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"The Singing Mouse came and sat upon 
 the table." 
 
The Singing 
 
 Mouse 
 Stories. 
 
 BY 
 
 E. HOUGH. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 
 FOREST AND STREAM PUB. Co. 
 1895- 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY 
 K. HOUGH. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Tijp 7 . LAND OF THE SINGING MOUSE Page 15 
 
 THE BURDEN OF A SONG 21 
 
 THE LITTLE RIVER 31 
 
 WHAT THE WATERS SAID 41 
 
 LAKE BELLE-MARIE 53 
 
 THE SKULL AND THE ROSE 63 
 
 THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN 73 
 
 AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS 79 
 
 THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS 95 
 
 THE TEAR AND THE SMILE 103 
 How THE MOUNTAINS ATE UP THE PLAINS 113 
 
 THE BEAST TERRIBLE 119 
 
 THE PASSING OF MEN 135 
 
 THE HOUSE OF TRUTH 147 
 
 WHERE THE CITY WENT 159 
 
 THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS 171 
 
"Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances,'* 
 said the Singing Mouse. "It is only 
 the shadows that are real." 
 
The Land of the 
 Singing Mouse. 
 
THE LAND OF THE 
 SINGING MOUSE. 
 
 is my room. I live here. 
 These are my things, My 
 friends come here sometimes, 
 such as I have left. They are 
 welcome to anything I have. 
 
 That's my coat. Worn a little. 
 That 's my gun. Yes, the bar 
 rels are a trifle brown. That's 
 my rifle. The stock was broken 
 in the Rockies. Yes, I know 
 the tip of the old rod is broken. 
 And there's a guide or so gone. 
 And the silk is fraying in the 
 lashings. And the silver cord on 
 the hand-piece is loose. The 
 silver cord will loosen and break 
 some day, in the very best of 
 men rods, I mean. 
 
 There's the table. There are n't 
 any keys. Here's the fire. You 
 are welcome, I know, to anything 
 there is here .... 
 
 But the Singing Mouse will 
 
 not come out ; not while you are 
 
 here. But after you have gone, 
 
 after the fire has burned down 
 
 15 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 and the room is all still usually 
 near midnight, as I sit and muse 
 alone over the dead or dying 
 fire why, then the Singing 
 Mouse comes out and asks for its 
 bit of bread ; and then it folds 
 its tiny paws and sits up, and 
 turning its bright red eye upon 
 me, half in power and half in 
 beseeching, as of some fading 
 memory of the past why, it 
 sings, I say to you ; it sings ! 
 And I listen .... And the fire 
 blazes up .... The walls are 
 rich in art now .... My rod is 
 new and trig now .... There is 
 work, but there is no worry now. 
 
 I am rich, rich ! I have 
 
 the Singing Mouse. And so 
 strange, so wondrous, so real are 
 the things it sings ; so bewitching 
 is the song, so sweeter than that 
 of any siren's ; so broad and fine 
 are the countries ; so strong and 
 true are the friendships ; so brave 
 and kind are the men I meet so 
 beautiful the whole world of the 
 Singing Mouse, that when it is 
 
 16 
 
THE LAND OF THE MOUSE. 
 
 over, and in a chill I start up, I 
 hardly can bear the shrinking in 
 of the walls, and the grayness of 
 the once red fire, and my gold 
 turned to earthenware, and my 
 pictures turned to splotches. In 
 my hand everything I touch feels 
 awkward ; a pen a pen to talk 
 of that! If one could use it while 
 in the land of the Singing Mouse 
 then it might do. I think the 
 pens there are not of wood and 
 iron, stiff things of torture to 
 reader and writer. I have a 
 notion though I have not exam 
 ined the pens there that they are 
 made from plumes of an angel's 
 wing ; and that they could talk, 
 and say things which would make 
 you and me ashamed and afraid. 
 Pens such as these we do not 
 have. 
 
The Burdei 
 of a Song 
 
THE BURDEN 
 OF A SONG. 
 
 Singing Mouse came out. 
 Quaintly and sweetly and 
 with wondrous clearness it began 
 an old, old song I first heard long 
 ago. And as it sang, back with 
 red electric thrill came the fine 
 blood of youth, and beat in pulse 
 with the song : 
 
 " When all the world is young, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are green, 
 And every goose a swan, lad, 
 
 And every lass a queen. 
 
 Then hey ! for boot and saddle, lad, 
 
 And round the world away ! 
 Young blood must have its course, lad, 
 
 And every dog his day ! " 
 
 And young blood began its 
 course anew. Booted and spurred, 
 into the saddle again ! Face 
 toward the West ! And off for 
 round the world away ! 
 
 ' ' There are green fields in 
 Thrace," sighs the gladiator as 
 he dies. And here were green 
 fields in the land before us. 
 Only these were the inimitable 
 and illimitable fields of Nature. 
 Sheets and waves and billows 
 and tumbles of green ; oceans 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 unswum, continents untracked, 
 of thousandfold green. Then, on 
 beyond, the gray, the gray- 
 brown, the purple-gray of the 
 higher plains ; nearer than that, a 
 broad slash of great golden 
 yellow, a band of the sturdy 
 prairie sunflowers ; and nearer 
 than that, swimming on the sur 
 face of the mysterious wave which 
 constantly passes but is never 
 past on the prairies, bright red 
 roses, and strong larkspur, and 
 at the bottom of this ever shifting 
 sea, jewels in God's best blue 
 enamel. You cannot find this 
 enamel in the windows. One 
 must send for it to the land of 
 
 the unswum sea. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A little higher and stronger 
 piped the compelling melody. 
 Why, here are the mountains ! 
 God bless them ! Nay, brother, 
 God has blessed them; blessed 
 them with unbounded calm, with 
 boundless strength, with unspeak 
 able peace. You can take your 
 
THE BURDEN OF A SONG. 
 
 troubles to the mountains. If 
 you are Pueblo, Aztec, you can 
 select some big mountain and 
 pray to it, as its top shows the red 
 sentience of the oncoming day. 
 You can take your troubles to the 
 sea ; but the sea has troubles of 
 its own, and frets. There is 
 commerce on the sea, and the 
 people who live near it are fretful, 
 greedy, grasping. The moun 
 tains have no troubles ; they have 
 no commerce. The dwellers of 
 the mountains are calm and 
 unfretted. 
 
 And on the broad shoulders of 
 the mountains once more was 
 cast the burden of the young 
 man's troubles, and once more he 
 walked deep into the peace of the 
 big hills. And the mountains 
 smiled not, neither wept, but 
 gravely and kindly folded over, 
 about, behind, the gray mantle 
 of the canon walls, and locked 
 fast doors of adamant against all 
 following, and swept a pitying 
 hand of shadow, and breathed 
 23 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 that wondrous unsyllabled voice 
 of comfort which any mountain 
 goer knows. Ai! the goodness 
 of such strength ! Up by the 
 clean snow ; over the big rocks ; 
 by the lace-work stream where 
 the trout are why, it's all come 
 again ! That was the clink made 
 by a passing deer. That was the 
 touch of the green balsam smell 
 it, now! And there comes the 
 mist, folding down the top. And 
 there is the crash of the thunder ; 
 and this is the rush of the rain, 
 and this is the warm yellow sun 
 over it all O, Singing Mouse, 
 Singing Mouse ! 
 
 Back again now, by some 
 impulse of the dog which hasn't 
 had any day. It is winter now, I 
 remember, Singing Mouse, and 
 I am walking by the shore of 
 the great Inland Seas. There is 
 snow on the ground. The trees 
 look black in contrast as you 
 gaze up from the beach against 
 the high bank. It is cold. It is 
 dark. There is a shiver in the 
 24 
 
THE BURDEN OF A SONG. 
 
 air. There are icicles in the sky. 
 Something is flying through the 
 trees, but silent as if it came out 
 of a grave. I have been walk 
 ing, I know. I have walked a 
 million miles, and I'm tired. My 
 legs are stiff, and my legging has 
 frozen fast to my overshoe ; I 
 remember that. And so I sit 
 down 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 curve of ice afire. 
 It is throwing down hammered 
 silver in a broad path, out there 
 on the water. Those are not 
 ripples. That is silver ! There 
 will be angels walking on that 
 pathway before long ! That is 
 25 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 not the moon coming up over 
 the lake ! It is the swinging 
 open, by some careless angel's 
 mischance, of the door of the 
 White City of Rest ! 
 
 How old, how sore a man 
 climbed up the steep bank! 
 There were white fields. In the 
 distance a dog barked. Away 
 across the fields a bright and 
 cheery light shone out from a 
 window, and as the moon rose 
 higher, it showed the house 
 which held the light. It was 
 not a large house, but it seemed 
 to be a home. Home ! what is 
 that? I wondered; and I 
 remember that I pulled at the 
 frozen legging, and moved, with 
 pain, the limbs grown tired and 
 sore. And, as one looked at 
 that twinkling, comfortable light, 
 how plainly the rest of the old 
 song came back : 
 
 " When all the world is old, lad, 
 
 And all the trees are brown, 
 And all the sports are stale, lad, 
 
 And all the wheels run down, 
 Creep home and take your place there, 
 
 The sick and maimed among. 
 God grant you find one face there. 
 
 You loved when you were young." 
 
 26 
 
THE BURDEN OF A SONG. 
 
 The light in the little house 
 went out. I think it was a happy 
 home. So may yours be always. 
 
The Little 
 River. 
 
THE LITTLE 
 RIVER. 
 
 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 he wished 
 
 to move. I listened, and I saw. 
 * * * * * 
 
 There were low rolling hills, 
 covered and crowned with thick 
 growth of hazel thickets and 
 short oaks. Between these hills 
 ran long strips of green, strung 
 on tiny bands of silver. And as 
 these bands moved and thickened 
 and braided themselves together, 
 31 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 I seemed to see a procession of 
 the trees. The cottonwoods 
 halted in their march. The box- 
 alders, and maples, and water- 
 elms, and walnuts and such big 
 trees swept grandly in with 
 waving banners, and wound on 
 and on in long procession, 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 cannot go 
 again ; back there, along that 
 crystal, murmuring mystery of 
 the little stream I knew when I 
 was young ! 
 
 Ah, little river, little river, but 
 I am coming back again. Once 
 more I push away the long grass 
 and the swinging boughs, and 
 look into your face again. Again 
 I dabble my bare feet, and scoop 
 up my straw hat full, and watch 
 32 
 
THE LITTLE RIVER. 
 
 the tiny streams run down. 
 Again I stand, bare and small 
 and trembling, wondering if I can 
 swim across. And listen, little 
 river again at the same old 
 place I shall cut me the willow 
 wand, and down the long slope 
 to the certain place I knew I am 
 going to hurry, running the last 
 quarter of a mile in sheer expec 
 tation, but forgetting not the 
 binding on of the tough linen 
 line. And now I cast my gaudy 
 float on that same swinging, 
 thimpling, gentle eddy, and let 
 it swim in beneath the bank. 
 And No ! Can it be ? Have I 
 here, now, again plainly in my 
 hands the strange and wonderful 
 creature, the gift of the little 
 stream ? Is this its form, utterly 
 lovable ? Is this its coat, wrought 
 of cloth of gold and silver ? Are 
 these diamonds its eyes ? . . . Oh, 
 little river, little river, give me 
 back this gift to keep forever ! 
 Why did they take it from me ? 
 All I have I will give to you, if 
 33 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 you will but give back to me, to 
 have by me all the time, this 
 little fish from the pool beneath 
 the boughs. I have hunted well 
 for him, believe me, hard and 
 faithfully in many a place, but 
 he is no longer there. I find him 
 no longer even in the remotest 
 
 spots I search But this is 
 
 he! This, in my hands, here in 
 actual sight, is my first, my 
 glorious, iridescent, radiant prize ! 
 Pray you, behold the glittering. 
 But along this little river there 
 were other things when the 
 leaves grew brown. In those 
 low, easy hills, strange creatures 
 dwelt. Birds of brown plumage 
 and wondrous, soul-startling burst 
 of wing. Large gray creatures, 
 a foot long or longer, with light 
 tread on the leaves, and long ears 
 that go a-peak when you whistle 
 to them. Were ever such beings 
 before in any land? For the 
 pursuit of these, it seems, one 
 must have boots with copper toes, 
 made waterproof by abundant 
 
 34 
 
THE LITTLE RIVER. 
 
 tallow. There must be a vast 
 game-bag a world too large for 
 a boyish form and strange things 
 to eat therein, such as one sees 
 no longer ; for on a chase calling 
 for such derring do it may be 
 needful that one walk far, across 
 the hills, along the little river, 
 almost to the Delectable Mount 
 ains themselves. Again I see it 
 all/ Again I follow through the 
 hills that same tall, tireless figure 
 with the grave and kindly face. 
 Again I wonder at the uncom- 
 prehended skill which brought 
 whirling down ten out of the 
 dozen of those brown lightning 
 balls. Again I rejoice beyond 
 all count or measure, over the 
 first lepine murder committed by 
 myself, the same furthered by 
 means of a rest on a forked tree. 
 It seems to me I groan secretly 
 again at the weight of that 
 great gun before the night has 
 come. I could wince again at 
 
 35 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 the pulling off of those copper- 
 toed boots at night, there by the 
 kitchen stove, after the chase is 
 done. But, ah ! how happy I am 
 again, holding up for the gaze 
 of a kind pair of eyes this great, 
 gray creature with the lopping 
 ears. 
 
 Now, as we walk by the banks 
 of this magic river, I would that 
 it might be always as it was in 
 the earliest days. I like best to 
 think myself mistaken when I 
 suspect a greater stoop in this 
 once familiar form which knew 
 these hills and woods so well. It 
 cannot be that the quick eye 
 has grown less bright. Yet why 
 was the last mallard missed? 
 And tell me, is not the old dog 
 ranging as widely as once he did ? 
 Can it be that he keeps closer at 
 heel ? Does he look up once in a 
 while mournfully, with a dimmer 
 eye, at an eye becoming also 
 dimmer does he walk more 
 36 
 
THE LITTLE RIVER. 
 
 slowly, by a step now not so 
 fast? Does he look up My 
 God ! is there melancholy in a 
 dog's eye, too ? 
 
What the 
 Waters Said. 
 
WHAT THE 
 WATERS SAID. 
 
 fire was flickering fitfully, 
 and painting ghostly shadows 
 on the wall. It was winter, and 
 late in winter ; indeed, the season 
 was now at length drawing near 
 to the end of winter, and 
 approaching that dear time of 
 spring which, beyond doubt, will 
 be the eventual front and closing 
 of the circle in the land where 
 winter will not come. 
 
 I had drawn the little pine 
 table close to the heap of failing 
 embers, and aided by what light 
 the sulky candle gave, was bend 
 ing over and trying to arrange 
 a patch on my old hunting coat. 
 It was an old, old hunting 
 coat, far gone in the sere and 
 yellow leaf. It was old-fashioned 
 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, 
 41 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 hung by upon a forgotten nail, 
 and subject to no further requisi 
 tion. Nevertheless, if its owner 
 wished, it could still do a day 
 or two. I knew that ; and some 
 thing in the sturdy texture of 
 its oft-tried nature excited more 
 than half my admiration, and 
 all my love. 
 
 Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray 
 coming on in the embers, 
 S3^mptoms of death in the candle, 
 a blotch of tallow on the 
 Shakspere, and the coat not 
 half done. It must have been 
 about then, I think, that the 
 thin-edged sweetness of the 
 Singing Mouse's voice pierced 
 keenly through the air. I was 
 right glad when the little creature 
 came and sat on my knee, and 
 in its affectionate way began to 
 nibble at my finger-tips. It sat 
 erect, its thin paws waving with 
 a tiny, measured swing, and in 
 its mystic voice, so infinitely 
 small, so sweet and yet so 
 majestically strong, began a song 
 42 
 
WHAT THE WATERS SAID. 
 
 which no pen can transcribe. 
 Knowing that the awakening 
 must come, but unwilling to lose 
 a moment of the dream, I, who 
 with one finger could have 
 crushed the little thing, sat 
 prizing it more and more, as 
 more and more its voice swept, 
 and swelled, and rang ; rang, 
 till the fire burst high in noble 
 pyramids of flame ; rang, till the 
 candle flashed in thousand 
 crystals ; swelled, till the walls 
 fell silently apart, and showed 
 that all this time I had been 
 sitting ignorant of, but yet 
 within a grand and stately hall, 
 whose polished sides bore 
 speaking canvas and noble 
 marbles ; swept up and around, 
 till every stately niche, and 
 every tapestried corner, and 
 every lofty dome rang gently 
 back in mellow music all for 
 the Singing Mouse and me. 
 
 Small wizard, it was cunning 
 of thee to paint upon the wall 
 this picture of the old mill dam. 
 
 43 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 How naturally the wooded hill 
 slopes back beyond the mill. 
 And how, with the same old 
 sleepy curves, the river winds on 
 back. How green the trees 
 how very green. Ah, Singing 
 ,'1| Mouse, they do not mix that 
 
 ^|| color now. And nowhere do 
 
 wide bottom-lands wave and sing 
 in such seemly grace, so decked 
 with yellow flowers, with odd 
 Sweet William and the small 
 wild rose. And nowhere now on 
 earth, I know, is there any stream 
 to murmur so sweetly and so 
 comfortably, to say such words 
 to any dreaming boy, to babble 
 of a work well done, of conscience 
 clear and of a success and happi 
 ness to come. All that was in 
 the river. If I listen very hard, 
 and imagine very high and very 
 deep, I can almost pretend to 
 hear them now, those old words, 
 heard when I was young. The 
 voices are there, I doubt not, 
 and there are other boys. God 
 keep them boys always, and may 
 
 44 
 
WHAT THE WATERS SAID. 
 
 they dream not backward, but 
 ahead. 
 
 This lazy pool beneath the far 
 wing of the dam, how smooth 
 it looks. Yet well I know the 
 sunken log upon its further 
 side. I have festooned it full oft 
 with big hook and hempen line. 
 And from that pool how many 
 fatuous fishes have I not hauled 
 forth. Here we came often, 
 when we were boys; and once 
 did not certain bold souls sleep 
 here all night, curled up along 
 the bank, waking the next morn 
 ing each with a sore throat, 'tis 
 true, but with heart full proud 
 at such high deed of valor ! 
 
 And there is the long wooden 
 bridge. What a feat of engineer 
 ing that bridge once seemed to 
 our untraveled souls. Behold it 
 now, as it was then, lying in the 
 level rays of the rising moon, a 
 brilliant causeway leading over 
 into a land of mystery, to glory 
 perhaps; perhaps to failure, 
 forgetfulness, oblivion and rest. 
 
 45 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 And there, I declare, at the other 
 end of this great roadway- 
 swimming up, I declare, in the 
 same old way is the great round 
 moon whose light served us 
 when we stayed late at the dam 
 in the summer evenings. And 
 the shadows of the bridge timbers 
 are just as long and black; and 
 the ripples over the rocks at the 
 middle span are just as beautiful 
 and white. And here, right at 
 our feet again, the moon is play 
 ing its old tricks of painting faces 
 in the water. 
 
 There are too many faces in 
 the water, Singing Mouse ; and 
 I beg you, cease repeating the 
 words about the ' ' Corpus Delicti ! " 
 You would make one shudder. 
 Let us look no more at faces in 
 
 the water. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 But still you bide by the waters 
 to-night, wizard ; for here is a 
 picture of the sea. It is the sea, 
 and it is talking, as it always 
 does. There are some who 
 4 6 
 
WHAT THE WATERS SAID. 
 
 think the sea speaks only of 
 sorrow, but this is not wholly 
 true. If you will listen thought 
 fully enough, you will find that 
 it is not all of troubles that the sea 
 is whispering. Nor does it speak 
 always of restlessness and change. 
 Some find a stimulus beside the 
 sea, and say it brings forgetful- 
 ness. Rather let us call it exalta 
 tion. Much more than of a petty 
 excitement, fit to blot a man's 
 momentary woes, it speaks in a 
 sterner and a stronger note. It 
 throbs with the pulse of a further 
 shore. It speaks of a quiet tide 
 making out to the Fortunate 
 Islands, and tells of a way of 
 following gales, and of a new 
 Atlantis, somewhere on beyond. 
 How dear this dream of a 
 different land, this story of 
 Atlantis, pathetically sought. 
 Certainly, Atlantis is there, out 
 beyond, somewhere in the sea ; 
 and truly there are those who 
 have discovered it, and those who 
 still may do so.' I know it, 
 
 47 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 Singing Mouse, for I can read it 
 written in the hollow of this tiny 
 shell of pink you have found here 
 by the shore, borne across to 
 us, we may not doubt, by an 
 understanding tide from a place 
 happily attained by those who 
 wrote the message and sought to 
 let us know. 
 
 " I,ong time upon the mast our brown sail 
 
 flapped ; 
 Our keel plowed bitter salt, and 
 
 everywhere 
 The ominous sky in sullen mystery 
 
 wrapped, 
 What side we looked on, either here or 
 
 there, 
 The welcome sight of land long sadly 
 
 sought ; 
 
 And that Atlantis, hid within the sea, 
 The land with all our hope and promise 
 
 fraught, 
 We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be. 
 
 But as we sailed as manful as we might, 
 
 And counted not the sail more fit than par, 
 Lo' ! o'er the wave there burst a vision bright 
 Of wood, and winding stream, and easy 
 
 shore. 
 
 Then by the lofty light which shone above, 
 We knew at last our voyage sad was o'er, 
 And we hard by the haven for which we 
 
 strove. 
 
 And soon all past the need to wander 
 more. 
 
 48 
 
WHAT THE WATKRS SAID. 
 
 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 
 
 laud, 
 
 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, %o ! 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, 
 
 1 'Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea 
 'Tis our Atlantis, from the bitter sea ! 
 'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend, 
 to thee and me ! " 
 
Lake 
 Belle -Marie. 
 
LAKE 
 BELLE-MARIE. 
 
 T AKE BELLE-MARIE lies far 
 f away. Beyond the forest the 
 mountains are white. Beyond 
 the mountains the sky rises blue, 
 high up into the infinite 
 Unknown. 
 
 I do not know where the 
 Singing Mouse lives. No man 
 can tell what journeys it may 
 make such times as it is absent 
 from the room that holds the pine 
 table, and the book, and the 
 candle, and the open fire. But 
 last night, when the faint, shrill 
 sweetness of its little voice grew 
 apart from the lonely silence of 
 the room, and I turned and saw 
 the Singing Mouse sitting on the 
 corner of the book, the light of 
 the candle shining in pink 
 through its tiny paws, almost the 
 first word it said was of the far- 
 off Lake of Belle-Marie. 
 
 1 ' Do you see it ? ' ' asked the 
 Singing Mouse. 
 
 1 ' You mean ' ' 
 
 53 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 ' ' The moon there through the 
 window? Do you see the moon, 
 and the stars? Do you know 
 where they are shining to-night ? 
 Do you see them, there, deep in 
 the water ? Do you know where 
 that is ? Do you know the water ? 
 I know. It is Lake Belle-Marie." 
 
 And all I could do was to sit 
 speechless. For the fire was 
 gone, and the wall was open, and 
 the room was not a room. The 
 voice of the Singing Mouse, shrill 
 and sweet, droned on a thousand 
 miles away in smallness, but 
 every word a crystal of regret 
 and joy. 
 
 ' ' A thousand feet deep, or 
 more, or bottomless, lies Lake 
 Belle-Marie, for no man has ever 
 fathomed it. But no matter how 
 deep, the moon lies to-night at 
 the bottom, and you can see it 
 shining there, deep down in the 
 blue. The stars are smaller, so 
 they stay up and sparkle on the 
 surface. The forest is very black 
 to-night, is it not? and the 
 
 54 
 
LAKE BELLE-MARIE. 
 
 shadow of the pines on the point 
 looks like a mass of actual sub 
 stance. Wait ! Did you see that 
 silvern creature leap from the 
 quiet water? You may know 
 the shadow is but a shadow, for 
 you can see the chasing ripples 
 pass through it and break it up 
 into a crinkled fabric of the night. 
 ' ' Do you see the pines waving, 
 away up there in their tops, and 
 do you hear them talking ? They 
 are always talking. To-night 
 they are saying: 'Hush, Belle- 
 Marie; slumber, Belle-Marie; we 
 will watch, we will watch, 
 hush, hush, hush ! Didn't you 
 ever know what the pines said ? 
 They wish no one ever to 
 come near Lake Belle- Marie. 
 Well for you that you only sat 
 and looked at the face of Belle 
 Marie, and cast no line nor fired 
 an untimely shot around her 
 shores ! The pines would have 
 been angry and would have 
 crushed you. You do not know 
 how they live, seeking only to 
 55 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 keep Belle-Marie from the world, 
 standing close and sturdy 
 together and threatening any who 
 approach. It would break their 
 hearts to have her hiding place 
 found out. You do not know 
 how they love her. The pines 
 are old, old, old, many of them, 
 but they told me that no foot 
 print of man was ever seen upon 
 those shores, that no boat ever 
 rested on that little sea, neither 
 did ever a treacherous line 
 wrinkle even the smallest portion 
 of its smoothest coves. Believe 
 me, to have Belle-Marie known 
 would break the hearts of the 
 pines. They told me they lived 
 all the time, only that they 
 might every night sing Belle- 
 Marie to sleep, and every morning 
 look upon her face, innocent, 
 pure, unknown and unknowing, 
 therefore good, sincere and utterly 
 trustworthy. That is why the 
 pines live. That is what they 
 are talking about. In many 
 places I know the hearts of the 
 56 
 
BELLE-MARIE. 
 
 pines are broken, and they grieve 
 continually. That is because 
 there are too many people. In 
 this valley the pines do not 
 grieve. They only talk among 
 themselves. In the morning they 
 will wave their hands quite gaily 
 and will say, * Waken, waken, 
 Belle-Marie ! Sweet is the day, 
 sweet is the day, God hath 
 given, given, given ! ' That is 
 what the pines say in the morning. 
 ' ' The white mountains yonder 
 are very old. How strong and 
 quiet they are, and how sure of 
 themselves! To be quiet and 
 strong, one needs to be old, for 
 small things do not matter then. 
 Do you know what the moun 
 tains think, as they stand there 
 shoulder to shoulder for they 
 live only to shield and protect the 
 forest, here in the valley. They 
 told me they were thinking of 
 the smallness and the quickness 
 of the days. 'Age unto age ! ' is 
 what the mountains whisper. 
 
 57 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 unto aeon ! Strong, strong, 
 strong is Time ! ' 
 
 ' 'And yet I knew these mighty 
 pillars lived only to shield the 
 forest which shielded Belle-Marie. 
 So I stood upon the last mountain 
 and looked upon the great blue 
 of the sky, and there again I saw 
 the face of Lake Belle-Marie ; and 
 the circle was complete, and I 
 sought no more, for I knew that 
 from the abode of perfect, unhurt 
 nature it is but a step up to the 
 perfect peace and rest of the land 
 where lives that Time whose 
 name the mountains voice in awe. 
 
 "And now, do you see what is 
 ; happening on Lake Belle-Marie ? 
 
 Through the cleft in the forest 
 the pink of the early day is 
 showing, and light shines through 
 the spaces of the pines. And 
 down the pebbles of the beach, 
 knee deep into the shining flood, 
 steps a noble creature, antlered, 
 beautiful, admirable. Do you see 
 him drink, and do you see him 
 raise his head and look about 
 58 
 
LAKE BELLE-MARIE. 
 
 with gentle and fearless eye? 
 This creature is of the place, and 
 no hand must harm him. 
 
 "Let the thin, blue smoke die 
 down. Attempt no foot further on. 
 Disturb not this spot. Return. 
 But before you go, take one more 
 look upon the Lake of Belle- 
 Marie ! " /^ 
 
 So again I gazed upon the face 
 of the lake, which seemed inno 
 cent, and sincere, and trust 
 worthy, and deserving of the pro 
 tection of the league of the pines, 
 and the army of the mountains, 
 and the canopy of the unshamed 
 sky. And then the voice of the 
 Singing Mouse, employed in some 
 song whose language I do not yet 
 fully understand, faded and sank 
 away, and even as it passed the 
 walls came back and the ashes 
 lay gray upon the hearth. 
 
The Skull and 
 the Rose. 
 
THE SKULL AND 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 'HpHE Singing Mouse peeped out 
 from the hollow orbit of the 
 white skull which lies upon the 
 table next to the volume of 
 Shakspere. It reached down a 
 tiny pink paw and touched a 
 leaf of the brave red rose which 
 every day lies before the skull. 
 It plucked the leaf, which made 
 a buckler for its small, throbbing 
 breast. It spoke. 
 
 4 'The rose is bold and red," 
 said the Singing Mouse. ' ' Blood 
 is red. A skull is white. The 
 rose and the skull love one 
 another. They understand. We 
 do not understand. 
 
 "As I sat by the skull I saw a 
 dream of the past go by. It was 
 as you see it now. 
 
 "Do you see the waving 
 grasses of the valleys ? Do you 
 see the unmoving front of the 
 white old mountains? Do you 
 see the red roses growing down 
 among the grasses ? 
 63 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 "It is peace upon the land. I 
 can see one who has seen the 
 lands. He smiles, but he is sad. 
 He crosses the wide sea, but 
 cares not. He travels upon 
 rails of iron, and he smiles, but 
 still is sad, because he thinks, 
 and he who thinks must weep. 
 He leaves the ship and the iron 
 rail, and his road is narrower and 
 slower, for he travels now by 
 (4\ wheels of wood. He sees the 
 
 valleys, and his smile has more 
 I of peace. His trail becomes 
 
 narrower yet. He goes by saddle, 
 and the mountains hem him in, 
 but now he smiles the more. 
 Now he must leave even the 
 saddle, and the trail is dim and 
 hard. See, the trail is gone ! 
 Here, where no foot has trod, 
 where the mountains close about, 
 where the trees whisper, he sits 
 and looks about him. Do you 
 see the red rose on his breast ? 
 Always the rose is there. Do 
 you see him look up at the 
 mountains, about him at the 
 6 4 
 
THE SKUIvL AND THE ROSE. 
 
 trees? Do you see him lay his 
 head upon the earth ? Do you 
 still see his smile, the smile which 
 is weary and yet not afraid ? Do 
 you hear him sigh ? And what 
 is this he whispers, here at the 
 end of the long and narrowing 
 way ' I know not if this be the 
 end or the beginning ! ' Ah, 
 what does this man mean who 
 whispers to himself in riddles? 
 
 1 ' Look ! It is the time of war. 
 There is music. The blood 
 stings. The heart leaps. The 
 eye flames. The soul exults. 
 Flickering of light on steel, the 
 flash of servant forces used to 
 slay, the reverberant growl of 
 engines made for death, the pass 
 ing of men in cloth and men in 
 blankets, the tramp of hurrying 
 hoofs, the falling of men who die 
 can you see this can you 
 catch the horror, the exultation, 
 the joy of this, I say? They 
 come, they go; they run their 
 race, and it is all. 
 
 "Here are those who ride 
 65 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 against those who slay. Do you 
 know this one who rides at the 
 head, smiling, swinging his sword 
 well and smiling all the time ? 
 It is he who said in the mountains 
 that riddle of the end and the 
 beginning who knew that to 
 the heart of Nature we must 
 come, for either the end or the 
 beginning of a happy life. Do 
 you see upon his breast the red 
 rose ? I think he rides to battle 
 with the rose, knowing what fate 
 will come. 
 
 "You know of this biting 
 whistle in the air this small 
 thing that smites unseen ? Do 
 you know the mowing of the 
 death scythes ? Hark ! I hear 
 the singing of this unseen thing. 
 See ! he of the rose is bitten. He 
 has fallen. Ai ! ai ! 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 
 smil.e is there, and now it is 
 
 66 
 
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE. 
 
 calmer and more sweet, though 
 still he whispers, 4 1 know not if 
 it be the end or the beginning ! ' 
 
 4 4 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 grass, the rose. 
 Now, since he cherished the rose 
 so well, see, the rose will not 
 leave him. Out of the dust it 
 rises, it grows, it blooms. Against 
 his lips it presses. It is the 
 beginning ! He loved, he thought, 
 he knew. He is not dead. He is 
 with Nature. It is but the 
 beginning ! 
 
 ' ' Let the rose press against 
 his lips in an eternal, pure caress. 
 There is no end. They under 
 stand. We do not yet under 
 stand." 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 The pink flame of the unreal 
 light died away. The pageant 
 of the hills, the panorama of the 
 battle faded and were gone. The 
 table and the books came back. 
 Wondering at these words, I 
 scarce could tell when the Sing 
 ing Mouse went away, leaving 
 me staring at the barren walls 
 and at the white skull at my 
 hand. 
 
 For a moment it nearly seemed 
 to me the hollow eyes had light 
 and spoke to me. For a moment 
 almost it seemed to me that the 
 rose stirred deep down among its 
 petals, and that a wider perfume 
 floated out upon the air. 
 
The Man of the 
 Mountain. 
 
THE MAN OF THE 
 MOUNTAIN. 
 
 'QNCE there was a man," 
 said the Singing Mouse, 
 ' ' who loved to go into the 
 mountains. He would go alone, 
 far into the mountains, and climb 
 up to the tops of the tallest peaks. 
 Nothing pleased him so much as 
 to climb to the top of some 
 mountain where no other man 
 had ever been. No one ever 
 knew what he said to the mount 
 ains, or what the mountains said 
 to him, but that they understood 
 each other very well was sure, for 
 he could go among the mountains 
 where other men would not go. 
 At the tops of the high mountains 
 he would sit and look out over 
 the country that lay beyond. He 
 would not say what he saw, 
 for he said he could not tell, and 
 that, moreover, the people would 
 not understand it, for they did 
 not know the way the mountains 
 thought. 
 
 One time this man climbed 
 73 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 to the top of a very high 
 mountain peak in a distant 
 country. This peak looked out 
 over a wide land, and the man 
 knew that from its summit he 
 could see many things. 
 
 * * The man was now growing 
 old, so when he got to the top of 
 this mountain he sat down to 
 rest. When he sat down, he put 
 his chin in his hand, and his arm 
 upon his knee ; and so he looked 
 out over the land, seeing many 
 things. 
 
 1 ' The sun came up, but the 
 man did not move, but sat and 
 thought. The moon came, but 
 still he did not move. He only 
 looked, and thought and smiled. 
 
 ' ' After many days it was seen 
 that this man would not come 
 down from the mountain. The 
 mountain made him part of itself, 
 and turned him into stone, as he 
 sat there, with his chin in his 
 hand. He is there today, look 
 ing out over many things. He 
 never moves, for he is now of 
 
 74 
 
THE MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 stone. I have seen that place 
 myself. Once I thought I heard 
 this man whisper of the things he 
 saw. He sits there today." 
 
At The Place 
 of the Oaks. 
 
AT THE PLACE 
 OF THE OAKS. 
 
 you know what the oak 
 says ? ' ' said the Singing 
 Mouse, as it sat upon my knee. 
 It had needed to nibble again at 
 my fingers before it could waken 
 me from the dream into which 
 I had fallen, gazing at the 
 fading fire. "Do you know 
 what the oak says ? " it repeated. 
 * ' Do you hear it ? Do you hear 
 the talking of the leaves? 
 
 ' ' 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 : 
 4 Pity ! Pity ! Pity ! ' And when 
 the storm has fallen, the oak sobs 
 and cries : ' Woe ! Woe ! Woe ! ' 
 
 4 ' Do you see the oaks ? ' ' asked 
 the Singing Mouse. 4 ' Do you 
 sec the little lake ? Do you know 
 this place of the oaks? Behold 
 it now! " It waved a tiny hand. 
 
 I gazed at the naked, cheerless 
 wall, seamed and rent with 
 
 79 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 cracks along its sallow width. 
 And as I gazed the seams anc 
 scars blended and composed intc 
 the lines of a map of a noble 
 country. And as I gazed more 
 intently the map took on color, 
 and narrowed its semblance tc 
 that of a certain region. And 
 I gazed yet more eagerly the 
 map faded quite away, and there 
 lay in its stead the smiling fac 
 of an enchanted land. 
 
 There was the little silver lake, 
 rippling on its shore of rushes. 
 Around rose the long curved hills, 
 swelling back from the shore. 
 The baby river babbled on at the 
 mouth of the lake, kissing its 
 mother a continual farewell. 
 The small springs tinkled metal 
 lically cold into the silver of the 
 lake. The tender green of the 
 gentle glades rolled softly back, 
 dividing the two hills in peaceful 
 separation. And there were the 
 oaks. At the water's edge, near 
 the lesser spring, the wild apple 
 trees twisted, but upon the hills 
 80 
 
\^A 
 
 ) 
 I 
 
 THE PLACE OF THE OAKS. 
 
 over the great glades stood 
 reserved, mysterious oaks, 
 
 11, strong and grand. 
 
 One oak, a mighty one, now 
 resolved itself more prominently 
 forth. Did I not know it well ? 
 Could one forget the tortured but 
 .oble soul of this oak? Could 
 >ne forget the strong arm of 
 
 imfort it extended over this 
 most precious spot of all the 
 glade? One must suffer before 
 he can comfort. The oak had 
 suffered, somewhere. We do not 
 know all things. But over this 
 spot the great tree reached out 
 sheltering hands, and certainly 
 from its hands dropped benedic 
 tions plenteously down. 
 
 Under the arm of the oak I 
 saw a tiny house of white neat, 
 well-ordered, full of cheerfulness. 
 Through the wall of canvas for 
 it now seemed to be after dusk- 
 there shone a faint pink gleam 
 of light, the soul of the white 
 house, its pure spirit of 
 content. As it shone, it scarce 
 
 81 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 seemed lit by mortal hand. 
 Near the small house of white, 
 and under the oak's protecting 
 arm, there burned a little flame, 
 of small compass save in the vast 
 shadows it set dancing among 
 the trees. Those who built this 
 fire here, so many times, so many 
 years, each time first craved 
 pardon of the green grass of that 
 happy glade, for they would not 
 harm the grass. But the grass 
 said yea to all they asked, this 
 was sure, for each year the tiny 
 hearth spot was greener than any 
 other spot, because it remembered 
 what the fire had said and done. 
 And each year the oak dropped 
 down food enough for the little 
 fire. 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 
 82 
 
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS. 
 
 year they met here. It had been 
 thus for many years. Each year, 
 for many years, the same hand 
 had lit the little fire, in the same 
 place, and so given back to the 
 oak its Past. Now, the Past is a 
 very sad but tender thing. 
 
 Near by the little fire I saw a 
 small table formed of straight- 
 laid boughs, and at either side of 
 this were seats made cunningly 
 in the workshop of the woods. 
 There were two forms at this 
 small table. I saw them both. 
 One was gray and bowed some 
 what, stooped as the oaks are, 
 silvered as the oaks are in the 
 winter days. The other was 
 younger and more erect. Once 
 the younger looked to the 
 older for counsel, but now it 
 seemed to me the bowed figure 
 turned to the one that had 
 become more strong. 
 
 I saw the savory vapors rise. 
 
 Even, it seemed to me, I could 
 
 note a faint, clear odor of innocent 
 
 potency. I saw the table laid, 
 
 83 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 not with gleam of snow and 
 silver, but with plain vessels 
 which, nevertheless, seemed now 
 to have a radiance of their own. 
 I knew all this. It was as 
 though there actually lay at hand 
 these pleasant scenes, as though 
 there actually arose the appeal 
 ing fragrance of the evening meal. 
 Now as I looked, the gray 
 figure bowed its head, there, 
 under the arm of the oak, and 
 asked on the humble board the 
 blessing of the God who made 
 the oak, and gave the fire and 
 spread the pleasant waters on the 
 land. Every meal-time, every 
 year, for many years, it had been 
 thus. Ever, the oak knew, the 
 gray figure would first bow and 
 ask the blessing of God. And 
 each time at the close the oak 
 with rustling leaves pronounced 
 distinct Amen! Let those jest 
 who will. I do not know. I 
 think perhaps the oak knows, or 
 it would not thus for years have 
 whispered reverently its distinct 
 8 4 
 
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS. 
 
 Amen! I will not scoff. It is 
 perhaps we who are ignorant. 
 We do not know all things. 
 
 I ask not what nor who these 
 two were who had come each 
 year to this place of the oaks, but 
 surely they were friends. In 
 shadow, I could hear them talk. 
 In shadow, I could see them 
 smile. 
 
 These friends sat by the little 
 fire a time before they went to rest 
 in the tiny house of white. After 
 they had gone, the fire did 
 strange things. All men know 
 that, though you see the fire 
 burned down, when you go into 
 the tent you will some time in the 
 night see the walls lit up by a 
 sudden flash or so, now and then, 
 from the fire which was thought 
 to be dead. 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. 
 
 85 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 These two friends never 
 questioned this. They knew it 
 was the secret of the night, and 
 gave the oak its own request, in 
 pay for its protection and consent. 
 They gave the oak its union with 
 the sacred Past. 
 
 In the night I have heard the 
 oak sob. 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 f 
 always with the same calm and 
 pure surroundings. Only as year 
 added itself to year, slipping 
 forward on the golden string, I 
 saw the gray figure grow more 
 gray, more bowed, more feeble. 
 Alas ! it seemed to me I saw the 
 silver coming upon the head of 
 the younger man, and his eyes 
 
 86 
 
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS. 
 
 grew weary, as one who looks at 
 the earth too closely (which it is 
 not wise to do). Yet the years 
 came, to the oaks and to the 
 grasses and to the friends. 
 
 The grass dies every year, "but 
 it is born again. The oak dies in 
 centuries, but it is born again. 
 Man dies in three score years and 
 ten, but he, too, is born again. 
 
 As I looked, I could see the 
 passing of the years. In all but 
 the unaltering fire of friendship I 
 could see change creeping on. 
 Grayer, grayer, more bent, more 
 feeble is it not so, Singing 
 Mouse ? And now, this time, 
 what was this gentle warning 
 that the oak tried to whisper 
 softly down ? Perhaps the grayer 
 friend heard it, as he sat musing 
 by the fire. He rose and looked 
 about him, as one who had 
 dreamed and was content. He 
 looked up at the solemn stars 
 unafraid, and so murmured to 
 himself. ' ' Day unto day uttereth 
 speech," he said; " Night unto 
 87 
 
THK SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 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 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 
 
 88 
 
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS. 
 
 the elder of these two ? Tell me, 
 Singing Mouse, is it not true that 
 I see there, sitting as of old at the 
 table, the same sturdy form, the 
 same simple, innocent and 
 believing face? It is the gray 
 ghost of one grown gray in good 
 ness. It is the shadow of a 
 shadow, the apparition of a soul! 
 
 The 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 liv 
 ing man bows also his head at 
 the board. The shadow moves 
 its lips. Doubt not those words 
 are heard this day. 
 
 See, the sun rises through the 
 trees. The glorious day sets on 
 once more. Doubt not, fear not, 
 sorrow not, ye two. Bow the 
 head still, ye two, and let not my 
 picture perish. Whisper again 
 the benediction of the years, and 
 8 9 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 let me hear once more the 
 murmur of the oak's Amen! 
 
The Birth of 
 the Hours. 
 
THE BIRTH OF 
 THE HOURS. 
 
 "T)O you know the story of the 
 wedding of the times ? ' ' said 
 the Singing Mouse. " You know 
 all life is a wedding. The flowers 
 love, and the grasses, and the 
 trees; and the circle of the 
 wedding ring is the circle of life 
 and the sign of eternity. Death 
 and life, not life and then death, 
 is the order and the law. 
 
 4 ' The hours are born of parents, 
 as are the flowers. The hours of 
 the day are born of the wedding 
 of Night and Morning. It is the 
 way of Life. Come with me. ' ' 
 
 So with the Singing Mouse I 
 went into a place where I was once 
 long before. I could see it very 
 well. It was in the deep woods, 
 far away. Near by there were 
 tall, sweet grasses. I could hear 
 the faint tinkle of a falling stream. 
 Other than that, it was silent in 
 the deep woods. Overhead the 
 sky was clear and filled with 
 stars. The stars trembled and 
 
 95 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 twinkled and shone radiantly fair. 
 So now all at once I knew they 
 were the jewels on the veil of 
 Night. And the far shadows 
 were the drapery of the Night, 
 and the greater light of the 
 jj 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 
 I I 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 more ornate garb of 
 witchery. Across her bosom fell 
 a wondrous tissue, trembling 
 with exuberance of unprismed 
 light. These were the gems in 
 thousands of the skies, all fair 
 against the blackness of the robes 
 of Night, and I knew that the 
 blackness of the one was lovely 
 as the radiance of the other. Nor 
 
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS. 
 
 could one separate one from the 
 other, for there arose a thin mist 
 of light, so that one saw form or 
 features only dimly, as through a 
 cloth of silver lace, such as the 
 spiders weave upon a morning. 
 
 The Night grew on, changing 
 at every moment, for change is 
 the law. There were small 
 frowns of clouds which were 
 replaced by smiles of light. 
 Did never you hear the laughter 
 of the Night? It is a strange 
 thing. Not all men have heard 
 it. The Singing Mouse told me 
 of this. 
 
 Now as I lay and looked at 
 this glorious apparition, there 
 came still another change, and 
 one most wonderful. In the 
 heart of the Night there came a 
 tremulous exultation. Upon the 
 face of the Night appeared a 
 roseate tinge of joyous perturba 
 tion. So then I knew the lover 
 of the Night was coming, and 
 knew, too, whence we have derived 
 the signs of love as among 
 
 97 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 human beings we see it indicated. 
 I saw the flush upon the cheek 
 of Night flame slow and faintly 
 up, until it touched her very 
 forehead. This is the way of 
 Love. But the Night went on, 
 for this is the way of Life. Love 
 and Life, these are ever and 
 forever. We mock at them and 
 understand them not, but they 
 are ever and forever. 
 
 And now the Night, I know 
 not whether startled or in plan, 
 whether ashamed of her dark 
 garb, or unconscious of it in the 
 proud sureness of her beauty, 
 dropped loose a portion of the 
 shadows of her robe, and stood 
 forth radiant, clad with the 
 dazzling beauty of her stars. 
 Then she raised her hand and 
 laid it on her heart. 
 
 And so the Morning came and 
 took her in his arms and kissed 
 her on the brow. So here was 
 Love again. And of this wedding 
 there were born the hours. 
 
The Teai 
 and the Smile, 
 

 THE TEAR 
 AND THE SMILE. 
 
 Singing Mouse came and 
 sat near by. Undoubtedly 
 the room was dingy to the last 
 degree. The dust lay thick upon 
 the corner of the table. It crusted 
 the window ledge and hung upon 
 the sallow wall. What was the 
 use, things being as they were, to 
 disturb the dust ? Let it lie in all 
 its bitterness. And let the 
 charred ends of the fagots roll 
 out upon the floor. And let the 
 fire die down to ashes. Dust to 
 dust. Ashes to ashes. It was 
 very fit. 
 
 But the Singing Mouse came 
 and sat near by. I could hear 
 it patter among the dead leaves of 
 the flowers that lay upon the 
 table. I turned my head and saw 
 it sitting close by my fallen hand. 
 Its tiny paws were waving. I 
 could see its breast, for which a 
 rose leaf would have been a giant 
 buckler, pulsing and beating 
 above its throbbing heart. Its 
 103 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 eyes were shining. ... A rhythm 
 came into the swing of the pink- 
 tinted paws. And then, so high 
 and thin and sweet that at first I 
 looked above to trace the sound, 
 there came the singing of the 
 Singing Mouse. . . . Dreams fell 
 upon my eyes. 
 
 I heard that sweet sound of the 
 woods, the tinkle of falling water, 
 which is so full of change, now 
 keen, clear and metallically 
 musical, now soft, slurred and full 
 of sleep. I could not see the little 
 stream, but knew it ran down there 
 beneath the talking pines. But 
 very well one could see the hill 
 where the small white house had 
 stood among the trees. . The 
 white house was gone now, 
 though the grass pressed down by 
 the blankets had not yet fully 
 arisen. The smoke of the camp 
 fire still wavered up. It followed 
 one, with long, out-reaching arms 
 of vapor. With its fingers it 
 beckoned and begged for its old 
 companions yet awhile. Did 
 104 
 
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE. 
 
 never one look back at the smoke 
 of the camp fire that he leaves ? 
 Always, the heart of the fire will 
 stir at this time of parting. A 
 little blaze will burst out among 
 the embers, and the smoke will 
 reach out and beckon one to stay. 
 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 out 
 stretched arms. I could see the 
 face, the gravely smiling lips. 
 
 ' ' There are many things in the 
 land of the Singing Mouse," 
 murmured my small magician. 
 "It is only there that one sees 
 clearly." So I looked and 
 listened to the figure which was 
 in the smoke of the little fire. 
 
 "Believe me," said the figure 
 
 in the smoke, ' * the ashes and the 
 
 dust are not so bitter as you think 
 
 them. The tears rain on them, 
 
 105 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 and they go back into the earth 
 and are born again. Look around 
 you, as here you may look, 
 unhindered by any confining 
 walls. Do you not see the flowers 
 smiling bravely? Yet every 
 blossom is a tear. Do you not 
 see the strong forest trees? Yet 
 every tree grows on the ashes of 
 the past. We know not what 
 you mean by Grief. With us, 
 all things point to Hope. I have 
 swum above a thousand forests. 
 Ask this forest, the youngest of 
 them all, whether it whispers of 
 dread and of grief. Rather it 
 whispers of wonder and of joy. 
 Come to it, and it may tell you of 
 its comfort. Turn your eyes up 
 to the blue sky, and put your 
 hands out upon this grass, which 
 is but dust renewed, and at your 
 eyes and at your fingers 
 you shall drink peace and 
 knowledge. The shape of a 
 room and of a grave is square and 
 cruel, but the shape of the earth 
 and of the great sky is that of 
 
 106 
 
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE. 
 
 the perpetual circle, and it is 
 kind. Come to these. Come to 
 me. I will wave my hands 
 above you, and you shall sleep. 
 When you awaken the flowers 
 will be blooming ; and upon the 
 lid of each you shall see the tear, 
 but upon the lips of each shall 
 rest a smile." 
 
 So now the figure in the smoke 
 waved, and nodded, and smiled 
 and beckoned, until I said to the 
 Singing Mouse it seemed scarce 
 like that we ordinarily know. 
 
 "Lie down and sleep," said 
 the Singing Mouse. 
 
 So I lay down and slept. And 
 when I awoke there were some 
 small flowers not far away ; and 
 when I looked I saw it was as 
 had been said. Each flower had 
 a tiny tear hidden away beneath 
 its lid, but upon the lips of each 
 there rested a brave smile. And 
 from among the flowers there 
 arose a sweet odor. 
 
 "This," said the Singing 
 Mouse, when it saw me note the 
 107 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 fragrance, * ' this is a Memory. 
 It belongs to you. See how soft 
 and sweet it is." 
 
How the Mountains 
 Ate up the Plains. 
 
How THE MOUNTAINS 
 ATE UP THE PLAINS. 
 
 " T ONCE knew a man," said 
 the Singing Mouse, ' * who 
 had seen the mountains in the 
 winter time, when they were 
 covered deep in snow. It is the 
 belief of most men that the 
 mountains are then asleep, but 
 this man said that they are not 
 asleep, but that they have only 
 drawn over their heads the white 
 council-robes, for then they are 
 sitting in council. Now the 
 mountains are very old and wise. 
 This man told me he heard 
 strange sounds coming from 
 under the council-robes of the 
 mountains then, voices not 
 distinctly heard, but wonderful 
 and strong and of a sort to make 
 one fear. 
 
 ' ' This man told me that once 
 he heard the mountains tell of a 
 time when they ate up the plains. 
 ' Once man was a dweller of the 
 plains/ sang the mountains in a 
 great song ; ' there man dug and 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 strove. Never he lifted up the 
 eye, but at his feet, at his feet, 
 there he still gazed down. The 
 clouds bore not up his gaze, 
 neither did the hills comfort him. 
 Things false, of no worth, these 
 man sought and prized. Though 
 we whispered to him, still he 
 made deaf his ear. Then we 
 the mountains, we the strong, 
 the just, the wise, we arose, we 
 set together our shoulders and so 
 marched on. Thus we ate up 
 the plain. Now we stand where 
 once man was, for man lifted not 
 up his eyes. Therefore, now let 
 man look up, let him not make 
 small his gaze. We the strong, 
 we the just, the wise, we shall 
 eat up the plain. For on our brows 
 sits the light, about our heads is 
 the calm. That which is high 
 shall in the days prevail. We 
 the strong, the just, the wise, 
 this we have said ! ' 
 
 1 'This man told me that he 
 could not hear all the song that 
 the mountains chanted, nor all 
 u 4 
 
MOUNTAINS ATE THE PLAINS. 
 
 they whispered among them 
 selves. But he thought they 
 said that they had swallowed up 
 and consumed one race of beings 
 who became fixed only upon the 
 winning of what they called 
 wealth, and had crushed out this 
 wealth and burned up their 
 precious things. This may be 
 true, for today men visit the 
 mountains to dig there for wealth, 
 and this which they call gold is 
 found much scattered, as though 
 it had been crumbled and burned 
 and blown wide over the earth 
 upon the four winds. For these 
 reasons this man thought that 
 the mountains had once eaten up 
 the plains, and that perhaps at 
 some time they might do this 
 again/' 
 
The Beast 
 Terrible. 
 
THE BEAST 
 TERRIBLE. 
 
 little room was resplendent 
 one night with a fire which 
 flamed .and flickered gloriously. 
 It set in motion many shadows 
 which had their home in the 
 corners of the walls, and bade 
 them cease their sullenness and 
 come forth to dance in the riot of 
 the hour. And so each shadow 
 found its partner in a ray of fire 
 light, and there they danced. 
 They danced about the tangled 
 front of the big bison's head 
 which hung upon the wall. 
 They crossed the grinning skull 
 of the gray wolf. They softened 
 the eyes of the antelope's head, 
 and made dark lines behind the 
 long-tined antlers of the elk and 
 of the deer. They brought forth 
 to view in alternate eclipse and 
 definition the great, grim bear 
 head which hung above the 
 mantel. Every trophy gathered in 
 years of the chase, once perhaps 
 prized, now perhaps forgotten, 
 119 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 was brought into evidence, nor 
 could one escape noting each one, 
 and giving to each, for this one 
 night more, the story which 
 belonged to it. 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 danger 
 ous, had the old rifle there been 
 less sure. Yes, yes, of course, I 
 could recall each incident. Of 
 course, they all were thrilling, 
 exciting, delightful, glorious, all 
 those things. Of course, the 
 heart must have leaped in those 
 days. The blood must have 
 surged, in those moments. The 
 pulse must have grown hard, the 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 mouth mast have been dry with 
 the ardor of the chase, at those 
 times. But now? But why? 
 Did the heart leap tonight, did 
 the veins thrill with the rush of 
 the blood, tumultuous in the joy 
 of stimulus or danger ? Why 
 did not the old eagerness come 
 back ? Which of these trophies 
 was the one to bring this back 
 again ? To which of these grim, 
 silent heads belonged the keenest 
 story?" 
 
 ' ' I know, ' ' said the Singing 
 Mouse, which unknown to me 
 had come and placed itself upon 
 the table. "I know." And it 
 climbed upon my arm which lay 
 across the table. The fire shone 
 fair upon its little form, so that in 
 silhouette its outline was delicate 
 and keen as an image cut from 
 the fiery heart of a noble opal 
 stone. 
 
 ' ' And what is it that you 
 know?" I asked. " Small 
 magician, tell me what it is you 
 know tonight." 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE) STORIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 4 4 1 will tell you which trophy 
 you most prize," it said. " I 
 will show you your Iliad of the 
 chase. Do you not remember, do 
 you not see this, the most eventful 
 hunt of all your life ? ' ' 
 
 And so I gazed where the 
 Singing Mouse pointed, quite 
 beyond the dusty walls, and there 
 I saw as it had said. I heard 
 not the thunder of the hoofs of 
 buffalo, nor the faint crack of 
 twig beneath the panther's foot. 
 I saw not the lurching gallop of 
 the long-jawed Wolf, nor the high, 
 elastic bounding of the deer. 
 The level swinging speed of the 
 antelope, the slinking of the lynx, 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 the crashing flight of the wapiti 
 no, it was none of these that came 
 to mind ; nor did the mountains, 
 nor the plains, nor the wilder 
 ness of the pines. But when 
 the Singing Mouse whispered, 
 "Do you see?" I murmured in 
 reply, " I see it all again." 
 
 I saw the small, low hills, well 
 covered with short oaks and 
 hazel bushes, which rolled on 
 away from the village, far out, 
 almost to the Delectable mount 
 ains, which are well known to 
 be upon the edge of the world. 
 Through these low hills a wind 
 ing road led on, a road whose end 
 no man had ever reached, but 
 which went to places where, no 
 doubt, many wonders were 
 perhaps even to the Delectable 
 mountains; for so a wise man 
 once had said, his words 
 hearkened to with awe. This 
 was a pleasant road, lined 
 with brave sumachs, with bushes 
 of the wild blackberry, and with 
 small hazel trees which soon 
 123 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 would offer fruit for the regular 
 harvest of the fall, this same to 
 be spread for drying on the wood 
 shed roof. It was perhaps wise 
 curiosity as to the crop of nuts 
 which had brought thus far from 
 home these two figures an 
 enormous distance, perhaps at 
 least a mile beyond what hereto 
 fore had been the utmost limit of 
 their wanderings. It was not, 
 perhaps, safe to venture so far. 
 There were known to be strange 
 creatures in these woods, one 
 knew not what. It was therefore 
 well that the younger boy should 
 clasp tightly the hand of the 
 older, him who bore with such 
 confidence the bow and arrows, 
 potent weapons of those days 
 gone by ! 
 
 It was half with fear and half 
 with curiosity that these two 
 wandered on, along this 
 mysterious road, through this 
 wild and unknown wilderness, 
 so far from any habitation 
 of mankind. The zeal of 
 124 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 the explorer held them fast. 
 They scarce dared fare further 
 on, but yet would not turn back. 
 The noises of the woods thrilled 
 them. The sudden clanging 
 note of the jay near by caused 
 them to stop, heart in mouth for 
 the moment. Strange rustlings in 
 the leaves made them cross the 
 road, and step more quickly. Yet 
 the cawing of a crow across the 
 woods seemed friendly, and a 
 small brown bird which hopped 
 ahead along the road was 
 intimate and kind, and thus 
 touched the founts of bravery in 
 the two venturous hearts. Cer 
 tainly 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 
 125 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 ah! What was that that awful 
 burst of sound? Clutch closer, 
 little brother, though both be 
 pale ! How should either of you 
 yet know the thunderous flight 
 of the wild grouse, this great 
 bird which whirled away through 
 the brown leaves of the oaks? 
 Father must be asked about this 
 tremendous, startling bird. 
 Meantime, the heart having 
 begun to beat again, let the two 
 adventurers press yet a little 
 further on. 
 
 And so, with fears and tremb 
 lings, with doubts and joys, 
 through briars and flowers, 
 through hindrances and recom 
 penses, along this crooked, wind 
 ing, unknown road which led on 
 out into the Unknown, they 
 wandered, as in life we all are 
 wandering today. 
 
 But hush ! Listen ! What is it, 
 this sound, approaching, coming 
 directly toward the road ? Surely, 
 it must be the footfall of some 
 large animal, this cadenced 
 126 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 rustling on the leaves ! It comes 
 it will cross near there, it 
 has turned, it is near the road ! 
 Look! There it is, a great 
 animal, half the length of one's 
 arm, with bushy, long red tail 
 arched high for easier running, 
 its grayish coat showing in the 
 bars of sunlight, its eyes bright 
 and black and keen. Had it not 
 been said there were wild animals 
 in these woods ? 
 
 Each heart now thumped hard 
 with the surging blood it bore ; 
 but it was now the blood of 
 hunters and not of boys. Fear 
 vanished at the sight of the 
 quarry, and the only thought 
 remaining was that of battle and 
 of victory. Well for the animal 
 that it ran ill for it that it ran 
 down the road and not back into 
 the cover. The bow twanged, 
 the arrow flew blunt, but 
 keenly sped. Down went the 
 smitten prey ! Psean ! Forward ! 
 Victory ! 
 
 But ho ! the creature rallies 
 127 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 recovers ! It gathers its forces, 
 it flies ! Pursuit then, but pursuit 
 apparently useless, for the animal 
 has found refuge deep in this 
 hollow stump, beyond the reach 
 of longest mortal arm ! 
 
 Rustle now, y e leaves, and 
 threaten now, all ye boughs with 
 menacings. Roar, grouse, and 
 clamor on, all ye jangling jays. 
 No longer can ye strike terror 
 into these two souls, small though 
 they be. The heart of the 
 hunter has now been born for 
 each. Fear and defeat are known 
 no longer in the compass of their 
 thoughts. Follow, follow, 
 follow ! So spake the good old 
 savagery o f the natural man. 
 Better for this creature had it 
 never disturbed these two with its 
 footfalls approaching among the 
 leaves. Out of its refuge now 
 must it come. Yea, though one 
 lost a thousand suppers that 
 night, and though a thousand 
 stones lay waiting in the dark 
 128 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 along the road to hurt bare, 
 unprotected toes. 
 
 The sun forgot its part, and sunk 
 red, though reluctant, beyond 
 the Delectable Mountains. Thou 
 moon, this is Ajalon ! Be kindly, 
 for by moonlight one still may 
 labor, and here is labor to be 
 done. Every blade in the Barlow 
 knives is broken. The hole in 
 the stump yields not to slashings, 
 nor to attempts to pry it open. 
 The prey is still unreached. 
 What is to be done ? 
 
 The elder hunter bethinks him 
 of a solution for this problem. 
 The broken blade will do to gnaw 
 off this bough, and it will serve 
 to make a split in the end of it. 
 And if one be fortunate, and if 
 this split bestride the tail of the 
 concealed animal, and if the stick 
 be twisted 
 
 "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 
 129 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 tears ; but after all was over, there 
 lay the squirrel vanquished, at 
 the feet of these young 
 barbarians who had wandered 
 out from home into the unknown 
 lands of earth. 
 
 The moon was over Ajalon 
 when these two hunters, after all 
 the perils of the long, black road, 
 marched up into the door yard, 
 bearing on a pole between them 
 their quarry, well suspended by 
 the gambrels. ' ' My boys, I 
 feared that you were lost!" 
 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 explana 
 tions and much descriptive 
 narrative simultaneously uttered 
 by two mouths eager to both eat 
 
 and talk. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 130 
 
THE BEAST TERRIBLE. 
 
 "I see it all," I said to the 
 Singing Mouse. ' ' It all comes 
 back again. No chase was ever 
 or will ever be so great as this 
 one back there, near the 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. 
 
THE PASSING 
 OF MEN. 
 
 night the inoon was 
 shining brightly upon the 
 curtain, which had been drawn 
 tightly across the window. Within 
 the room the light was dim, so 
 that there could be seen clearly 
 the pictures which the moon was 
 drawing on the curtain ; figures 
 which marched, advanced, 
 receded. One might almost have 
 thought these the shadows of 
 some moving boughs, had one 
 not known the w r ays the moon 
 has at certain times. 
 
 It chanced that high up in the 
 curtain there was a tiny hole, 
 and through this opening the 
 moonlight streamed, falling upon 
 the table in a small, silvery 
 ellipse, of a size which one 
 might cover ten times with his 
 hand. It was natural that in 
 this little well of pale and dream 
 like radiance the Singing Mouse y/7 
 should find it fit to manifest *"? 
 itself. I knew not when it came, 
 135 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 but as I looked, the spot had 
 found a tenant. The small, 
 transparent paws of the Singing 
 Mouse displayed no shadow as 
 they waved and swung across 
 this pencil of the pale, mysterious 
 light. Yet its eyes shone opaline 
 and brilliant as it sat, so that I 
 could hardly gaze without a 
 shiver of surprise akin to fear, 
 fascinated as though I looked 
 upon a thing unreal. Thus 
 surrounded, almost one might 
 say thus penetrated, by the 
 translucent shaft of radiance 
 which came through the window, 
 the Singing Mouse told me of 
 the figures on the curtain, which 
 now began to have more distinct 
 semblances. 
 
 "Do you see the figures 
 there ? " said the Singing Mouse. 
 " Do you see the marching men ? 
 Have you never heard the hoofs 
 ring on the roof when the wind 
 blows high? Have you not 
 seen their ranks sweep swift 
 across the sky when storms 
 136 
 
THE PASSING OF MEN. 
 
 arise? Have you never seen 
 them marching through the long 
 aisles of the wood at night? 
 These are the warriors of the 
 past. Now earth has always 
 loved the warriors." 
 
 I looked, and indeed it was 
 the truth. There was a pano 
 rama on the curtain. History 
 had unrolled her scroll. The 
 warriors of the nations and the 
 times were passing. 
 
 I saw the men of Babylon, 
 and those who came out of 
 Egypt. Dark were these of hair 
 and visage, and their arms were 
 the ancient bow and spear. And 
 there were those who rode light 
 and cast back their rapid archery. 
 These faded, and in their stead 
 marched men close knit in solid 
 phalanx, with long spears offer 
 ing impenetrable front. In turn 
 these passed away, and there 
 came men with haughty brow, 
 who bore short spears and swords. 
 Near by these were wild, huge 
 men of yellow hair, whose shields 
 137 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 were leather and whose swords 
 were broad and long. And as 
 I gazed at all of these, my blood 
 thrilling strangely at the sight, 
 the figures blended and formed 
 into a splendid procession of a 
 martial day gone by. I saw 
 them a long stream of mounted 
 men, who rode in helmet and 
 cuirass, and bore each aloft a 
 long-beamed spear. In front rode 
 one whose mien was high and 
 stern, and who might well have 
 been commander. High aloft he 
 tossed his great sword as he 
 rode, and sang the time a song 
 of war ; and as he sang, the 
 thousands of deep throats behind 
 him made chorus terrible but 
 stirring in its chesty melody, for 
 ictus to the song each warrior 
 smiting sword on shield in a 
 mighty unison whose high, 
 sonorous note thrilled like the 
 voice of actual war. Steady the 
 strong eyes gleamed out and 
 onward as they rode. From the 
 steel clad breast of each there 
 138 
 
THE PASSING OF MEN. 
 
 shone forward a glancing ray of 
 light, as though it came direct 
 from the heart, untamed even by 
 a thousand years of death. My 
 heart leaped to see them ride, 
 so straight and stern and fearless, 
 so goodly, so glorious to look 
 upon. Came the rattle of chain, 
 the clang of arms, the jangle 
 of belt and spur; and still the 
 brave procession passed, in tens, 
 in hundreds, in thousands, in a 
 long wave of stately men, whose 
 eyes shone each in all the bold 
 delight of war. Stooped front, 
 hooked hand and avaricious 
 eye these were as absent as the 
 glow of gold or silver. It was 
 the glorious age of steel. 
 
 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 pen 
 nants fluttered stiffly in the 
 breeze. And then afar I heard 
 139 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 a sweet, compelling melody, the 
 invitation of the bugle, that 
 dearest mistress of the heart of 
 man. My blood leaped. I 
 started up. I started forward. 
 The sweep of the ranks drew me 
 on and in irresistibly. I would 
 have raised my voice. I sought 
 to stay, if for but one instant, 
 this army of brave men, this 
 panorama of exalted war, this 
 incomparable pageant of a day 
 gone by ! It was the Singing 
 Mouse that checked me ; for I 
 heard it sigh ; 
 
 "Alas!" 
 
 And yet again the scene was 
 changed. Across the view 
 streamed yet a long line of war 
 riors. The hair of these did not 
 float yellow from beneath loos 
 ened casque, nor indeed did these 
 know aught of armor, nor did 
 they march with banners beckon 
 ing, nor to the wooing of the 
 trumpet's voice. The skins of 
 these were red, and their hair 
 was raven-black. Arms they 
 140 
 
THE PASSING OF MEN. 
 
 had, and horses, though rude the 
 one and ill caparisoned the 
 other. Leather and wood, and 
 flint and sinew served them for 
 material. Ill armed they were; 
 but as they rode, with naked 
 breasts, and painted faces, and 
 tall feathers nodding in their 
 plaited hair, out of the eye of 
 each there shone the soul of the 
 fighting man, the warrior, 
 beloved since ever earth began. 
 Not less than the men of Babylon 
 were these, nor than they of the 
 ancient bow and spear, nor than 
 they of the steel-clad breast; and 
 as I saw them naked, clad on 
 only in the armor of a man's 
 fearlessness, the word of com 
 mendation was as ready as that 
 of pity. 
 
 ' ' They are late, Singing 
 Mouse," said I, "late in the 
 day of war." 
 
 "Yes," said the Singing 
 
 Mouse, with sadness, ' * they are 
 
 late, and they must pass away. 
 
 But they are warriors of proof, 
 
 141 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 as much as any of those who 
 have passed. Did you not see 
 the melancholy of each face as 
 it looked forward? Their fate 
 was known, yet they rode 
 forward to meet it fearlessly, as 
 brave as any fighting men of 
 all the years. In time, they too 
 shall have their story, and with 
 the other warriors of the earth 
 shall march again upon the page 
 of history." 
 
 As I looked, the figures of 
 these men grew dimmer The 
 tinkling of beaded garments and 
 the shuffling of the ponies' hoofs 
 became less and less distinct, and 
 the dust cloud of their traveling 
 became fainter and fainter, and 
 finally faded and melted away. 
 The curtain was bare. I heard 
 the sighing of the wind. 
 
The House 
 of Truth. 
 
THE HOUSE 
 OF TRUTH. 
 
 morning I lay upon my 
 bed in the little room which 
 I call my home. Now, among 
 the eaves which rise opposite to 
 my window there are many spar 
 rows which have also made their 
 homes. In the morning, before 
 the sun has arisen, and at the 
 time when the dawn is making 
 the city gray and leaden in color 
 instead of somber and black, these 
 sparrows begin to chatter and 
 chirp and sing in discordant 
 unison, and by this I know the 
 day has come. Upon this morn 
 ing it seemed to me the sparrows 
 chattered with an unusual com 
 motion; and as I listened I heard 
 from another window near by 
 mine the voice of grief and lamen 
 tation. Then I knew that one 
 who had long been sick had 
 passed away. As the gray 
 morning came on, this spirit, this 
 spark of life, had gone out from 
 its accustomed place. As the 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 day came on, the sounds of 
 lamentation arose. The friends 
 of that one wept. So I asked the 
 sparrows, and the sun, and the 
 gray sky why these friends wept. 
 What is grief? I asked of them. 
 Why should these weep ? What 
 has happened when one dies? 
 Where has the spark of life gone? 
 Did it fall to these sodden pave 
 ments, forever done, or did it go 
 on up, to meet the kiss of the 
 rising sun? And the sparrows, 
 which fall to the ground, answered 
 not. The sun rose calm and 
 passionless, but dumb. The sky 
 folded in, large but inscrutable. 
 None the less arose the voice of 
 lamentation and of woe. 
 
 # * # * # 
 
 "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. 
 148 
 
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH. 
 
 Tell me, what is the Truth? 
 
 The Singing Mouse gazed at 
 me in its way of pity, so I knew 
 I had asked that which could not 
 be. Yet even as I saw this look 
 appear it changed and vanished. 
 And as the Singing Mouse waved 
 its tiny paw I forbore reflection 
 and looked only on the scene 
 which now was spread before me. 
 It seemed a picture of actual 
 colors, and I could see it plainly. 
 
 I saw a youth who stood with 
 one older and of austere garb. 
 By the vestments of this older 
 man I knew he was of those who 
 teach people in spiritual things. 
 To him the young man had come 
 in anguish of heart. Then the 
 older man of priestly garb taught 
 the young man in the teachings 
 that had come down to him. 
 But the youth bowed his head 
 in trouble, nor was the cloud 
 cleared upon his heart. I heard 
 him murmur, "Alas ! what is the 
 Truth?" 
 
 So I saw this same youth pass 
 149 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 on, in various stages of this 
 picture, and before him I saw 
 drawn as though in another 
 picture, a panorama of the edifices 
 and the institutions of the 
 religions of the lands. 
 
 But the years passed, and the 
 panorama of beliefs swept by, and 
 no one could tell this man what 
 was the Truth. 
 
 Yet after this young man had 
 ceased to query and had closed 
 his books, he one day entered 
 alone into one of the great edifices 
 built for the sake of that which 
 he could not understand. In the 
 picture I could see all this. I 
 saw the young man cast himself 
 face down among the cushions of 
 a seat, and there he lay and 
 listened to the music. This, too, 
 I could hear. I could hear the 
 peal of the organ arise like voices 
 of the spirits, going up, up, 
 whispering, appealing, promising, 
 assuring. Then for I could see 
 and hear with him there came 
 to that young man when he 
 150 
 
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH. 
 
 ceased to seek, the very exaltation 
 he had longed to know. 
 
 ***** 
 
 " Ah ! yes, Singing Mouse," I 
 said, ' ' it was very beautiful. But 
 music is not final. Music is not 
 the Truth. Tell me of these 
 things."' 
 
 The Singing Mouse again 
 seemed to hesitate. ' ' It may 
 be," said the Singing Mouse, 
 slowly, "that the Truth will 
 never b e found between the 
 covers of any book, no matter 
 how wise. It may be that it will 
 never be found by any who search 
 for it always within walls built 
 by human hands. It may be 
 that no man can convey to 
 another that which is the truth to 
 him. It may be that the Truth 
 can never be grasped, never be 
 weighed or formulated. 
 
 "The ways of Nature are 
 always the same, but Nature does 
 not ask exactness of form. Why 
 then shall we ask exactness of 
 faith ? The true faith is nothing 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 final, not more than are final the 
 carved stones of the church which 
 offers it so strenuously. The 
 stones crumble and decay, but 
 new churches rise. New faiths 
 will rise. But were not all well?" 
 
 At these things I wondered, 
 and over them I thought for a 
 time, but yet I did not understand 
 all that the Singing Mouse had 
 said. As if it knew my thought, 
 the Singing Mouse said to me : 
 
 "Your vision is too narrow. 
 You seek the great truths in 
 small places, and wonder that 
 you do not find them. Come 
 with me." 
 
 The Singing Mouse waved its 
 hand, as was its wont, and as in 
 a dream and as though I were 
 now the young man whom we 
 had lately seen, I was trans 
 ported, by what means I could 
 not tell, into a place far distant. 
 At first it seemed to me there was 
 a figure in vestments, speaking 
 of I scarce knew what. Again 
 there was a church or a 
 152 
 

 THE HOUSE OF TRUTH. 
 
 cathedral. 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. Insen 
 sibly I seemed to see the hewn 
 stones of the walls assume their 
 primeval and untouched state 
 beneath the grasses of the hills. 
 I could feel the rafters vanishing 
 and going back into the bodies of 
 the oaks in which they originally 
 grew. The voice of the organ 
 remained with me, but it might 
 have been the roll of the waves 
 upon the shore. I was in the 
 Temple. I sought not for names. 
 
 It was night. I lay upon a 
 bank of sweet-smelling grasses, 
 and about me were the great oaks. 
 The organ, or the waves, spoke 
 on. I looked up, up, into the 
 great circle of the sky, so far, so 
 blue, so kind in its bending over, 
 so pitying it seemed to me, yet so 
 high in its up-reaching. I looked 
 153 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 upon the glorious pageant of the 
 stars. 
 
 1 'That star," thought I, ' 'shone 
 over the grave of some ancestor 
 of mine; back, back in the 
 unmirrored past, some father of 
 some father of mine. He is gone, 
 like a fly. He is dust. I may be 
 lying on his grave. Soon, like a 
 fly, I too shall be dead, gone, 
 turned into dust. But the star 
 will still shine on. Small as that 
 father's dust may be, that dust 
 still lives. It is about me. This 
 grass, these trees, may hold it. 
 He has lived again in the cycle of 
 natural forces. My dust, when I 
 am dead, will in turn make part 
 of this world, one of an unknown 
 sea of stars. Small then, as I 
 am, I am kin to that star. The 
 stars go on. Nature goes on. 
 Then shall man shall I" 
 
 ' 'Ah, ' ' said the Singing Mouse, 
 its voice sounding I knew not 
 whence; "from this place can 
 you see ? ' ' 
 
 So now I thought I began to see 
 154 
 
THE HOUSE OF TRUTH. 
 
 what I had not seen before. And 
 since this was in the land of the 
 Singing Mouse, I sought to find 
 no name for what I saw, nor 
 tried to measure it. What one 
 man sees is not what another sees. 
 Shall one claim wisdom beyond 
 his neighbor? Are not the stars 
 his also, and the trees his to 
 talk with him? Are not the doors 
 always open? Does not the 
 music of the organ ever roll, do 
 not the voices always rise ? 
 
 Had it not been for the 
 Singing Mouse, I should not 
 have thought these things. 
 
Where the 
 City Went. 
 

 WHERE THE 
 CITY WENT. 
 
 day there was a white 
 frost that fell upon the city, 
 lasting for many hours, so that a 
 strange thing happened, at which 
 men wondered very much. The 
 city put aside its colors of 
 black and brown and gray, and 
 dressed itself in silvery white. 
 No stone nor brick was seen 
 except in this silvern frosty color. 
 All the spires were glittering in 
 silver, and all the columns bore 
 traceries as though the hands of 
 spirits had labored long and 
 delicately and had seen their 
 tender fretwork frozen softly but 
 forever into silver. The gross 
 city had put aside corporal things, 
 and for once its spirit shone fair 
 and radiant, so that men said 
 that no such thing had ever been 
 before. 
 
 That evening the frost still 
 
 remained, and as the night came 
 
 on a mist fell upon the city. 
 
 From the windows men looked 
 
 159 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 out, and lo ! the beautiful city so 
 made spiritual was vanishing. 
 One by one the great buildings, 
 the tall spires, the lofty columns 
 had faded into a white dream, 
 dimmer, fainter, less and less 
 perceptible, seen through a gentle 
 envelope of whitening haze. 
 This thing was of a sort almost 
 to make one tremble as he looked 
 upon it, for the city which had 
 been silver had turned to mist, 
 and the mist seemed fair to turn 
 into a dream. There are those 
 who say it did become a dream, 
 and afterward descended, a 
 glorious White City, seen for a 
 time upon the earth and so 
 beloved of men that it has never 
 been forgotten. And wanderers 
 in desert countries tell that at 
 times they have seen this same 
 city of dreams, alluringly 
 beautiful, but evanescent, intang 
 ible, unattainable, trembling and 
 floating upon the wavering air. 
 Now when I saw the city thus 
 fade away and disappear, I sat 
 1 60 
 
WHERE THE CITY WENT. 
 
 down at my table, and, as many 
 men did that night, I wondered 
 much at what I had seen. For 
 surely the soul of the city had 
 arisen. Then the Singing Mouse 
 came and gazed into my face. 
 
 1 * What you have seen is true, ' ' 
 said the Singing Mouse. ' 'There 
 is no city now. It has gone. 
 You have seen it disappear. Its 
 soul has arisen. This does not 
 often happen, yet it can be, for 
 even the city has a soul if you 
 can find it. 
 
 ' ' But if I say the city has 
 gone, I mean only that it has left 
 the place where once it was. 
 That which once was, is always, 
 corporate or not corporate. We err 
 only when we ask to see all with 
 our eyes, to balance all within 
 our hands. Come with me, and I 
 will show you where the city 
 went." 
 
 So now the Singing Mouse 
 waved its hands, and I saw, 
 though I knew not where I looked, 
 
 I saw a country where the 
 161 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 trees grew big and where the 
 wild-fowl came. It was where 
 the trees had never been felled, 
 nor had the stones ever been 
 hewn. The sky was blue, and 
 the water was blue, except where 
 it played and laughed, and there 
 it was white. 
 
 There was a small h o u s e, of 
 a vSort one has never seen, for 
 none in the cities are like it. The 
 blue smoke curling from the 
 chimney named it none the less a 
 home. I hardly knew what time 
 or place we had come upon, for 
 the Singing Mouse, whose voice 
 seemed high and exalted, spoke 
 as though much was in the past. 
 
 "This is a Home," said the 
 Singing Mouse. "Once there 
 were no homes. In those days 
 there was only one fire, and it 
 was red. By this man sat. He 
 sought not to see. 
 
 ' ' Once a man sat at night and 
 looked up at the heavens, seek 
 ing to know what the stars were 
 saying. He besought the stars, 
 162 
 
WHERE THE CITY WENT. 
 
 praying to them and asking them 
 to listen to the voice of the water, 
 and to the voice of the oaks and 
 to the whispers of the grasses, and 
 to tell him why the fire of earth 
 was red, while the fire of the stars 
 was white. 
 
 1 l Now while this man besought 
 the stars, to him a strange thing 
 happened. As he looked up he 
 saw falling from the heavens 
 above him a ray of the white 
 light of the stars. It fell near to 
 him and lay shining like a jewel 
 in the grass. To this the man 
 ran at once, gladly, and took up 
 the white light, and put it in his 
 bosom, that the winds might not 
 harm it. Always this man kept 
 the white light in his bosom after 
 that. And by its light he saw 
 many things which till that time 
 men had never known. This 
 man found that this new light, 
 with the red light that had been 
 known , filled all his house with 
 a great radiance, so that small 
 strifes were not so many, and so 
 163 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 that life became plain and sweet. 
 This then that you see is that 
 Home. This that you see around 
 you, the large trees and the green 
 grass, and the blue sky and the 
 smiling waters, all this is wealth; 
 wealth not corporate, wealth 
 valuable, wealth that belongs to 
 every man ever born upon the 
 earth, and which can not of right 
 ever be taken away from him. 
 Shorn of that, he is poor indeed, 
 though not so poor as he who 
 shore him. Unshorn of this, he 
 is rich. In our land our hearts 
 ache to see these terms misused, 
 and that called wealth which is 
 so far from worth the having. 
 But here, where I have brought 
 you, you shall see humanity 
 undwarfed, and you shall see 
 peace and largeness in the life 
 which you once thought small 
 and sordid." 
 
 Then as I looked, there step 
 ped from the house a man, or 
 one whom I took to be a man. 
 This man stood in the cool, fresh 
 164 
 
WHERE THE CITY WENT. 
 
 morning, and gazed at the sun, 
 now rising above the tops of the 
 great trees. He smiled gently, 
 and taking in each hand a little 
 water from a tiny stream that 
 flowed near by, he raised his 
 hands, and still smiling, offered 
 tribute of the water to the sun. 
 
 I saw the water falling down 
 from his hands in a small stream 
 of silver drops, shining brightly. 
 It was the way of the land, the 
 Singing Mouse said ; for they 
 thought that as the water came 
 from the sky and returned to it, 
 so did man and the thoughts of 
 man, and the fruits of his pro 
 gress, never to be destroyed. 
 
 At all this I looked almost in 
 fear, for the thought came that 
 perhaps this was not man as we 
 knew him, but the successor of 
 man. " Where is this land?" I 
 asked of the Singing Mouse, 
 
 II and what is this time upon 
 which we have come?" 
 
 The Singing Mouse looked at 
 the green trees, and at the kind 
 165 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 sun, and at the blue sky and the 
 pleasant waters, and it said to 
 me slowly, " There was once a 
 city where these trees now stand/* 
 
The Bell an< 
 the Shadows 
 
THE BELL AND 
 THE SHADOWS. 
 
 unformulate, music 
 immaterial, such was the 
 voice of the Singing Mouse ; 
 faint, small and clear, a piping 
 of fifes so fine, a touching of 
 strings so delicate, that it seemed 
 to come from instruments of 
 beryl and of diamond, a phantom 
 music, impossible to fetter with 
 staff or bar, and past the hope 
 of compassing in words. 
 
 It was the last night of the 
 year, and the bell upon the 
 church near by had made many 
 strokes the last time it had been 
 heard ; many heavy strokes which 
 throbbed sullenly, mournfully 
 on the air. The presence of 
 passing Time was at hand. 
 The year would soon join 
 the years gone by. Regret, 
 remorse, despair, abandonment, 
 the hopelessness of humanity 
 was it the breath of these which 
 arose and burdened heavily the 
 note of the chronicling bell ? 
 171 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 Where were the chimes of joy? 
 ***** 
 
 ' ' These shadows that you see 
 are not upon the wall," said the 
 Singing Mouse. ' ' They are very 
 much beyond the windows. If 
 we only look out from our win 
 dows, there are always great 
 pictures waiting for us pictures 
 in pearl and opal, in liquid 
 argent, in crimson and gold. 
 But always there must be the 
 shadows. Without these, there 
 can be no picture anywhere. 
 
 "Have you not seen what the 
 shadows do? Have you not 
 seen them trooping through the 
 oak forest in the evening, through 
 the pine forest in open day, 
 across the prairies under the 
 moon at night, legions of them, 
 armies of them? Have you 
 never seen them march across the 
 grass-lands in the day time, 
 cohort after cohort, hurrying to 
 the call of the unseen trumpets? 
 In the woods, have you never 
 heard strange sounds, when you 
 172 
 
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS. 
 
 put your ear to the ground 
 sounds untraceable to any animate 
 life? Have you never heard 
 vague voices in the trees ? Have 
 you not heard distant, mysterious 
 noises in the forest, whose cause 
 you could never learn, seek no f/fi 
 matter how you might? These 
 were the voices of the shadows, 
 the people who live there. Who 
 else should it be to whisper and 
 sing to you and make you happy 
 when you are there ? Without 
 these people, what would be the 
 woods, the prairies, the waters, 
 the sky, the world? 
 
 1 ' Without the shadows, too, 
 what would be our lives? 
 Thoughts, thoughts and remem 
 brances, what have we that is 
 sweeter than these? Have 
 you never seen the smile upon 
 the lips of those who have died ? 
 They say they are looking upon 
 the Future. Perhaps they look 
 also upon the Past, and therefore 
 smile in happiness, seeing again 
 Youth, and Hope, and Faith, 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 and Trust, which are tender and 
 beautiful things. Life has no 
 actuality of its own, and in 
 material sense is only a con 
 tinual change. But the shadows 
 of thought and of remembrance 
 do not change. It is only the 
 shadows that are real." 
 
 As I pondered upon this, there 
 tf . passed by many pleasant pictures 
 upon the wall, after the way the 
 Singing Mouse had; many 
 pictures of days gone by, which 
 made me think that perhaps 
 what the Singing Mouse had said 
 was true. 
 
 I could see the boy, sitting idle 
 and a -dream, watching the 
 shadows drifting across the clover 
 fields where the big bees came. 
 I saw the youth wandering in 
 the woods where the squirrels 
 lived, loitering and looking, 
 peering into corners full of the 
 secrets of the wild creatures, 
 unraveling the delicious 
 mysteries which Nature ever 
 offers to those not yet grown 
 174 
 
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS. 
 
 old. It was a comfortable 
 picture, full of the brilliant greens 
 of springtime, the mellow tints of 
 summer, the red and russet of 
 autumn days, the blue and white 
 of winter. I could hear, also, 
 sounds intimately associated 
 with the scenes before me ; the 
 bleat of little lambs, the low 
 of cattle, the neighing of a 
 distant horse. And then both 
 sound and scene progressed, and 
 as the woods and hills grew 
 bolder and more wild, I could 
 hear again the rifle's thin report, 
 could note the whisper of the 
 secret-loving paddle, the slipping 
 of the snow-shoe on the snow, 
 the clatter of the hoofs of 
 horses, the baying of the bell- 
 mouthed hounds. The delights 
 of it all came back again, and 
 in this varied phantom chase 
 among the keen joys of the past, 
 I saw as plainly and exultantly 
 as ever in my life, the panorama 
 of the brown woods, and the gray 
 plains, and the purple hills saw 
 
THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES. 
 
 it distinctly, with all the old 
 vibrant joy of youth line for 
 line, sound for sound, shadow for 
 shadow ! 
 
 And then the Singing Mouse, 
 without wish of mine, caused 
 these scenes to change into others 
 of more quiet sort, which told 
 not of the field, but of the home. 
 In the shadows of evening, I 
 seemed to see a pleasant place, 
 well surrounded by trees and 
 flowers, the leaves of which were 
 stirred softly in the breath of a 
 faint summer breeze, strong 
 enough only to carry aloft in its 
 hands the odor of the blooming 
 rose. This picture faded slowly. 
 There were shadows in the spaces 
 between the trees. There were 
 shadows in the dark-growing 
 vine which draped a column. 
 One could only guess if he caught 
 sight of garb or of the outline 
 of a form among the shadows. 
 He could only guess, too, 
 whether he heard music, faint as 
 the breeze, faint as the incense 
 176 
 
THE BELL AND THE SHADOWS. 
 
 of the flowers. He could only 
 guess if he had seen the image 
 of the House Beautiful, that 
 temple known as Home. 
 # # * # * 
 
 ''Thoughts," said the Singing 
 Mouse, softly. <l Thoughts and 
 remembrances. These are the 
 things that live forever. It is 
 only the shadows that are real ! ' ' 
 
 The solemn note of the bell 
 struck in. It counted twelve. 
 The new year had come. The 
 chimes of joy arose. But still 
 the faint music from the Past 
 had not died away, and still the 
 shadows waved and beckoned on 
 the wall, strong and beautiful, 
 and enduring, and not like the 
 fading of a dream. So then I 
 knew that what the Singing 
 Mouse had said was true, and 
 that it is, indeed, only the 
 shadows that are real. 
 
 THE KND. 
 
"There was once a city where these trees 
 now stand." 
 
ED AT THE PRESS OF GEO. E. COLE * CO., CHICAGO, 
 WITH LITTLE PICTURES MADE BY W. S. PHILLIPS, 
 
KE I: A r T f.