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THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES

by

EMERSON HOUGH

Author of The Purchase Price, 54-40 or Fight, Etc.

With Decorations by Mayo Bunker







[Illustration]


[Illustration]



New York
Hurst & Company
Publishers

Copyright 1910
by Emerson Hough

[Illustration]




CONTENTS


  The Land of the Singing Mouse        _Page_ 11
  The Burden of a Song                        19
  The Little River                            31
  What the Waters Said                        41
  Lake Belle-Marie                            55
  The Skull and the Rose                      67
  The Man of the Mountain                     77
  At the Place of the Oaks                    83
  The Birth of the Hours                      99
  The Stone That Had No Thought              107
  The Tear and the Smile                     113
  How the Mountains Ate Up the Plains        123
  The Savage and Its Heart                   131
  The Beast Terrible                         137
  The Passing of Men                         155
  The House of Truth                         167
  Where the City Went                        181
  The Bell and the Shadows                   193
  Of the Greatest Sorrow                     205
  The Shoes of the Princess                  215
  Of White Moths                             225
  The House of Dreams                        231




THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Land of the Singing Mouse]


[Illustration]

THE LAND OF THE SINGING MOUSE


This is my room. I live here; and my friends come here
sometimes, such as I have left. There is little to offer them,
but they are welcome to what there is. There is the table. There
is the fire. There are not any keys.

That is my coat upon the wall. It is worn, a little. The barrels
of the old gun are worn; and the stock of the rifle, broken in
the mountains long ago, is mended but rudely; and the tip of the
old rod is broken, and the silk is fraying in the lashings, and
upon the hand-grasp the cord is loose. The silver cord will
loosen and break in the best of men in time; wherefore,
I beseech you, mock not at these belongings, though your own may
far surpass them. You are welcome to anything there is here....

But the Singing Mouse will not come out, not while you are here.
True, after you have gone, after the fire has burned down and
the room is all still--usually near midnight, as I sit and muse
alone over the dead or dying fire--true, 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 I
listen.... During such singing the fire blazes up. The walls are
rich in art. My rod is new and trig. There is work, but there is
no worry.... 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 over, and
in a chill I start up, I scarce 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 examined the pens there--that they are
made from plumes of an angel's wing; and that if they chose they
could talk, and say things which would make you and me ashamed
and afraid. Pens such as these we do not have.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Burden of A Song]


[Illustration]

THE BURDEN OF A SONG


The 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!"

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
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 surface 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 can not 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 unspeakable peace. You can take your 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 on-coming 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 mountains 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 cañon walls, and locked fast
doors of adamant against all following, and swept a pitying hand
of shadow, and breathed that wondrous unsyllabled voice of
comfort which any mountain-goer knows. Ay! 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--smell 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!...

[Illustration]

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. It is cold. It is dark. There
is a shiver in the 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 walking, 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--right 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. Yes, it is cold. But ah!
what is that out there, and what is it doing? It is setting all
the long white curves 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 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."

The light in the little house went out. I think it was a happy
home. May yours be so, always.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Little River]


[Illustration]

THE LITTLE RIVER


The Singing Mouse came out and sat 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 one wished to
move. To listen was also to see.

There were low rolling hills, covered and crowned with a 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, I seemed to see a procession of the trees. The
cottonwoods halted in their march. The box-elders, 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, even
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 it is now upon the side whence I
first gazed. It is back there, where one can not go again; back
there, along that crystal, murmuring mystery of the little
stream one knew when one was young!

[Illustration]

Ah, little river, little river, but I am coming back again. Once
more I push away the long grass and the swinging boughs, and
look into your face. Again I dabble my bare feet, and scoop up
my straw hat full, and watch 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 expectation, but forgetting not the
binding on of the tough linen line. And now I cast my gaudy
float on that same swinging, wimpling, dimpling eddy, and let it
swim in beneath the bank. And--No! Can it be? Have I 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 for ever! Why take such things
from us?... All I have I will give to you, if 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 went a-peak when you
whistled 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 tallow. There must be a vast
game-bag--a world too large for a boyish form--and strange
things to eat therein, such as one sees no longer; for on a
chase calling for such daring-do it may be needful that one walk
far, across the hills, along the little river, almost to the
Delectable Mountains 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 uncomprehended
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 leporine 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 almost wince again at 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
can not 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 slowly,
by a step now not so fast? Does he look up--My God!--is there
melancholy in a dog's eye, too?

[Illustration]




[Illustration: What the Waters Said]


[Illustration]

WHAT THE WATERS SAID


The 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 eventful 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
bending 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 now, 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, hung by upon a forgotten nail,
and subject to no further requisition. Nevertheless, if its
owner wished, it could still do a day or two. I knew that; and
something 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 Shakespeare,
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 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 a
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 fell cunning of ye so to paint upon the
wall this picture of the old mill-dam. 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 happiness 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 they dream not backward, but ahead!

This lazy pool beneath the far wing of the dam, how smooth it
looks! Yet well we know the sunken log upon its farther side. We
have festooned it full oft with a big hook and hempen line. And
from that pool how many fatuous fishes have we 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 morning, 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 engineering
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. 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 playing 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_! You
would make one shudder. Let us look no more at the faces in the
water.


[Illustration]

But still you bide by the waters tonight, 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 think the sea speaks only
of sorrow, but this is not wholly true. If you will listen
thoughtfully 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 forgetfulness. Rather let us call it
exaltation. 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, 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.

  "Long time upon the mast our brown sail flapped;
    Our keel plowed bitter salt, and everywhere
  The ominous sky in sullen mystery wrapped,
    What side we looked on, either 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,
    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.

  "Then as our craft made safely on the strand,
    And we all well our weary brown sail furled,
  We gazed 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 bitten sea!
    'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend, to thee and me!'"




[Illustration: Lake Belle-Marie]


[Illustration]

LAKE BELLE-MARIE


Lake 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 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--"

"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."

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 shadow of the pines on the
point looks like a mass of actual substance. Wait! Did you see
that silver 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 untimely shot
around such shores! The pines would have been angry and would
have crushed you. You do not know how they live, seeking only to
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 footprint 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 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.

[Illustration]

"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 mountains 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. 'Æon unto æon! Strong, strong, strong is
Time!'

"And yet I knew these mighty pillars stood 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
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 farther on.
Disturb not this spot. Return. But before you go, take one more
look upon the Lake of Belle-Marie!"

So again I gazed upon the face of the lake, which seemed
innocent, and sincere, and trustworthy, and deserving of the
protection 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Skull and the Rose]


[Illustration]

THE SKULL AND THE ROSE


The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit of the
white skull which lies upon the table next to the volume of
Shakespeare. 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 is
red. 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?

"It 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 and 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 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 passing 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 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 this, our life. Do you see upon his breast the red
rose? 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. Ay! ay! He was so brave and
strong! His horse has gone. He is alone. 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 calmer and
more sweet, though still he whispers, 'I know not if it be the
end or the beginning!'

"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. It is all. It is done. It is the
way of life. It is the end and the beginning.

[Illustration]

"He 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, it blooms.
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 understand. We do not yet understand."


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 Singing Mouse went away, leaving me
staring at the barren walls and at the white skull by 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Man of the Mountain]


[Illustration]

THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN


"Once there was a man," 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
mountains, 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 dared 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 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 to-day, looking out over many things. He never
moves, for he is now of stone. I have seen that place myself.
Once I thought I heard this man whisper of the things he saw.
He sits there to-day."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: At the Place of the Oaks ...]


[Illustration]

AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS


"Do you know what the oak says?" asked 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?...

"I 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 see 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
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 metallically 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 and over the great glades
stood the reserved, mysterious oaks, tall and strong.

[Illustration]

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 one may 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 benedictions 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 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. The 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
year they met here. It had been thus for many years. Each year,
for many years, the same hand had laid 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
somewhat, 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, 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
appealing 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 mealtime, 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 Amen! I will not scoff. It is
perhaps we who are ignorant. We do not know all things.

[Illustration]

I ask not what nor who were these two 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.

That 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. 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. Yet in the morning, when
the sun was silvering the wake of all the leaping fishes, the
oak was always gentle, and it said, "Wake, wake! God is wise.
Waken, waken! God is good!"


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 growing weary, as of 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 it is 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, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose 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
night showeth knowledge."

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!

[Illustration]

But is he then alone? Hush! The squirrels have grown still, and
even the oak is silent. What is that opposite, across the table,
at the seat long years held only by 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 goodness. It is the shadow of a shadow, the apparition
of a soul!

The one 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
living 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 let me hear once more the murmur
of the oak's Amen!

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Birth of the Hours]


[Illustration]

THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS


"Do 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,
far away. 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 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,
I could not sleep, for the Night in all her changes seemed to
speak.

The Night grew older, drawing about her 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 as
lovely as the radiance of the other. Nor 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 perturbation. So
then I knew the lover of the Night was coming, and knew, too,
whence we have derived the signs of love as among human beings
we see it indicated. I saw the flush upon the cheek of Night
flame slowly 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 for ever. We mock
at them and understand them not, but they are ever and for ever.

And now the Night, I know not whether startled or in joy,
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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Stone that Had no Thought]

THE STONE THAT HAD NO THOUGHT


"Once," said the Singing Mouse, "while many men hurried into the
city, as, each day, they do, they saw many other men standing
about a place where a large building was growing. There were
those who raised stones on long arms of steel, and swung them
about, high up into the wall. Others remained upon the earth to
place these stones upon the long arms of steel. Now a stone had
fallen, and beneath it lay what had been a man; and around this
many stood.

"The long arm reached out after stones, and so this stone again
was taken and raised into the air. That which had been a man lay
broken, never again to rise and smile and walk. Near to it stood
a woman, not weeping, being still too sad for weeping. Above her
arose the stone once more, heavy and without thought. It rose
above the woman and above this that had been a man, and as it
swung high and slow above her the woman looked up at it, as
though to ask of it mercy. But the stone passed slowly on, heavy
and without thought. It is in the wall to-day, heavy and without
thought. Some say that is a temple, others that there is a God
in it. But no God replies. And the stone is in the wall, heavy,
without thought."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Tear and the Smile]


[Illustration]

THE TEAR AND THE SMILE


The Singing Mouse came and sat near by. Undoubtedly the room was
dingy to the last degree. The dust lay thick upon the corner of
the table. 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 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 it ran 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, though the 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 a while. Did never one look back at the smoke of
the camp-fire that one 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. It is 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 a form. I could see
the outstretched arms. I could see the face, the gravely smiling
lips.

"There are many things in the land of the Singing Mouse,"
murmured my small magician. "It is only there that one sees
clearly." So I looked and listened to the figure which was in
the smoke of the little fire.

"Believe me," said the figure in the smoke, "the ashes and the
dust are not so bitter as you think them. The tears rain on
them, and they go back into the earth and are born again. 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 of a room and of a grave is square and
cruel, but the shape of the earth and of the great sky is that
of 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."

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 things 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
fragrance, "this is a Memory. It belongs to you. See how soft
and sweet it is."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: How the Mountains Ate up the Plains]


[Illustration]

HOW THE MOUNTAINS ATE UP THE PLAINS


"I 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
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 rose, 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 they whispered among themselves. But
he thought they said that they had swallowed up and consumed one
race of beings who became fixed only upon the winning of what
they called wealth, and had crushed out this wealth and burned
up their precious things. This may be true, for to-day 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."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Savage and its Heart]


[Illustration]

THE SAVAGE AND ITS HEART


"Once," said the Singing Mouse, "I knew a man who found a little
dog, starved, beneath a building where it had been left. He took
it and fed it; and each time he held out his hand to give it
food, it bit his hand, knowing not that he was its friend. Many
times he fed it, and always it bit his hand. It was a long time
before it learned that the man was its friend. It was but a
savage. He fed it patiently, and so after a time the dog bit him
no more, having learned that he was its friend. When it had
ceased to be savage, it loved him. The man gave it neither blow
nor unkindness, and fed it, knowing that he was older and more
wise and that in time it might love him. So at last it did; and
this may often happen for those who wait, large and kind and
patient; and so often friends are made."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Beast Terrible]


[Illustration]

THE BEAST TERRIBLE


The 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
firelight, 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's head which hung above the mantel. Every trophy
gathered in years of the chase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps
forgotten, 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. I sat 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 dangerous, 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. The pulse
must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the
ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the
heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the
blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not
the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one
to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads
belongs the keenest story?"

"I know," 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?" I asked. "Maker of dreams, tell
me what you know to-night."

The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the
beat of the fire's rays. I 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 and sweet.

"I 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 hunting 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 the 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,
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
wilderness of the pines. But when the Singing Mouse whispered,
"Do you see?" I murmured in reply, "I see it all again!"

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 Mountains, which are well known to be
upon the edge of the world. Through these low hills a winding
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 harkened to with awe. This was a pleasant road, lined
with brave sumacs, with bushes of the wild blackberry, and with
small hazel trees which soon would offer fruit for the regular
harvest of the fall, this same to be spread for drying on
the woodshed 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
heretofore 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 days gone by!

[Illustration]

It was half with fear 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 the explorer held them fast. They scarce dared fare
farther 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. Yet 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. Certainly they would go on.
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--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 farther on.

And so, with fears and tremblings, with doubts and joys, through
briers and flowers, through hindrances and recompenses, along
this crooked, winding, unknown road which led on out into the
Unknown, they wandered, as in life we all are wandering to-day.

[Illustration]

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 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! Pæan! Forward! Victory!

But ho! the creature rallies--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 along the road to hurt bare, unprotected
toes.

The sun forgot its part, and sank 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--

"I've got him!" cried this philosopher for his "Eureka." And
then there was twisting and pulling, and scratching and
squeaking, and bitten fingers and 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. Cruel barbarians, thoughtless, relentless! But how
much has the world changed?

[Illustration]

The moon was over Ajalon when these two hunters, after all the
perils of the long, black road, marched up into the dooryard,
bearing on a pole between them their quarry, well suspended
by the gambrels. "My boys, I feared that you were lost!"
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
is a smile. After that, motherly reproach, fatherly inquiry,
plenteous bread and milk, many eager explanations and much
descriptive narrative simultaneously uttered by two mouths eager
both to eat and to talk.


"I 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 Delectable Mountains, in those days
gone by, those incomparable days of youth! I thank you, Singing
Mouse; but I beg you do not go for yet a time. The heads upon
the wall grin much, and the dust lies thick upon them all."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Passing of Men]


[Illustration]

THE PASSING OF MEN

One night the moon was shining brightly upon the curtain, which
had been drawn tight 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 one's hand. It was natural that in this
little well of pale and dreamlike radiance the Singing Mouse
should find it fit to manifest itself. I knew not when it came,
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. Yet 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 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 panorama 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 offering
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 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 shone
forward a glancing ray of light, as though it came direct from
the heart, untamed even by a thousand 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.

[Illustration]

Still on they passed, always arising the hoarse swell of the
fighters' chorus. I heard the rumble of the many hoofs,
thrilling even the impassive earth. The spear points shone. The
harness rattled. The pennants fluttered stiffly in the breeze.
And then afar I heard 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 warriors. The hair of these did not float
yellow from beneath loosened casque, nor indeed did these know
aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor
to the wooing of the trumpet's voice. The skins of these were
red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they 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 only in the armor of a man's fearlessness, the word
of commendation was as ready as that of pity.

"They are late, Singing Mouse," said I, "late in the day of
war."

"Yes," said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, "they are late, and
they must pass away. But they are warriors of proof, 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The House of Truth]


[Illustration]

THE HOUSE OF TRUTH


One 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 sparrows 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 notes, and by this I know the day has come.
Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an
unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window
near mine the voice of grief and lamentation. 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 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 pavements, for ever 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.

"I ask you, Singing Mouse," 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. 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. Yet 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?"

So I saw this same youth pass on, in various stages of this
picture, and before him I saw drawn, as though in another
picture, a panorama of the edifices and institutions of the
religions of all lands.

But the years passed, and the panorama of beliefs swept by, and
no one could tell this man what was the Truth.

[Illustration]

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 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."

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 never will 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 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?"

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 if it 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 transported, 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 I scarce knew of what. Again there was a
church or a cathedral. I 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. Insensibly
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. In the Temple,
one needs not seek 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 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, like a fly. He is 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. It is 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, I am kin to that star. The stars go on.
Nature goes on. Then shall man--shall I--"

"Ah," 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 what I had not seen before. And
since this was in 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 with him? 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Where the City Went]


[Illustration]

WHERE THE CITY WENT


One 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
for ever into silver. The gross city had put aside corporeal
things, and for once its spirit shone fair and radiant; so that
men said 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 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 into a dream. There are those
who say it did become a dream, and afterward descended. For
wanderers in desert countries tell that at times they have seen
some far city of dreams, alluringly beautiful, but evanescent,
intangible, unattainable, trembling and floating upon the
wavering air.

Now when I saw the city thus fade away and disappear, I sat 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. "There 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."

So now the Singing Mouse waved its hands, and I saw, though I
knew not where I looked.

I saw a country where the 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 one has never seen, for none
in the cities is 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 was red.
By this man sat. He sought not to see.

"Once a man sat at night and looked up at the heavens, seeking
to know what the stars were saying. He besought the stars,
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 harm it. 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 that life became plain and
sweet. This then that you see is that Home.

"This that you see around you," it continued slowly, "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."

[Illustration]

Then as I looked, there stepped from the house a man, or one
whom I took to be a man. This man stood in the cool, fresh
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 progress; 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?"

The Singing Mouse looked at the green trees, and at the kind
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."




[Illustration: The Bell and the Shadows]


[Illustration]

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
soon would 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? 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 only
we will look out from our windows, 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 daytime, cohort after cohort,
hurrying to the call of the unseen trumpets? In the woods, have
you never heard strange sounds, when you 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 remembrances, 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, and Trust; which are
tender and beautiful things. Life has no actuality of its own,
and in material sense is only a continual 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 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 once more as
the woods and hills grew bolder and more wild, I could hear
clearly 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 it distinctly, with all the old vibrant joy of
youth--line for line, sound for sound, shadow for shadow, joy
for joy!

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 fields, 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.
There 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 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 for ever. It is
only the shadows that are real!"

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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Of the Greatest Sorrow...]


[Illustration]

OF THE GREATEST SORROW


A thousand times in the night I reach out (it seems to me), and
touch her hair as it lies spread and dark. A thousand times in
the night I gaze upon her face, her eyes shielded, her lips
gently closed and curved. A thousand times in the night (it
seems to me), I bend above her and whisper, "I love you!" And
she, though asleep and myriads of miles away among the stars,
hears me always and stirs just faintly, and still sleeping
whispers through lips that barely part, "I know!" It is perhaps
that thing called Love which causes me to do this, because I
always whisper, "I love you;" though no word quite is wide and
deep and soft and kind enough to say what is in the soul at
certain times.


Now in lives there are ways. Some have few sorrows and many
things of fortune taken lightly, the things wished coming
easily. Again, others gain only by pain and suffering and long
effort and hard denyings. As it is decreed by chance, the way
with most is to gain all things hardly, and to know always
denial, and always to have longing. That is the way with most.
Of these things I spoke with the Singing Mouse, and told of many
things that came as sorrows and griefs and denials, saying that,
since this was decreed by chance, there was naught that a man
ought not to receive without murmur; and the Singing Mouse said
that this was true, that many things were denied, and that many
knew great sorrows. This was the reason we came to speak of
sorrows. I named very many sorrows that I had known, and many
that friends of mine had known, some of these far greater than
my own; as is most often the case when one comes to see deeply
into these things.

"All sorrows," said the Singing Mouse, "come to us, and we must
bear them, though some are very hard to bear; as when friends do
not know we love them, and think us ill-formed and crooked,
small and mean, when in truth in soul we are tall and comely,
large and strong. Or when we are thought to have done a bad
action when in truth we have done a good one; or when hunger and
thirst come and we have little comforts; or when sickness and
weakness come to us when we wish our strength; or when those die
whom we have loved. All, all these sorrows, and very many
others, come to us; and each sorrow must be borne, for that is
the way of life."

"What," I asked of the Singing Mouse, "is the greatest sorrow?"

"That," said the Singing Mouse, "is a thing hard to tell; for
each man thinks that the sorrow that he has is the greatest
sorrow for him or for the world; though perhaps in truth it is
not large. What to you," asked the Singing Mouse, "is the
greatest sorrow of those which have not yet come to you?"

... "A thousand times in the night, Singing Mouse," said I,
"I reach out and touch her hair, as it lies spread and dark.
I whisper to her, though she be myriads of miles away among the
stars; and she hears; and she answers! This is because of that
thing called Love. Now, this sorrow has not yet come to me; that
when I reach out my hand in the night I shall not touch her
hair; that when I bend to kiss her sleeping she shall not be
there any more; that when I whisper to her she may no longer
answer to me, seeing that this thing called Love can be no more
between us. That," said I to the Singing Mouse, "I could not
endure."

Indeed, at the thought of this, so sharp an agony came to me
that I arose and cried out loud. "I can not endure it, I can not
endure it!" I cried (although this sorrow had not yet come to
me).

"Ah!" said the Singing Mouse, "how idle and weak is the human
mind in the country where you live. Have you not said but now
that, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars, she
answers you when you whisper? Does she not hear? Do not her lips
move in speech as you whisper?"

"That is true," said I. "And will she always hear?"

"She will always hear," said the Singing Mouse. "So this sorrow
will not come as you fear."

"And shall I reach out and touch her hair as it lies spread and
dark?" This I asked of the Singing Mouse.

"You shall touch it, spread and dark, and fragrant as when you
were young," said the Singing Mouse, "if so you wish."

So then it seemed that perhaps all sorrows, even very great
ones, are a part of life. Although I know that, if I could no
longer know the fragrance of her hair, or hear the whisper of
her answer, then that sorrow would be more than I could bear.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Shoes of the Princess]


[Illustration]

THE SHOES OF THE PRINCESS


Once I was in a place where there were those who had opened many
tombs, and had taken from the tombs, that had been in Egypt,
and were very old, many things that had been placed there
for silence and repose thousands of years ago. There were
grave-clothes and grave-caskets, the one embroidered, the other
graven; and the colors of both were as they were thousands of
years ago. There were signs over which men pondered, not knowing
their own writing, and their own thoughts, and their own fate.
There were also, a sad thing to see, the bodies of those that
had died long ago, that had lain down for rest and silence; and
of these some were called kings, and some were called queens and
others princesses; and all had once been young, and some had
once been beautiful. For here, after thousands of years, was
praise of their beauty, and love and care for it. So I pondered
very long and sadly. But most I looked at two little golden
shoes.

These little shoes had once been the shoes of one who lay here,
a princess, dead thousands of years, and once very beautiful,
as these carven symbols told. They were small and dainty and
threaded with fine gold, and laced across with care about the
feet of her who was once a woman and a princess and owner of
much beauty, and who was in her life beloved, and in her death
mourned; as these graven symbols said. A thousand years this
love reached out its arms to her to-day; although for a thousand
years Death had enfolded her in his grasp, that does not yield.
She who had lain down for rest and silence was still here,
withal at rest in her grave-garb, and silent in her sleep; but
those who had done these things had removed the grave-clothing
so that these small shoes could be seen, still upon the feet of
the princess that had slept a thousand years, enfolded in love.

For a price these might have sold the shoes of the princess, for
there were those cruel enough to strip her of that which she had
worn when she lay down to be alone. But this I could not do.
I did not carry away the shoes in my hands, but in some way it
seemed to me that I took them; for that night, as I sat at the
little table in my room, with the dim light falling as is its
wont at those hours, I saw upon the table before me these same
shoes of the princess of thousands of years ago, small and
golden; things to make one weep, so sad their story, disturbed
thus after they had been placed away for silence. I gazed at
them for a time, and presently I saw appear upon the table
beside them, the form of the Singing Mouse, as tall perhaps as
the fronts of these golden shoes.

"See," said the Singing Mouse, "here are her shoes, those of the
princess who has been resting. They crossed the paved floors of
palaces. They knew the steps of a throne. They were made by love
for love and given in love to rest and silence. She was as one
you have known, as many whom others know now. Tell me, is she
not beautiful?"

I saw standing before me the figure of the princess, tall and
slender and very beautiful. And now the grave garments were not
seen, for her robe was of silk, new and soft and shapely like to
herself, and her arms were round and soft, and her eyes were
full and dark, and her hair was as deep shadows. A band of gold
was about her brow, and her cheek was red and tender in its
bloom. Her neck was white and round, and her hands were white,
and her slender fingers curved slightly as her arms hung down by
her sides. Her feet were small and straight, and all, all of her
was beautiful, and she was a princess.

[Illustration]

Now as I gazed, I saw the face and saw that it was one I knew,
and had known long; so then I knew that the princess who was
placed away for rest and silence had never died; for did she not
stand here before me, and had I not long known her thus? Ah,
beautiful!

I took up these small golden shoes in my hands and held them out
to her. "Take these little shoes," I said, "wrought as cunning
as man may know. Place them upon thy feet for me, and may never
thorn assail thee in all thy going. Wear them and tread the
steps of thrones, years and years, ages and ages, Princess,
beloved! See, they are wrought in love."

Now I saw upon the lips of the princess who had lain down
thousands of years ago, but who lives in a place I know to-day,
a smile, very faint and far away. So as the Singing Mouse told
me, it was to be seen that she did not die. Even as she faded
away from the wall against which she stood, I knew, though I
wept, that the princess was not dead and would not die. She was
beautiful, she was beloved; and these things have not died. "Ah,
beautiful!" I said to the Singing Mouse. "But alas! for a
princess there should be a palace, and here is none!"

"Look about you," said the Singing Mouse. "See, for the time
this is a palace."

I looked about me, and it was as the Singing Mouse said. For the
time my room was a palace. I saw standing there again the
princess, upon her feet small golden shoes.

"What is this?" I asked. "And who am I?" But as I turned, I saw
that the Singing Mouse was gone. But this I knew, and so may you
know: that love does not die; and here was proof of it.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Of White Moths]


[Illustration]

OF WHITE MOTHS


"Once," said the Singing Mouse, "I was at the side of a little
stream. Grasses grew all about, and small plants and flowers.
Beyond the shores of the little stream arose a forest, wide and
dark, into which the eye could reach but a little way.

"As I stood near the little stream, there arose from the grass
and flowers two small moths, soft and dainty, beautiful, and
very white, covered also with a white dust or powder which was
so light that did they but receive a touch they must lose some
of this soft white powder and so be injured, so gentle and
tender were they.

"These two moths, soft and white and silent, arose in the air
and circled one about the other, rising for a time, then
falling, but ever circling one about the other. It seemed that
perhaps they spoke one to the other, but if that were true it
was in speech so small that not even I could hear it. They
passed over the tops of the grasses and flowers, up and up,
until they reached the tops of the trees, where they seemed very
small.

"I do not know why these moths no longer cared for the grasses
and flowers. But I saw them, circling, cross over the little
stream, high in the air, and then pass on directly into the wide
dark forest. For a moment they appeared, a small spot of white,
against the black shadows of the forest across the stream; then
they went on, straight into the shadows, until I could no longer
see this small spot of white they made.

"It is in this way," said the Singing Mouse, "that human souls
pass through life. To me, who can see them, they look small and
delicate and white; and they circle one about another; and they
pass on, into the deep forest."

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The House of Dreams]


[Illustration]

THE HOUSE OF DREAMS


"Upon what couch," I asked the Singing Mouse, "may one have the
most noble dreams?"

The Singing Mouse sat for a time and looked at me with its
bright eye, and it seemed to me that the walls opened and
widened. I saw that I was within a great palace, whose walls
were hung in tapestries, and whose doors were of golden
panelings, and whose windows were of curious crystals, and whose
furnishings were rich and wonderful, and around whose stately
limits swam wide gardens of strange flowers, full of deep
perfumes. I heard soft voices of birds and the music also of
gentle human voices singing, and tenderly played instruments of
silken and silvern strings. It seemed to me that I lay upon a
great couch of thrice-piled down, and touched hands with
delights in all manners that one could think. But alas! I did
not dream as I lay upon this couch.

Then I saw these walls fade away in turn, and in their stead
arose a vast cathedral of the woods. A music was in the trees,
and a solemn mountain stood as orator to the sky for me. My
couch was that of the earth and the leaves, and my jewels were
upon the grasses all about. I touched hands with delights; and
so I dreamed, and was very happy and content.

Again the place changed, and I lay in my own small room, with
naked walls and little cheer or comfort, as you may see. The
couch was hard and narrow, and that which covered it over was
worn and threadbare, and by no means cloth of woven silk and
golden tracery. But it seemed to me that upon the walls were
pictures. And here and there were shadows of things which I had
wished--many things, very sweet and precious. Upon this couch,
as upon that of the earth, it seemed to me that I dreamed....

"There were once some leaves and grasses in this couch," said
the Singing Mouse, "and that is why you dreamed. Around this
manner of resting-place often arises the House of Dreams, and
not, as many have supposed, about the couch of down and silken
tapestries. Always, near a House of Dreams, must be a mountain
or a sea, and trees, and grasses, with the sky also, and the
stars, which are the candles of our dream houses. See, you had
not noticed it, but there is a star in your candle."

I looked, and it was as the Singing Mouse had said. A star was
at the candle top. By its light I could dream nobly, and many
things seemed true which have not yet come true when the star in
the candle does not shine. But they are true in the land of the
Singing Mouse. In that country it is not palaces alone that are
Houses of Dreams. I know this thing is true. Wherefore, all ye
who have come hither, let your hope and your joy be strong; and
by no means despair, for better than despair are hope and joy.

[Illustration]




       *       *       *       *       *



Erratum

   we will watch, hush, hush, hush!'
     _single close quote missing in text_