The Singing Mouse
Stories
Sinerson Hough
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
The Singing Mouse Stories
EMERSON HOUGH
of The Purchase Price, 54-40 or Fight. Etc
With Decorations by
Mayo Bunker
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1910
BY EMERSON HOUGH
CONTENTS
THE LAND OF THE SINGING MOUSE Page n
THE BURDEN OF A SONG 19
THE LITTLE RIVER 3*
WHAT THE WATERS SAID 4 1
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 23*
M1S541
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
!?.
$%
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 of
fer 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
TOE ;SJtfGIN:G MOUSE STORIES
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 fad
ing 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 tne Singing Mouse. And so
14
THE LAND OF THE SINGING MOUSE
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 awk
ward. 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
15
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
1
Tb e Surcf<?
of A/^ |
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 P
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
And young blood began its course
anew. Booted and spurred, into the sad
dle 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 illim
itable 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-
22
THE BURDEN OF A SONG
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 bound
less strength, with unspeakable peace.
You can take your troubles to the moun
tains. 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 trou
bles 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
23
THE SINGIN MOUSE STORIES
no commerce. The dwellers of the
mountains are calm and unfretted.
And on the broad shoulders of the
mountains once more was cast the bur
den of the young man s troubles, and
once more he walked deep into the peace
of the big hills. And the mountains
smiled not, neither wept, but gravely and
kindly folded over, about, behind, the
gray mantle of the canon walls, and
locked fast doors of adamant against all
following, and swept a pitying hand of
shadow, and breathed that wondrous un-
syllabled voice of comfort which any
mountain-goer knows. Ay! the good
ness 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,
24
THE BURDEN OF A SONG
now ! And there comes the mist, folding
down the top ; and there is the crash of
the thunder; and this is the rush of the
rain; and this is the warm yellow sun
over it all O, Singing Mouse, Singing
Mouse! . . .
Back again, now, by some impulse of
the dog which hasn t had any day. It is
winter now, I remember, Singing Mouse,
and I am walking by the shore of the
great Inland Seas. There is snow on
the ground. The trees look black in con
trast as you gaze up from the beach
againsjt the high bank. It is cold. It is
dark. There is a shiver in the air. There
are icicles in the sky. Something is fly
ing through the trees, but silent as if
it came out of a grave, I have been
walking, I know. I have walked a mil
lion miles, and I m tired. My legs are
stiff, and my legging has frozen fast
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 patk,
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
26
THE BURDEN OF A SONG
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."
27
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
The light in the little house went out.
I think it was a happy home. May yours
be so, always.
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.
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 them
selves together, I seemed to see a pro
cession 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
34
THE LITTLE RIVER
crystal, murmuring mystery of the little
stream one knew when one was young !
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 i 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
36
THE LITTLE RIVER
other things when the leaves grew
brown. In those low, easy hills strange
creatures dwelt. Birds of brown plu
mage 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
37
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
the grave and kindly face. Again I won
der 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 crea
ture 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
38
THE LITTLE RIVER
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?
N > *, * T W* I/
K&* :^:-7- x
/fir ^- ^^^- -,
i - ^ -
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 lengtK
drawing near to the end of winter, and
approaching that dear time of spring
which, beyond doubt, will be the event
ful 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
44
WHAT THE WATERS SAI
knee, and in its affectionate way began
to nibble at my finger-tips. It sat erect,
its thin paws waving with a tiny, meas
ured 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 crys
tals; 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, titt
45
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
every stately niche, and every tapestried
corner, and every lofty dome rang gently
back in mellow music all for the Sing
ing 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
WHAT THE WATERS SAID
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
47
_HE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 bril
liant 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,
WHAT THE WATERS SAID
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.
But still you bide by the waters to
night, wizard; for here is a picture of
the sea. It is the sea, and it is talking,
as it always does. There are some who
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 exal-
49
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
tation. 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.
50
WHAT THE WATERS SAID
Long time upon the mast our brown sail
flapped ;
Our keel plowed bitter salt, and every
where
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,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 ! "
52
"V if-/;.
LAKE
BELLE-MARIE
BELLE-MARIE lies far
Beyond the forest the
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 jour
neys 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 Sing
ing Mouse sitting on the corner of the
.y book, the light of the candle shining pink
..Slew
-.
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 win
dow? 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 speech
less. 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
58
LAKE BELLE-MARIE
bottomless, lies Lake Belle-Marie, for no
man has ever fathomed it. But no mat
ter 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 chas
ing 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!
59
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
60
LAKE BELLE-MARIE
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 un
knowing, therefore good, sincere and ut
terly 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 con
tinually. That is because there are too
many people. In this valley the pines do
not grieve. They only talk among them
selves. 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 trie morning.
"The white mountains yonder are very
61
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
^Eon unto aeon ! Strong, strong, strong
is TimeT
"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
62
LAKE BELLE-MARIE
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 hap
pening 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 crea
ture, 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!"
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
So again I gazed upon the face of the
lake, which seemed innocent, and sin
cere, 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, em
ployed 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.
T- ;,:,;
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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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, be
cause 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 nar
rower yet. He goes by saddle, and the
mountains hem him in, but now he smiles
the more. Now he must leave even tht
70
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
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
whimpers, here at the end of the long
and narrowing way I know not if this
be the end or the beginning P 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
servant forces used to slay, the rever
berant 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 exul
tation, 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.
72
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
"You know of this biting whistle in
the air this small thing that smites un
seen? Do you know the mowing of the
death scythes ? Hark ! I hear the sing
ing 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.
"He loved the valley, the mountain,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
the grass, the rose. Now, since he cher
ished 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 begin
ning!
"Let the rose press against his lips in
an eternal, pure caress. There is no end.
They understand. We do not yet under
stand."
The pink flame of the unreal light died
away. The pageant of the hills, the pan
orama 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.
74
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
. . . 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 per
fume floated out upon the air.
THE MAN OF THE
MOUNTAIN
o
NCE 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. Noth
ing 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 moun
tains 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,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
for he said he could not tell, and that,
moreover, the people would not under
stand 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
80
THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN
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 my
self. Once I thought I heard this man
whisper of the things he saw. He sits
there to-day."
9le.Ce of ffte Date...
******
* -, it Ax THE PLACE
ftV 4,
* r c^ THE OAKS
O you know what the oak says?"
asked the Singing Mouse, as it
sat upon my knee. It had needed to nib
ble again at my fingers before it could
waken me from the dream into which I
had fallen, gazing at the fading fire. "Do
y u know what the oak says?" it re-
peated. "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:
Tity ! Pity ! Pity ! And when the storm
has fallen, the oak sobs and cries : Woe !
Woe! Woe/
THE SINGING MOtTSE STORIES
"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 sem
blance 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, rip
pling on its shore of rushes. Around rose
the long curved hills, swelling back from
the shore. The baby river babbled on at
86
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
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, mys
terious oaks, tall and strong.
One oak, a mighty one, now resolved
itself more prominently forth. Did I not
know it well? Could one forget the tor
tured 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
out sheltering hands, and certainly from
its hands dropped benedictions plente-
ously 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
88
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
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 cun-
89
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
ningly 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, neverthe
less, 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.
90
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
Now as I looked, the gray figure
bowed its head, there, under the arm of
the oak, and asked on the humble board
the blessing of the God who made the
oak, and gave the fire and spread the
pleasant waters on the land. Every meal
time, every year, for many years, it had
been thus. Ever, the oak knew, the gray
figure would first bow and ask the bless
ing of God. And each time at the close
the oak with rustling leaves pronounced
distinct AmenJ Let those jest who will.
I do not know. I think perhaps th/e 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.
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.
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
In shadow, I could hear them talk. In
shadow, I could see them smile.
These friends sat by the little tire 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
92
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
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 sur
roundings. 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
93
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
94
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
uttereth speech," he said; "Night onto
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 !
But is he then alone? Hush! The
95
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 good
ness. 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.
96
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS
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 r
Amen !
THE BIRTH OF
THE HOURS
D
O you know the story of the Wed
ding of the Times ?" said the Sing
ing Mouse. "You know, all life is a wed
ding. The flowers love, and the grasses,
and the trees ; and the circle of the wed
ding 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 Morn
ing. 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
pl \ . : THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 twin
kled and shone radiantly fair. So now
all at once I knew they were the jewels
on the veil of Night. And the far shad
ows 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.
102
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS
Across her bosom fell a wondrous tissue,
trembling with exuberance of unprismed
fight. These were the gems in thousands
of the skies, all fair against the black
ness 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 glori
ous apparition, there came still another
103
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
change, and one most wonderful. In the
heart of the Night there came a tremtt-
lous 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 indi
cated. 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 uncon
scious of it in the proud sureness of her
beauty, dropped loose a portion of the
104
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS
shadows of her robe, and stood forth ra
diant, 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.
THE STONE THAT
HAD NO THOUGHT
," 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 re
mained 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
109
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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."
/
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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 shin
ing. ... 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 metal
lically 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
116
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE
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
117
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 lit
tle 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 flow
ers smiling bravely? Yet every blossom
is a tear. Do you not see the strong for
est 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 whis
pers of dread and of grief. Rather it
118
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE
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.
119
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
"Lie down and sleep," said the Sing
ing 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 flow
ers 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."
How THE MOUNTAINS
ATE UP THE PLAINS
T ONCE knew a man," said the Sing-
A ing 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
126
HOW THE MOUNTAINS ATE UP THE PLAINS
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 pre
vail. We the strong, the just, the wise,
this we have said T
"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 con
sumed 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.
127
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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."
T&e
THE SAVAGE AND
ITS HEART
o
NCE," 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 al
ways 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
wise and that in time it might love him.
So at last it did ; and this may often hap
pen for those who wait, large and kind
and patient; and so often friends are
made."
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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
140
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
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
141
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 wtiat
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 remem
ber, do you not see this, the most event
ful hunting of all your life?"
And so I gazed where the Singing
142
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
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
143
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 wan
derings. It was not, perhaps, safe to
venture so far. There were known to be
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
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!
It was half with fear and half with curi
osity 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
rustling s 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
145
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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. Mean
time, the heart having begun to beat
146
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
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 recom
penses, along this crooked, winding, un
known road which led on out into the
Unknown, they wandered, as in life we
all are wandering to-day.
But hush! Listen! What is it, this
sound, approaching, coming directly to
ward the road? Surely, it must be the
footfall of some large animal, this ca-
denced 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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! Paean! 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 long
est mortal arm!
Rustle now, ye leaves, and threaten
148
fHE BEAST TERRIBLE
now, all ye boughs with menacings.
Roar, grouse, and clamor on, all ye jang
ling jays. No longer can ye strike ter
ror into these two souls, small though
they be. The heart of the hunter has
now been born for each. Fear and de
feat are known no longer in the com
pass of their thoughts. Follow, follow,
follow ! So spake the good old savagery
of the natural man. Better for this crea
ture 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 thou
sand 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
149
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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, re-
150
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
lentless! But how much has the world
changed ?
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 ut
tered 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
chase was ever or will ever be so great
as this one- back there, near the Delec
table Mountains, in those days gone by,
those incomparable days of youth! 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."
THE PASSING
OF MEN
ONE night the moon was shining
brightly upon the curtain, which
had been drawn tight across the win
dow. Within the room the light was
dim, so that there could be seen clearly
the pictures which the moon was draw
ing 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,
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
158
THE PASSING OF MEN
"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
159
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
160
THE PASSING OF MEN
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 thou
sand 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
161
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
war. Stooped front, hooked hand and
avaricious eye these were as absent as
the glow of gold or silver. It was the
glorious age of steel.
Still on they passed, always arising the
hoarse swell of the fighters chorus. 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
162
THE PASSING OF MEN
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 ban
ners 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 fea
thers nodding in their plaited hair, out
of the eye of each there shone the soul
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 PASSING OF MEN
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.
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 spar
rows chattered with an unusual commo
tion; and as I listened I heard from
another window near mine the voice of
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
170
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH
"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 vest
ments of this older man I knew he was
of those who teach people in spiritual
things. To him the young man had come
171
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 pano
rama of beliefs swept by, and no one
could tell this man what was the Truth.
Yet after this young man had ceased
to query and had closed his books, he one
day entered alone into one of the great
edifices built for the sake of that which
he could not understand. In the picture
I could see all this. I saw the young
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH
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, as
suring. Then for I could see and hear
with him there came to that young man
when he ceased to seek, the very exalta
tion 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
173
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
for it always within walls built by human
hands. It may be that no man can con
vey to another that which is the Truth to
him. It may be that the Truth can never
be grasped, never be weighed or formu
lated.
"The ways of Nature are always the
same, but Nature does not ask exactness
of form. Why, then, shall we ask exact
ness 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
174
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH
the great truths in small places, and won
der that you do not find them. Come
>vith me."
The Singing Mouse waved its hand,
as was its wont, and as in a dream and
as though I were now the young man
whom we had lately seen, I was trans
ported, by what means I could not tell,
into a place far distant. At first it seemed
to me there was a figure in vestments,
speaking 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 be
neath the grasses of the hills. I could feel
175
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIE,
the rafters vanishing and going back into
the bodies of the oaks in which they orig
inally 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 glor
ious 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
176
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH
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
177
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
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 hap
pened, 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 per
ceptible, 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
184
WHERE THE CITY WENT
dreams, alluringly beautiful, but evanes
cent, 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
185
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 nhe trees had never been felled,
nor had the stones ever been hewn. The
sky was blue, and the water was blue, ex
cept 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
186
WHERE THE CITY WENT
exalted, spoke as though much was in
the past.
"This is a Home," said the Singing 1
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 whis
pers 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
187
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 con
tinued 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
188
WHERE THE CITY WENT
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 un-
dwarfed, and you shall see peace and
largeness in the life which you once
thought small and sordid."
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 fall-
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
ing 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 re
turned 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 suc
cessor 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."
190
THE BELL AND
THE SHADOWS
MELODY tmformulate, music im
material, such was the voice of
the Singing Mouse; faint, small and
clear, a piping of fifes so fine, a touch
ing 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
years gone by. Regret, remorse, despair,
abandonment, the hopelessness of hu
manity 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 win
dows. 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,
196
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS
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, mys
terious 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 peo
ple, what would be the woods, the prai
ries, the waters, the sky, the world?
"Without the shadows, too, what
197
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
198
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS
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 cor
ners full of the secrets of the wild crea
tures, unraveling the delicious mysteries
which Nature ever offers to those not
yet grown old. It was a comfortable pic
ture, 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 pro
gressed, and once more as the woods and
hills grew bolder and more wild, I
199
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
could hear clearly the rifle s thin report,
could note the whisper of the secret-lov
ing 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 vi
brant 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 sur
rounded by trees and flowers, the leaves
200
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS
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 out
line 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 !"
201
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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.
-Y-
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 my
riads 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 per
haps that thing called Love which causes
me to do this, because I always whisper,
"I love you;" though no word quite is
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 de
nial, 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 sor-
208
OF THE GREATEST SORROW
rows. 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
20Q
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 great
est 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 sor
row has not yet come to me ; that when
210
OF THE GREATEST SORROW
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 an
swers you when you whisper? Does she
not hear ? Do not her lips move in speech
as you whisper ?"
211
/HE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
"That is true/ said I. "And will she
always hear ?"
"She will always hear," said the Sing
ing 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 sor
rows, 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.
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 writ
ing, 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
218
THE SHOES OF THE PRINCESS
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
219
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
these same shoes of the princess of thou
sands 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 ap
pear 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
220
THE SHOES OF THE PRINCESS
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.
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
221
is.
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 prin
cess 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
222
THE SHOES OF THE PRINCESS
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 pal
ace."
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.
ofl
}!j ;;,: |FC ,:s^;i
OF WHITE
MOTHS
," said the Singing Mouse, "I
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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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
228
OF WHITE MOTHS
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."
1TT " """
-esiS:3^vS3S?3K^^asss^^^^^
THE HOUSE
OF DREAMS
u
PON 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 fur
nishings 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
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
and the music also of gentle human
voices singing, and tenderly played in
struments 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
234
THE HOUSE OF DREAMS
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 shad
ows 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. Al
ways, 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 Hream
235
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES
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 can
dle 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.
YB
BJ12541
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
