
148
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH.
Tell me, what is the Truth?
The Singing Mouse gazed at
me in its way of pity, so I knew
I had asked that which could not
be. Vet even as I saw this look
appear it changed and vanished.
And as the Singing Mouse waved
its tiny paw I forbore reflection
and looked only on the scene
which now was spread before me.
It seemed a picture of actual
colors, and I could see it plainly.
I saw a youth who stood with
one older and of austere garb.
By the vestments of this older
man I knew he was of those who
teach people in spiritual things.
To him the young man had come
in anguish of heart. Then the
older man of priestly garb taught
the young man in the teachings
that had come down to him.
But the youth bowed his head
in trouble, nor was the cloud
cleared upon his heart. I heard
him murmur, ‘Alas! what is the
Truth?â€
‘So I saw this same youth pass
149
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
on, in various stages of this
picture, and before him I saw
drawn as though in another
picture, a panorama of the edifices
and the institutions of the
.teligions of the lands.
But the years passed, and the
panorama of beliefs swept by, and
no one could tell this man what
was the Truth.
Yet after this young man had
ceased to query and had closed
his books, he one day entered
alone into one of the great edifices
built for the sake of that which
he could not understand. In the
picture I could see all this. I
saw the young man cast himself
face down among the cushions of
a seat, and there he lay and
. listened to the music. This, too,
I could hear. I could hear the
peal of the organ arise like voices
of the spirits, going up, up,
whispering, appealing, promising,
—assuring. Then—for I could see
and hear with him—there came
to that young man when he
I50
- THE HOUSE OF TRUTH.
ceased to seek, the very exaltation
he had longed to know.
* * * %. *
‘“Ah | yes, Singing Mouse,†I
said, ‘‘it was very beautiful. But
music is not final. Music is not
the Truth. Tell me of these
things.â€â€™
The Singing Mouse again
seemed to hesitate. ‘It may
be,†said the Singing Mouse,
slowly, ‘‘that the Truth will
never be found between the
covers of any book, no matter
how wise. It may be that it will
never be found by any who search
for it always within walls built
by. human hands. It may be
that no man can convey to
another that which is the truth to
him. It may be that the Truth
can never be grasped, never be
weighed or formulated.
‘“The ways of Nature are
always the same, but Nature does
not ask exactness of form. Why
then shall we ask exactness of
faith? The true faith is nothing
I5I
c+
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
final, not more than are final the
’ carved stones of the church which
offers it so strenuously. ‘The
stones crumble and decay, but
new churches rise. New faiths
will rise. But were not all well?â€
At these things I wondered,
and over them I thought for a
time, but yet I did not understand
all that the Singing Mouse had
said. As ifit knew my thought,
the Singing Mouse said to me:
“Your vision is too narrow.
You seek the great truths in
small places, and wonder that
you do not find them. Come
with me.’’
The Singing Mouse waved its
hand, as was its wont, and as in
a dream and as though I were
now the young man whom we
had lately seen, I was trans-
ported, by what means I could
not tell, into a place far distant.
At first it seemed to me there was
a figure in vestments, speaking
of I scarce knew what. Again
there was a church or a
152
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH.
cathedral. TI could see the rafters —
as I lay. I could hear the solemn
and exalted peal of the organ. I
could hear voices that sang up
and up, thrilling, compelling.
The sense of the confinement
of the building ceased. Insen-
sibly I seemed to see the hewn
stones of the walls assume their
primeval and untouched state
beneath the grasses of the hills.
I could feel the rafters vanishing
and going back into the bodies of
the oaks in which they originally
grew. The voice of the organ
remained with me, but it might
have been the roll of the waves
upon the shore. I was in the
Temple. I sought not for names.
It was night. I lay upon a
bank of sweet-smelling grasses,
and about me were the great oaks.
The organ, or the waves, spoke
on. I looked up, up, into the
great circle of the sky, so far, so
blue, so kind in its bending over,
so pitying it seemed to me, yet so
high in its up-reaching. I looked
153
ey
® Lax
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
upon the glorious pageant of the
stars.
‘*That star,’’ thought I, ‘‘shone
over the grave of some ancestor
of mine; back, back in the
unmirrored past, some father of
some father of mine. He is gone,
likeafly. Heis dust. I-may be
lying on his grave. Soon, like a
fly, I too shall be dead, gone,
turned into dust. But the star
will still shine on. Small as that
father’s dust may be, that dust
still lives. Itis about me. ‘This
grass, these trees, may hold it.
He has lived again in the cycle of
natural forces. My dust, when I
am dead, will in turn make part
of this world, one of an unknown
sea of stars. Small then, as I
am, Iamkin tothat star. The
stars go on. Nature goes on.
Then shall man—shall I—’â€â€™
‘‘Ah,â€â€™ said the Singing Mouse,
its voice sounding I knew not
whence; ‘‘from this place can
you see?’’
So now I thought I began to see
154
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH.
what I had not seen before. And
since this wasin the land of the
Singing Mouse, I sought to find
no name for what I saw, nor
tried to measure it. What one
man sees is not what another sees.
Shall one claim wisdom beyond
his neighbor? Are not the stars
his also, and the trees his to
talk withhim? Are not the doors
always open? Does not the
music of the organ ever roll, do
not the voices always rise?
Had it not been for the
Singing Mouse, I should not
have thought these things.
&
Where the
City Went.
WHERE THE
City WENT.
NE day there was a white
frost that fell upon the city,
lasting for many hours, so that a
strange thing happened, at which
men wondered very much. ‘The
city put aside its colors of
black and brown and gray, and
dressed itself in silvery white.
No stone nor brick was seen
except in this silvern frosty color.
All the spires were glittering in
silver, and all the columns bore
traceries as though the hands of
spirits had labored long and -
delicately and had seen their
tender fretwork frozen softly but
forever into silver. The gross
city had put aside corporal things,
and for once its spirit shone fair
and radiant, so that men said
that no such thing had ever been
before.
That evening the frost still
remained, and as the night came
on a mist fell upon the city.
From the windows men looked
159
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. .
out, and lo! the beautiful city so
made spiritual was vanishing.
One by one the great buildings,
the tall spires, the lofty columns
had faded into a white dream,
dimmer, fainter, less and less
perceptible, seen through a gentle
envelope of whitening haze.
This thing was of a sort almost
to make one tremble as he looked
upon it, for the city which had
been silver ‘had turned to mist,
and the mist seemed fair to turn
intoa dream. There are those
who say it did become a dream,
and afterward descended, a
glorious White City, seen for a
time upon the earth and so
beloved of men that it has never
been forgotten. And wanderers
in desert countries tell that at
times they have seen this same
city of dreams, alluringly
beautiful, but evanescent, intang-
ible, unattainable, trembling and
floating upon the wavering air.
Now when I saw the city thus
fade away and disappear, I sat
160
WHERE THE CITY WENT.
down at my table, and, as many
men did that night, I wondered
much at what I had seen. For
surely the soul of the city had
arisen. Then the Singing Mouse
‘ came and gazed into my face.
‘* What you have seen is true,’’
said the Singing Mouse. ‘“I‘here
is no city now. It has gone.
You have seen it disappear. Its
soul has arisen. This does not
often happen, yet it can be, for
even the city has a soul if you
can find it.
‘But if I say the city has
gone, I mean only that it has left
the place where once it was.
That which once was, is always,
corporate or not corporate. We err
only when we ask to see all with
our eyes, to balance all within
our hands. Come with me, and I
will show you where the city
went.â€
So now the Singing Mouse
waved its hands, and I saw,
though I knew not where I looked,
I saw a country where the
161
aN
: S<
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
trees grew big and where the
wild-fowl came. It was where
the trees had never been felled,
nor had the stones ever been
hewn. The sky was blue, and
the water was blue, except where -
it played and laughed, and there
it was white.
There was a small house, of
a sort ote has never seen, for
none in the cities are like it. The
blue smoke curling from the
chimney named it none the less a
home. I hardly knew what time
or place we had come upon, for
the Singing Mouse, whose voice
seemed high and exalted, spoke
as though much was in the past.
“This is a Home,’ said the
Singing Mouse. ‘‘Once there
were no homes. In those days
there was only one fire, and it
wasred. By thismansat. He
sought not to see.
‘‘Once a man sat at night and
looked up at the heavens, seek-
ing to know what the stars were
saying. He besought the stars,
162
WHERE THE CITY WENT.
praying to them and asking them
to listen to the voice of the water,
and to the voice of the oaks and
to the whispers of the grasses, and
to tell him why the fire of earth
was red, while the fire of the stars
was white.
‘“Now while this man besought
the stars, to him a strange thing
happened. As he looked up he
saw falling from the heavens
above him a ray of the white
light of the stars. It fell near to
him and lay shining like a jewel
in the grass. To this the man
ran at once, gladly, and took up
the white light, and put it in his
bosom, that the winds might not
harmit. Always this man kept
the white light in his bosom after
that. And by its light he saw
many things which till that time
men had never known. ‘This
man found that this new light,
with the red light that had been
known, filled all his house with
a great radiance, so that small
strifes were not so many, and so
163
——
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
that life became plain and sweet.
This then that you see is that
Home. ‘This that you see around
you, the large trees and the green
grass, and the blue sky and the
smiling waters, all this is wealth;
wealth not corporate, wealth
valuable, wealth that belongs to
every man ever born upon the
earth, and which can not of right
ever be taken away from him.
Shorn of that, he is poor indeed,
though not so poor as he who
shore him. Unshorn of this, he
is rich. In our land our hearts
ache to see these terms misused,
and that called wealth which is
so far from worth the having.
But here, where I have brought
you, you shall see humanity
_undwarfed, and you shall see
peace and largeness in the life
which you once thought small
and sordid.â€
‘Then as I looked, there. step-
ped from the house a man, or
one whom I took to be a man.
This man stood in the cool, fresh
164
WHERE THE. CITY WENT.
morning, and gazed at the sun,
now rising above the tops of the
great trees. He smiled gently,
and taking in each hand a little
water from a tiny stream that
flowed near by, he raised his
hands, and still smiling, offered
tribute of the water to the sun.
I saw the water falling down
from his hands in a small stream
of silver drops, shining brightly.
It was the way of the land, the
Singing Mouse said; for they
thought that as the water came
from the sky and returned to it,
so did man and the thoughts of
man, and the fruits of his pro-
gress, never to be destroyed.
At all this I looked almost in
fear, for the thought came that
‘perhaps this was not man as we
knew him, but the successor of
man. ‘ Where is this land?’ I
asked of the Singing Mouse,
‘and what is this time upon
which we have come?â€
The Singing Mouse looked at
the green trees, and at the kind
165
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
sun, and at the blue sky and the
pleasant waters, and it said to
me slowly, ‘‘ There: was once a
city where these trees now stand.â€â€™
The Bell and -
the Shadows.
THE BELL AND
THE SHADOWS.
MELODY unformulate, music
immaterial, such was the
voice of the Singing Mouse ;
faint, small and clear, a piping
of fifes so fine, a touching of
strings:so delicate, that it seemed
to come from instruments of
beryl and of diamond, a phantom
music, impossible to fetter with
staff or bar, and past the hope
of compassing in words.
It was the last night of the
year, and the bell upon the
church near by had made many
strokes the last time it had been
heard; many heavy strokes which
throbbed sullenly, mournfully
on the air. The presence of
passing Time was at hand.
The year would soon join
the years gone by. Regret,
remorse, despair, abandonment,
the hopelessness of humanity—
was it the breath of these which
arose and burdened heavily the
note of the chronicling bell ?
I7z
%
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
Where were the chimes of joy?
* * * * *
' “These shadows that you see
are not upon the wall,†said the
Singing Mouse. ‘‘They are very
»much beyond the windows. If
we only look out from our win-
dows, there are always great
pictures waiting for us—pictures
in pearl and opal, in liquid
argent, in crimson and gold.
But always there must be the
shadows. Without these, there
can be no picture anywhere.
‘Have you not seen what the
shadows do? Have you not
seen them trooping through the
oak forest in the evening, through
the pine forest in open day,
across the prairies under the
moon at night, legions of them,
armies of them? Have you
never seen them march across the
grass-lands in the day time,
cohort after cohort, hurrying to
the call of the unseen trumpets?
In the woods, have you never
heard strange sounds, when you
172
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS.
put your ear to the ground—
sounds untraceable to any animate
life? Have you never heard
vague voices in the trees? Have
you not heard distant, mysterious
noises in the forest, whose cause
you could. never learn, seek no
matter how you might? ‘These
were the voices of the shadows,
the people who live there. Who
else should it be to whisper and
sing to you and make you happy
when you are there? Without
these people, what would be the
woods, the prairies, the waters,
the sky, the world?
‘‘Without the shadows, too,
what would be our lives?
Thoughts, thoughts and remem-
brances, what have we that is
sweeter than these? Have
you never seen the smile upon
the lips of those who have died ?
They say they are looking upon
the Future. Perhaps they look
also upon the Past, and therefore
smile in happiness, seeing again:
Youth, and Hope, and Faith,
173
~d
¢
‘é
*
y
Ye
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
and Trust, which are tender and
beautiful things. Life has no
actuality of its own, and in
material sense is only a con-
tinual change. But the shadows
of thought and of remembrance
do not change. It is only the
shadows that are real.’’
As I pondered upon this, there
passed by many pleasant pictures
upon the wall, after the way the
Singing Mouse had; many
pictures of days gone by, which
made me think that perhaps
what the Singing Mouse had said
was true.
I could see the boy, sitting idle
and a-dream, watching the
shadows drifting across the clover
fields where the big bees came.
I saw the youth wandering in
the woods where the squirrels
lived, loitering and looking,
peering into corners full of the
secrets of the wild creatures,
unraveling the delicious
mysteries which Nature ever
offers to .those not yet grown
174
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS.
old. -It was a comfortable
picture, full of the brilliant greens
of springtime, the mellow tints of
summer, the red and russet of
autumn days, the blue and white
of winter. I could hear, also,
sounds intimately associated
with the scenes before me; the
bleat of little lambs, the low
of cattle, the neighing of a
distant horse. And then both
sound and scene progressed, and
as the woods and hills grew
bolder and more wild, I could
hear again the rifle’s thin report,
could note the whisper of the
secret-loving paddle, the slipping
of the snow-shoe on the snow,
the clatter of the hoofs of
horses, the baying of the bell-
mouthed hounds. The delights
of it all came back again, and
in this varied phantom chase
among the keen joys of the past,
I saw as plainly and exultantly
as ever in my life, the panorama
of the brown woods, and the gray -
plains, and the purple hills—saw
023
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES.
it distinctly, with -all the old
vibrant joy of youth—line for
line, sound for sound, shadow for
shadow !
And then the Singing Mouse,
without wish of mine, caused
these scenes to change into others
of more quiet sort, which told
not of the field, but of the home.
In the shadows of evening, I
seemed to see a pleasant place,
well surrounded by trees and
flowers, the leaves of which were
stirred softly in the breath of a
faint summer breeze, strong
enough only to carry aloft in its
hands the odor of the blooming
rose. ‘This picture faded slowly.
There were shadows in the spaces
between the trees. ‘I‘here were
shadows in the dark-growing
vine which draped a column.
One could only guess if he caught
sight of garb or of the outline
of a form among the shadows.
He could only guess, too,
whether he heard music, faint as
the breeze, faint as the incense
176
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS.
of the flowers. He could only
guess if he had seen the image
of the House Beautiful, that
temple known as Home.
* * * * *
“Thoughts,†said the Singing
Mouse, softly. ‘‘Thoughts and
remembrances. These are the
things that live forever. It is
only the shadows that are real!â€â€™
The solemn note of the bell
struck in. It counted twelve.
The new year had come. The
‘chimes of joy arose. But still
the faint music from the Past
had not died away, and still the
shadows waved and beckoned on
the wall, strong and beautiful,
and enduring, and not like the
fading of a dream. So then I
knew that what the Singing
Mouse had said was true, and
that it is, indeed, only the
shadows that are real.
THe Enp,
“There was once a city where these trees
now stand.â€
PRINTED AT THE PRESS. OF GEO. E. COLE & CO,, CHICAGO,
WITH LITTLE PICTURES MADE 8Y W. S. PHILLIPS,
FOR FOREST AND STREAM PUB. CO.,
NEW YORK,
T3n102 50 F
Shasta
oe ola
Se
me rere
inate ae
Shihan ieee sce
Part es
we
Vat eee
etre aarecuey
mA Bah acti ay:
ot
aint
She leranershene
heey
Sais Dita
ey tn it
si
Sen
as
of
ss
iia
0 te
te
3
pelea
seh
pe
Sie
Slaven She eats
Ail
i
A
Oster i
ui
At
absecth
iekoks
boomers e
|
|