The Beast TerribleThumbnailmoonThe BeastTerribleThelittle room was resplendent one night with a fire which flamed and flickered gloriously. It set in motion many shadows which had their home in the corners of the walls, and bade them cease their sullenness and come forth to dance in the riot of the hour. And so each shadow found its partner in a ray of firelight, and there they danced. They danced about the tangled front of the big bison’s head which hung upon the wall. They crossed the grinning skull of the gray wolf. They softened the eyes of the antelope’s head, and made dark lines behind the long-tined antlers of the elk and of the deer. They brought forth toview in alternate eclipse and definition the great, grim bear’s head which hung above the mantel. Every trophy gathered in years of the chase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps forgotten, was brought into evidence, nor could one escape noting each one, and giving to each, for this one night more, the story which belonged to it. I sat and looked upon them all, and so there passed a panorama of the years.“There,” thought I, “is the stag which once fell far in the pine woods of the North. This antelope takes me back to the hard, white Plains. These huge antlers could grow only amid the forests of the Rockies. That wolf—how many of the hounds he mangled, I remember; and the giant bear, it was a good fight he made, perhaps dangerous, had the old rifle there been less sure. Yes, yes, ofcourse, I could recall each incident. Of course, they all were thrilling, exciting, delightful, glorious, all those things. Of course, the heart must have leaped in those days. The blood must have surged, in those moments. The pulse must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads belongs the keenest story?”“I know,” said the Singing Mouse, which unknown to me had come and placed itself upon the table. “I know.” And it climbed upon my arm which lay across the table. The fire shone fairupon its little form, so that in silhouette its outline was delicate and keen as an image cut from the fiery heart of a noble opal stone.“And what is it that you know?” I asked. “Maker of dreams, tell me what you know to-night.”The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the beat of the fire’s rays. I looked at it so closely that a dream came upon my eyes, so that the voice of the Singing Mouse sounded far away and faint, though it was still clear and resonant in its own peculiar way and very fine and sweet.“I will tell you which trophy you most prize,” it said. “I will show you yourIliadof the chase. Do you not remember, do you not see this, the most eventful hunting of all your life?”And so I gazed where the SingingMouse pointed, quite beyond the dusty walls, and there I saw as it had said. I heard not the thunder of the hoofs of buffalo, nor the faint crack of the twig beneath the panther’s foot. I saw not the lurching gallop of the long-jawed wolf, nor the high, elastic bounding of the deer. The level swinging speed of the antelope, the slinking of the lynx, the crashing flight of the wapiti—no, it was none of these that came to mind; nor did the mountains nor the plains, nor the wilderness of the pines. But when the Singing Mouse whispered, “Do you see?” I murmured in reply, “I see it all again!”I saw the small, low hills, well covered with short oaks and hazel bushes, which rolled on away from the village, far out, almost to the Delectable Mountains, which are well known to be upon theedge of the world. Through these low hills a winding road led on, a road whose end no man had ever reached, but which went to places where, no doubt, many wonders were—perhaps even to the Delectable Mountains; for so a wise man once had said, his words harkened to with awe. This was a pleasant road, lined with brave sumacs, with bushes of the wild blackberry, and with small hazel trees which soon would offer fruit for the regular harvest of the fall, this same to be spread for drying on the woodshed roof. It was perhaps wise curiosity as to the crop of nuts which had brought thus far from home these two figures—an enormous distance, perhaps at least a mile beyond what heretofore had been the utmost limit of their wanderings. It was not, perhaps, safe to venture so far. There were known to bestrange 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!rabbitIt was half with fear and half with curiosity that these two wandered on, along this mysterious road, through this wild and unknown wilderness, so far from any habitation of mankind. The zeal of the explorer held them fast. They scarce dared fare farther on, but yet would not turn back. The noises of the woods thrilled them. The sudden clanging note of the jay near by caused them to stop, heart in mouth for the moment. Strange rustlings in the leaves made them cross the road, and step more quickly. Yet the cawing of a crow across the woods seemed friendly, and a small brown birdwhich hopped ahead along the road was intimate and kind, and thus touched the founts of bravery in the two venturous hearts. Certainly they would go on. It was no matter about the sun. This was the valley of Ajalon, perhaps, of which one had heard in the class at Sabbath-school. And surely this was a good, droning, yellow-bodied bee—where did the bees go to when they rose up straight into the air? And this little mouse, what became of it in winter? And—ah! What was that—that awful burst of sound? Clutch closer, little brother, though both be pale! How should either of you yet know the thunderous flight of the wild grouse, this great bird which whirled away through the brown leaves of the oaks? Father must be asked about this tremendous, startling bird. Meantime, the heart having begun to beatagain, let the two adventurers press yet a little farther on.And so, with fears and tremblings, with doubts and joys, through briers and flowers, through hindrances and recompenses, along this crooked, winding, unknown road which led on out into the Unknown, they wandered, as in life we all are wandering to-day.butterflyBut hush! Listen! What is it, this sound, approaching, coming directly toward the road? Surely, it must be the footfall of some large animal, this cadenced rustling on the leaves! It comes—it will cross near—there, it has turned, it is near the road! Look! There it is, a great animal, half the length of one’s arm, with bushy, long red tail arched high for easier running, its grayish coat showing in the bars of sunlight, its eyes bright and black and keen. Had it notbeen said there were wild animals in these woods?Each heart now thumped hard with the surging blood it bore; but it was now the blood of hunters and not of boys. Fear vanished at the sight of the quarry, and the only thought remaining was that of battle and of victory. Well for the animal that it ran—ill for it that it ran down the road and not back into the cover. The bow twanged, the arrow flew—blunt, but keenly sped. Down went the smitten prey! Pæan! Forward! Victory!But ho! the creature rallies—recovers! It gathers its forces, it flies! Pursuit then, but pursuit apparently useless, for the animal has found refuge deep in this hollow stump, beyond the reach of longest mortal arm!Rustle now, ye leaves, and threatennow, all ye boughs with menacings. Roar, grouse, and clamor on, all ye jangling jays. No longer can ye strike terror into these two souls, small though they be. The heart of the hunter has now been born for each. Fear and defeat are known no longer in the compass of their thoughts. Follow, follow, follow! So spake the good old savagery of the natural man. Better for this creature had it never disturbed these two with its footfalls approaching among the leaves. Out of its refuge now must it come. Yea, though one lost a thousand suppers that night, and though a thousand stones lay waiting in the dark along the road to hurt bare, unprotected toes.The sun forgot its part, and sank red, though reluctant, beyond the Delectable Mountains. Thou moon, this is Ajalon! Be kindly, for by moonlight one still maylabor, 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?decorative plantThe elder hunter bethinks him of a solution for this problem. The broken blade will do to gnaw off this bough, and it will serve to make a split in the end of it. And if one be fortunate, and if this split bestride the tail of the concealed animal, and if the stick be twisted—“I’ve got him!” cried this philosopher for his “Eureka.” And then there was twisting and pulling, and scratching and squeaking, and bitten fingers and tears; but after all was over, there lay the squirrel vanquished, at the feet of these young barbarians who had wandered out from home into the unknown lands of earth. Cruel barbarians, thoughtless,relentless! But how much has the world changed?The moon was over Ajalon when these two hunters, after all the perils of the long, black road, marched up into the dooryard, bearing on a pole between them their quarry, well suspended by the gambrels. “My boys, I feared that you were lost!” exclaims the tearful mother who stands waiting in the door. But the silent father, standing back of her in the glow of the lamplight, sees what the pole is bearing, and in his eye there is a smile. After that, motherly reproach, fatherly inquiry, plenteous bread and milk, many eager explanations and much descriptive narrative simultaneously uttered by two mouths eager both to eat and to talk.“I see it all,” I said to the Singing Mouse. “It all comes back again. Nochase was ever or will ever be so great as this one—back there, near the Delectable Mountains, in those days gone by, those incomparable days of youth! I thank you, Singing Mouse; but I beg you do not go for yet a time. The heads upon the wall grin much, and the dust lies thick upon them all.”boy's headThe Passing of MenThumbnailThe Passingof MenOnenight the moon was shining brightly upon the curtain, which had been drawn tight across the window. Within the room the light was dim, so that there could be seen clearly the pictures which the moon was drawing on the curtain, figures which marched, advanced, receded. One might almost have thought these the shadows of some moving boughs, had one not known the ways the moon has at certain times.It chanced that high up in the curtain there was a tiny hole, and through this opening the moonlight streamed, falling upon the table in a small, silvery ellipse,of a size which one might cover ten times with one’s hand. It was natural that in this little well of pale and dreamlike radiance the Singing Mouse should find it fit to manifest itself. I knew not when it came, but as I looked, the spot had found a tenant. The small, transparent paws of the Singing Mouse displayed no shadow as they waved and swung across this pencil of the pale, mysterious light. Yet its eyes shone opaline and brilliant as it sat, so that I could hardly gaze without a shiver of surprise akin to fear, fascinated as though I looked upon a thing unreal. Thus surrounded, almost one might say thus penetrated, by the translucent shaft of radiance which came through the window, the Singing Mouse told me of the figures on the curtain, which now began to have more distinct semblances.“Do you see the figures there?” said the Singing Mouse. “Do you see the marching men? Have you never heard the hoofs ring on the roof when the wind blows high? Have you not seen their ranks sweep swift across the sky when storms arise? Have you never seen them marching through the long aisles of the wood at night? These are the warriors of the past. Now earth has always loved the warriors.”I looked, and indeed it was the truth. There was a panorama on the curtain. History had unrolled her scroll. The warriors of the nations and the times were passing.I saw the men of Babylon, and those who came out of Egypt. Dark were these of hair and visage, and their arms were the ancient bow and spear. And there were those who rode light and castback their rapid archery. These faded, and in their stead marched men close-knit in solid phalanx, with long spears offering impenetrable front. In turn these passed away, and there came men with haughty brow, who bore short spears and swords. Near by these were wild, huge men of yellow hair, whose shields were leather and whose swords were broad and long. And as I gazed at all of these, my blood thrilling strangely at the sight, the figures blended and formed into a splendid procession of a martial day gone by. I saw them—a long stream of mounted men, who rode in helmet and cuirass, and bore each aloft a long-beamed spear. In front rode one whose mien was high and stern, and who might well have been commander. High aloft he tossed his great sword as he rode, and sang the time a song ofdecorative thistle plantwar; and as he sang, the thousands of deep throats behind him made chorus terrible but stirring in its chesty melody, for ictus to the song each warrior smiting sword on shield in a mighty unison whose high, sonorous note thrilled like the voice of actual war. Steady the strong eyes gleamed out and onward as they rode. From the steel-clad breast of each there shone forward a glancing ray of light, as though it came direct from the heart, untamed even by a thousand years of death. My heart leaped to see them ride, so straight and stern and fearless, so goodly, so glorious to look upon. Came the rattle of chain, the clang of arms, the jangle of belt and spur; and still the brave procession passed, in tens, in hundreds, in thousands, in a long wave of stately men, whose eyes shone each in all the bold delight ofwar. Stooped front, hooked hand and avaricious eye—these were as absent as the glow of gold or silver. It was the glorious age of steel.Still on they passed, always arising the hoarse swell of the fighters’ chorus. I heard the rumble of the many hoofs, thrilling even the impassive earth. The spear points shone. The harness rattled. The pennants fluttered stiffly in the breeze. And then afar I heard a sweet, compelling melody, the invitation of the bugle, that dearest mistress of the heart of man. My blood leaped. I started up. I started forward. The sweep of the ranks drew me on and in irresistibly. I would have raised my voice. I sought to stay, if for but one instant, this army of brave men, this panorama of exalted war, this incomparable pageant of a daygone by! It was the Singing Mouse that checked me; for I heard it sigh:“Alas!”And yet again the scene was changed. Across the view streamed yet a long line of warriors. The hair of these did not float yellow from beneath loosened casque, nor indeed did these know aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor to the wooing of the trumpet’s voice. The skins of these were red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they had, and horses, though rude the one and ill-caparisoned the other. Leather and wood, and flint and sinew served them for material. Ill-armed they were; but as they rode, with naked breasts and painted faces, and tall feathers nodding in their plaited hair, out of the eye of each there shone the soulof the fighting man, the warrior, beloved since ever earth began. Not less than the men of Babylon were these, nor than they of the ancient bow and spear, nor than they of the steel-clad breast; and as I saw them naked, clad only in the armor of a man’s fearlessness, the word of commendation was as ready as that of pity.“They are late, Singing Mouse,” said I, “late in the day of war.”“Yes,” said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, “they are late, and they must pass away. But they are warriors of proof, as much as any of those who have passed. Did you not see the melancholy of each face as it looked forward? Their fate was known, yet they rode forward to meet it fearlessly, as brave as any fighting men of all the years. In time, they too shall have their story, and withthe 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.cannon overgrown with plantsThe House of TruthThumbnailThe Houseof TruthOdecorative borderdecorative borderdecorative borderOnemorning I lay upon my bed in the little room which I call my home. Now, among the eaves which rise opposite to my window there are many sparrows which have also made their homes. In the morning, before the sun has arisen, and at the time when the dawn is making the city gray and leaden in color instead of somber and black, these sparrows begin to chatter and chirp and sing in discordant notes, and by this I know the day has come. Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window near mine the voice ofgrief and lamentation. Then I knew that one who had long been sick had passed away. As the gray morning came on, this spirit, this spark of life, had gone out from its accustomed place. As the day came on, the sounds of lamentation arose. The friends of that one wept. So I asked the sparrows, and the sun, and the gray sky why these friends wept. What is grief? I asked of them. Why should these weep? What has happened when one dies? Where has the spark of life gone? Did it fall to these sodden pavements, for ever done, or did it go on up, to meet the kiss of the rising sun? And the sparrows, which fall to the ground, answered not. The sun rose calm and passionless, but dumb. The sky folded in, large but inscrutable. None the less arose the voice of lamentation and of woe.“I ask you, Singing Mouse,” said I, one night as we sat alone, “what is the Truth? How do we reach it? How shall we know it? Tell me of this spark that has gone out. Tell me, what is life, and where does it go? There are many words. Tell me, what is the Truth?”The Singing Mouse gazed at me in its way of pity, so I knew I had asked that which could not be. Yet even as I saw this look appear it changed and vanished. And as the Singing Mouse waved its tiny paw I forbore reflection and looked only on the scene which now was spread before me. It seemed a picture of actual colors, and I could see it plainly.I saw a youth who stood with one older and of austere garb. By the vestments of this older man I knew he was of those who teach people in spiritual things. To him the young man had comein anguish of heart. Then the older man of priestly garb taught the young man in the teachings that had come down to him. But the youth bowed his head in trouble, nor was the cloud cleared upon his heart. I heard him murmur, “Alas! what is the Truth?”So I saw this same youth pass on, in various stages of this picture, and before him I saw drawn, as though in another picture, a panorama of the edifices and institutions of the religions of all lands.But the years passed, and the panorama of beliefs swept by, and no one could tell this man what was the Truth.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 youngman cast himself face down among the cushions of a seat, and there he lay and listened to the music. This, too, I could hear. I could hear the peal of the organ arise like voices of the spirits, going up, up, whispering, appealing, promising, assuring. Then—for I could see and hear with him—there came to that young man when he ceased to seek, the very exaltation he had longed to know.“Ah! yes, Singing Mouse,” I said, “it was very beautiful. But music is not final. Music is not the Truth. Tell me of these things.”The Singing Mouse again seemed to hesitate. “It may be,” said the Singing Mouse slowly, “that the Truth will never be found between the covers of any book, no matter how wise. It may be that it never will be found by any who searchfor it always within walls built by human hands. It may be that no man can convey to another that which is the Truth to him. It may be that the Truth can never be grasped, never be weighed or formulated.“The ways of Nature are always the same, but Nature does not ask exactness of form. Why, then, shall we ask exactness of faith? The true faith is nothing final, not more than are final the carved stones of the church which offers it so strenuously. The stones crumble and decay, but new churches rise. New faiths will rise. But were not all well?”At these things I wondered, and over them I thought for a time, but yet I did not understand all that the Singing Mouse had said. As if it knew my thought, the Singing Mouse said to me:“Your vision is too narrow. You seekthe great truths in small places, and wonder that you do not find them. Come with me.”The Singing Mouse waved its hand, as was its wont, and as in a dream and as though I were now the young man whom we had lately seen, I was transported, by what means I could not tell, into a place far distant. At first it seemed to me there was a figure in vestments, speaking I scarce knew of what. Again there was a church or a cathedral. I could see the rafters as I lay. I could hear the solemn and exalted peal of the organ. I could hear voices that sang up and up, thrilling, compelling.The sense of the confinement of the building ceased. Insensibly I seemed to see the hewn stones of the walls assume their primeval and untouched state beneath the grasses of the hills. I could feelthe rafters vanishing and going back into the bodies of the oaks in which they originally grew. The voice of the organ remained with me, but it might have been the roll of the waves upon the shore. I was in the Temple. In the Temple, one needs not seek for names.It was night. I lay upon a bank of sweet-smelling grasses, and about me were the great oaks. The organ, or the waves, spoke on. I looked up, up, into the great circle of the sky, so far, so blue, so kind in its bending over, so pitying it seemed to me, yet so high in its up-reaching. I looked upon the glorious pageant of the stars.“That star,” thought I, “shone over the grave of some ancestor of mine; back, back in the unmirrored past, some father of some father of mine. He is gone, like a fly. He is dust. I may belying on his grave. Soon, like a fly, I, too, shall be dead, gone, turned into dust. But the star will still shine on. Small as that father’s dust may be, that dust still lives. It is about me. This grass, these trees, may hold it. He has lived again in the cycle of natural forces. My dust, when I am dead, will in turn make part of this world, one of an unknown sea of stars. Small then, as I am, I am kin to that star. The stars go on. Nature goes on. Then shall man—shall I—”“Ah,” said the Singing Mouse, its voice sounding I knew not whence; “from this place can you see?”So now I thought I began to see what I had not seen before. And since this was in the land of the Singing Mouse, I sought to find no name for what I saw, nor tried to measure it. What one man sees is not what another sees. Shallone 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.face reflected in waterWhere the City WentThumbnailmoonWhere theCity WentOneday there was a white frost that fell upon the city, lasting for many hours, so that a strange thing happened, at which men wondered very much. The city put aside its colors of black and brown and gray, and dressed itself in silvery white. No stone nor brick was seen except in this silvern frosty color. All the spires were glittering in silver, and all the columns bore traceries as though the hands of spirits had labored long and delicately and had seen their tender fretwork frozen softly but for ever into silver. The gross city had put aside corporeal things, and for once its spirit shone fair and radiant; so thatmen said no such thing had ever been before.That evening the frost still remained, and as the night came on a mist fell upon the city. From the windows men looked out, and lo! the beautiful city so made spiritual was vanishing. One by one the great buildings, the tall spires, the lofty columns had faded into a white dream, dimmer, fainter, less and less perceptible, seen through a gentle envelope of whitening haze. This thing was of a sort almost to make one tremble as he looked upon it, for the city which had been silver had turned to mist, and the mist seemed fair to turn into a dream. There are those who say it did become a dream, and afterward descended. For wanderers in desert countries tell that at times they have seen some far city ofdreams, alluringly beautiful, but evanescent, intangible, unattainable, trembling and floating upon the wavering air.Now when I saw the city thus fade away and disappear, I sat down at my table, and, as many men did that night, I wondered much at what I had seen. For surely the soul of the city had arisen. Then the Singing Mouse came and gazed into my face.“What you have seen is true,” said the Singing Mouse. “There is no city now. It has gone. You have seen it disappear. Its soul has arisen. This does not often happen, yet it can be, for even the city has a soul if you can find it.“But if I say the city has gone, I mean only that it has left the place where once it was. That which once was, is always, corporate or not corporate. We err onlywhen we ask to see all with our eyes, to balance all within our hands. Come with me, and I will show you where the city went.”So now the Singing Mouse waved its hands, and I saw, though I knew not where I looked.I saw a country where the trees grew big and where the wild-fowl came. It was where the trees had never been felled, nor had the stones ever been hewn. The sky was blue, and the water was blue, except where it played and laughed, and there it was white.There was a small house, of a sort one has never seen, for none in the cities is like it. The blue smoke curling from the chimney named it none the less a home. I hardly knew what time or place we had come upon, for the Singing Mouse, whose voice seemed high andexalted, spoke as though much was in the past.“This is a Home,” said the Singing Mouse. “Once there were no homes. In those days there was only one fire, and it was red. By this man sat. He sought not to see.“Once a man sat at night and looked up at the heavens, seeking to know what the stars were saying. He besought the stars, praying to them and asking them to listen to the voice of the water, and to the voice of the oaks and to the whispers of the grasses, and to tell him why the fire of earth was red, while the fire of the stars was white.“Now, while this man besought the stars, to him a strange thing happened. As he looked up he saw falling from the heavens above him a ray of the white light of the stars. It fell near to himand lay shining like a jewel in the grass. To this the man ran at once, gladly, and took up the white light, and put it in his bosom, that the winds might not harm it. Always this man kept the white light in his bosom after that. And by its light he saw many things which till that time men had never known. This man found that this new light, with the red light that had been known, filled all his house with a great radiance, so that small strifes were not so many, and so that life became plain and sweet. This then that you see is that Home.“This that you see around you,” it continued slowly, “the large trees and the green grass, and the blue sky and the smiling waters, all this is wealth; wealth not corporate, wealth valuable, wealth that belongs to every man ever born upon the earth, and which can not ofright 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.”flying geeseThen as I looked, there stepped from the house a man, or one whom I took to be a man. This man stood in the cool, fresh morning, and gazed at the sun, now rising above the tops of the great trees. He smiled gently, and taking in each hand a little water from a tiny stream that flowed near by, he raised his hands, and still smiling, offered tribute of the water to the sun. I saw the water fallingdown from his hands in a small stream of silver drops, shining brightly. It was the way of the land, the Singing Mouse said; for they thought that as the water came from the sky and returned to it, so did man and the thoughts of man, and the fruits of his progress; never to be destroyed.At all this I looked almost in fear, for the thought came that perhaps this was not Man as we knew him, but the successor of Man. “Where is this land,” I asked of the Singing Mouse, “and what is this time upon which we have come?”The Singing Mouse looked at the green trees, and at the kind sun, and at the blue sky and the pleasant waters, and it said to me slowly: “There was once a city where these trees now stand.”The Bell and the ShadowsThumbnailThe Bell andthe ShadowsMelodyunformulate, music immaterial, such was the voice of the Singing Mouse; faint, small and clear, a piping of fifes so fine, a touching of strings so delicate, that it seemed to come from instruments of beryl and of diamond, a phantom music, impossible to fetter with staff or bar, and past the hope of compassing in words.It was the last night of the year, and the bell upon the church near by had made many strokes the last time it had been heard; many heavy strokes which throbbed sullenly, mournfully on the air. The presence of passing Time was at hand. The year soon would join theyears gone by. Regret, remorse, despair, abandonment, the hopelessness of humanity—was it the breath of these which arose and burdened heavily the note of the chronicling bell? Where were the chimes of joy?“These shadows that you see are not upon the wall,” said the Singing Mouse. “They are very much beyond the windows. If only we will look out from our windows, there are always great pictures waiting for us—pictures in pearl and opal, in liquid argent, in crimson and gold. But always there must be the shadows. Without these, there can be no picture anywhere.“Have you not seen what the shadows do? Have you not seen them trooping through the oak forest in the evening, through the pine forest in open day,across the prairies under the moon at night, legions of them, armies of them? Have you never seen them march across the grass-lands in the daytime, cohort after cohort, hurrying to the call of the unseen trumpets? In the woods, have you never heard strange sounds, when you put your ear to the ground—sounds untraceable to any animate life? Have you never heard vague voices in the trees? Have you not heard distant, mysterious noises in the forest, whose cause you could never learn, seek no matter how you might? These were the voices of the shadows, the people who live there. Who else should it be to whisper and sing to you and make you happy when you are there? Without these people, what would be the woods, the prairies, the waters, the sky, the world?“Without the shadows, too, whatwould be our lives? Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances, what have we that is sweeter than these? Have you never seen the smile upon the lips of those who have died? They say they are looking upon the Future. Perhaps they look also upon the Past, and therefore smile in happiness, seeing again Youth, and Hope, and Faith, and Trust; which are tender and beautiful things. Life has no actuality of its own, and in material sense is only a continual change. But the shadows of thought and of remembrance do not change. It is only the shadows that are real.”As I pondered upon this, there passed by many pleasant pictures upon the wall, after the way the Singing Mouse had; many pictures of days gone by, which made me think that perhaps what the Singing Mouse had said was true.I could see the boy, sitting idle and a-dream, watching the shadows drifting across the clover fields where the big bees came. I saw the youth wandering in the woods where the squirrels lived, loitering and looking, peering into corners full of the secrets of the wild creatures, unraveling the delicious mysteries which Nature ever offers to those not yet grown old. It was a comfortable picture, full of the brilliant greens of springtime, the mellow tints of summer, the red and russet of autumn days, the blue and white of winter. I could hear, also, sounds intimately associated with the scenes before me; the bleat of little lambs, the low of cattle, the neighing of a distant horse.And then both sound and scene progressed, and once more as the woods and hills grew bolder and more wild, Icould hear clearly the rifle’s thin report, could note the whisper of the secret-loving paddle, the slipping of the snow-shoe on the snow, the clatter of the hoofs of horses, the baying of the bell-mouthed hounds. The delights of it all came back again, and in this varied phantom chase among the keen joys of the past, I saw as plainly and exultantly as ever in my life, the panorama of the brown woods, and the gray plains, and the purple hills—saw it distinctly, with all the old vibrant joy of youth—line for line, sound for sound, shadow for shadow, joy for joy!And then the Singing Mouse, without wish of mine, caused these scenes to change into others of more quiet sort, which told not of the fields, but of the home. In the shadows of evening, I seemed to see a pleasant place, well surrounded by trees and flowers, the leavesof which were stirred softly in the breath of a faint summer breeze, strong enough only to carry aloft in its hands the odor of the blooming rose. This picture faded slowly. There were shadows in the spaces between the trees. There were shadows in the dark-growing vine which draped a column. One could only guess if he caught sight of garb or of the outline of a form among the shadows. He could only guess, too, whether he heard music, faint as the breeze, faint as the incense of the flowers. He could only guess if he had seen the image of the House Beautiful, that temple known as Home.“Thoughts,” said the Singing Mouse softly. “Thoughts and remembrances. These are the things that live for ever. It is only the shadows that are real!”The solemn note of the bell struck in. It counted twelve. The new year had come. The chimes of joy arose. But still the faint music from the Past had not died away, and still the shadows waved and beckoned on the wall, strong and beautiful, and enduring, and not like the fading of a dream. So then I knew that what the Singing Mouse had said was true, and that it is, indeed, only the shadows that are real.crescent moonOf the Greatest Sorrow...ThumbnailOf the GreatestSorrowAdecorative borderdecorative borderdecorative borderAthousand times in the night I reach out (it seems to me), and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark. A thousand times in the night I gaze upon her face, her eyes shielded, her lips gently closed and curved. A thousand times in the night (it seems to me), I bend above her and whisper, “I love you!” And she, though asleep and myriads of miles away among the stars, hears me always and stirs just faintly, and still sleeping whispers through lips that barely part, “I know!” It is perhaps that thing called Love which causes me to do this, because I always whisper, “I love you;” though no word quite iswide and deep and soft and kind enough to say what is in the soul at certain times.Now in lives there are ways. Some have few sorrows and many things of fortune taken lightly, the things wished coming easily. Again, others gain only by pain and suffering and long effort and hard denyings. As it is decreed by chance, the way with most is to gain all things hardly, and to know always denial, and always to have longing. That is the way with most. Of these things I spoke with the Singing Mouse, and told of many things that came as sorrows and griefs and denials, saying that, since this was decreed by chance, there was naught that a man ought not to receive without murmur; and the Singing Mouse said that this was true, that many things were denied, and that many knew great sorrows.This was the reason we came to speak of sorrows. I named very many sorrows that I had known, and many that friends of mine had known, some of these far greater than my own; as is most often the case when one comes to see deeply into these things.“All sorrows,” said the Singing Mouse, “come to us, and we must bear them, though some are very hard to bear; as when friends do not know we love them, and think us ill-formed and crooked, small and mean, when in truth in soul we are tall and comely, large and strong. Or when we are thought to have done a bad action when in truth we have done a good one; or when hunger and thirst come and we have little comforts; or when sickness and weakness come to us when we wish our strength; or when those die whom we have loved. All, allthese sorrows, and very many others, come to us; and each sorrow must be borne, for that is the way of life.”“What,” I asked of the Singing Mouse, “is the greatest sorrow?”“That,” said the Singing Mouse, “is a thing hard to tell; for each man thinks that the sorrow that he has is the greatest sorrow for him or for the world; though perhaps in truth it is not large. What to you,” asked the Singing Mouse, “is the greatest sorrow of those which have not yet come to you?”... “A thousand times in the night, Singing Mouse,” said I, “I reach out and touch her hair, as it lies spread and dark. I whisper to her, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars; and she hears; and she answers! This is because of that thing called Love. Now, this sorrow has not yet come to me; that whenI reach out my hand in the night I shall not touch her hair; that when I bend to kiss her sleeping she shall not be there any more; that when I whisper to her she may no longer answer to me, seeing that this thing called Love can be no more between us. That,” said I to the Singing Mouse, “I could not endure.”Indeed, at the thought of this, so sharp an agony came to me that I arose and cried out loud. “I can not endure it, I can not endure it!” I cried (although this sorrow had not yet come to me).“Ah!” said the Singing Mouse, “how idle and weak is the human mind in the country where you live. Have you not said but now that, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars, she answers you when you whisper? Does she not hear? Do not her lips move in speech as you whisper?”“That is true,” said I. “And will she always hear?”“She will always hear,” said the Singing Mouse. “So this sorrow will not come as you fear.”“And shall I reach out and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark?” This I asked of the Singing Mouse.“You shall touch it, spread and dark, and fragrant as when you were young,” said the Singing Mouse, “if so you wish.”So then it seemed that perhaps all sorrows, even very great ones, are a part of life. Although I know that, if I could no longer know the fragrance of her hair, or hear the whisper of her answer, then that sorrow would be more than I could bear.heart, roses and thornsThe Shoes of the PrincessThumbnailThe Shoes of thePrincessOnceI was in a place where there were those who had opened many tombs, and had taken from the tombs, that had been in Egypt, and were very old, many things that had been placed there for silence and repose thousands of years ago. There were grave-clothes and grave-caskets, the one embroidered, the other graven; and the colors of both were as they were thousands of years ago. There were signs over which men pondered, not knowing their own writing, and their own thoughts, and their own fate. There were also, a sad thing to see, the bodies of those that had died long ago, that had lain down for restand silence; and of these some were called kings, and some were called queens and others princesses; and all had once been young, and some had once been beautiful. For here, after thousands of years, was praise of their beauty, and love and care for it. So I pondered very long and sadly. But most I looked at two little golden shoes.These little shoes had once been the shoes of one who lay here, a princess, dead thousands of years, and once very beautiful, as these carven symbols told. They were small and dainty and threaded with fine gold, and laced across with care about the feet of her who was once a woman and a princess and owner of much beauty, and who was in her life beloved, and in her death mourned; as these graven symbols said. A thousand years this love reached out its arms toher to-day; although for a thousand years Death had enfolded her in his grasp, that does not yield. She who had lain down for rest and silence was still here, withal at rest in her grave-garb, and silent in her sleep; but those who had done these things had removed the grave-clothing so that these small shoes could be seen, still upon the feet of the princess that had slept a thousand years, enfolded in love.For a price these might have sold the shoes of the princess, for there were those cruel enough to strip her of that which she had worn when she lay down to be alone. But this I could not do. I did not carry away the shoes in my hands, but in some way it seemed to me that I took them; for that night, as I sat at the little table in my room, with the dim light falling as is its wont at those hours, I saw upon the table before methese same shoes of the princess of thousands of years ago, small and golden; things to make one weep, so sad their story, disturbed thus after they had been placed away for silence. I gazed at them for a time, and presently I saw appear upon the table beside them, the form of the Singing Mouse, as tall perhaps as the fronts of these golden shoes.“See,” said the Singing Mouse, “here are her shoes, those of the princess who has been resting. They crossed the paved floors of palaces. They knew the steps of a throne. They were made by love for love and given in love to rest and silence. She was as one you have known, as many whom others know now. Tell me, is she not beautiful?”I saw standing before me the figure of the princess, tall and slender and very beautiful. And now the grave garmentswere not seen, for her robe was of silk, new and soft and shapely like to herself, and her arms were round and soft, and her eyes were full and dark, and her hair was as deep shadows. A band of gold was about her brow, and her cheek was red and tender in its bloom. Her neck was white and round, and her hands were white, and her slender fingers curved slightly as her arms hung down by her sides. Her feet were small and straight, and all, all of her was beautiful, and she was a princess.decorative plantNow as I gazed, I saw the face and saw that it was one I knew, and had known long; so then I knew that the princess who was placed away for rest and silence had never died; for did she not stand here before me, and had I not long known her thus? Ah, beautiful!I took up these small golden shoes inmy hands and held them out to her. “Take these little shoes,” I said, “wrought as cunning as man may know. Place them upon thy feet for me, and may never thorn assail thee in all thy going. Wear them and tread the steps of thrones, years and years, ages and ages, Princess, beloved! See, they are wrought in love.”Now I saw upon the lips of the princess who had lain down thousands of years ago, but who lives in a place I know to-day, a smile, very faint and far away. So as the Singing Mouse told me, it was to be seen that she did not die. Even as she faded away from the wall against which she stood, I knew, though I wept, that the princess was not dead and would not die. She was beautiful, she was beloved; and these things have not died. “Ah, beautiful!” I said to theSinging Mouse. “But alas! for a princess there should be a palace, and here is none!”“Look about you,” said the Singing Mouse. “See, for the time this is a palace.”I looked about me, and it was as the Singing Mouse said. For the time my room was a palace. I saw standing there again the princess, upon her feet small golden shoes.“What is this?” I asked. “And who am I?” But as I turned, I saw that the Singing Mouse was gone. But this I knew, and so may you know: that love does not die; and here was proof of it.light sandalsOf White MothsThumbnailOf WhiteMoths“Once,” said the Singing Mouse, “I was at the side of a little stream. Grasses grew all about, and small plants and flowers. Beyond the shores of the little stream arose a forest, wide and dark, into which the eye could reach but a little way.“As I stood near the little stream, there arose from the grass and flowers two small moths, soft and dainty, beautiful, and very white, covered also with a white dust or powder which was so light that did they but receive a touch they must lose some of this soft white powderand so be injured, so gentle and tender were they.“These two moths, soft and white and silent, arose in the air and circled one about the other, rising for a time, then falling, but ever circling one about the other. It seemed that perhaps they spoke one to the other, but if that were true it was in speech so small that not even I could hear it. They passed over the tops of the grasses and flowers, up and up, until they reached the tops of the trees, where they seemed very small.“I do not know why these moths no longer cared for the grasses and flowers. But I saw them, circling, cross over the little stream, high in the air, and then pass on directly into the wide dark forest. For a moment they appeared, a small spot of white, against the black shadows of the forest across the stream; then they wenton, straight into the shadows, until I could no longer see this small spot of white they made.“It is in this way,” said the Singing Mouse, “that human souls pass through life. To me, who can see them, they look small and delicate and white; and they circle one about another; and they pass on, into the deep forest.”The House of DreamsThumbnailThe Houseof Dreams“Udecorative borderdecorative borderUponwhat couch,” I asked the Singing Mouse, “may one have the most noble dreams?”The Singing Mouse sat for a time and looked at me with its bright eye, and it seemed to me that the walls opened and widened. I saw that I was within a great palace, whose walls were hung in tapestries, and whose doors were of golden panelings, and whose windows were of curious crystals, and whose furnishings were rich and wonderful, and around whose stately limits swam wide gardens of strange flowers, full of deep perfumes. I heard soft voices of birdsand the music also of gentle human voices singing, and tenderly played instruments of silken and silvern strings. It seemed to me that I lay upon a great couch of thrice-piled down, and touched hands with delights in all manners that one could think. But alas! I did not dream as I lay upon this couch.Then I saw these walls fade away in turn, and in their stead arose a vast cathedral of the woods. A music was in the trees, and a solemn mountain stood as orator to the sky for me. My couch was that of the earth and the leaves, and my jewels were upon the grasses all about. I touched hands with delights; and so I dreamed, and was very happy and content.Again the place changed, and I lay in my own small room, with naked walls and little cheer or comfort, as you maysee. The couch was hard and narrow, and that which covered it over was worn and threadbare, and by no means cloth of woven silk and golden tracery. But it seemed to me that upon the walls were pictures. And here and there were shadows of things which I had wished—many things, very sweet and precious. Upon this couch, as upon that of the earth, it seemed to me that I dreamed....“There were once some leaves and grasses in this couch,” said the Singing Mouse, “and that is why you dreamed. Around this manner of resting-place often arises the House of Dreams, and not, as many have supposed, about the couch of down and silken tapestries. Always, near a House of Dreams, must be a mountain or a sea, and trees, and grasses, with the sky also, and the stars, which are the candles of our dreamhouses. See, you had not noticed it, but there is a star in your candle.”I looked, and it was as the Singing Mouse had said. A star was at the candle top. By its light I could dream nobly, and many things seemed true which have not yet come true when the star in the candle does not shine. But they are true in the land of the Singing Mouse. In that country it is not palaces alone that are Houses of Dreams. I know this thing is true. Wherefore, all ye who have come hither, let your hope and your joy be strong; and by no means despair, for better than despair are hope and joy.stump of candle in candlestick
The Beast Terrible
moon
Thelittle room was resplendent one night with a fire which flamed and flickered gloriously. It set in motion many shadows which had their home in the corners of the walls, and bade them cease their sullenness and come forth to dance in the riot of the hour. And so each shadow found its partner in a ray of firelight, and there they danced. They danced about the tangled front of the big bison’s head which hung upon the wall. They crossed the grinning skull of the gray wolf. They softened the eyes of the antelope’s head, and made dark lines behind the long-tined antlers of the elk and of the deer. They brought forth toview in alternate eclipse and definition the great, grim bear’s head which hung above the mantel. Every trophy gathered in years of the chase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps forgotten, was brought into evidence, nor could one escape noting each one, and giving to each, for this one night more, the story which belonged to it. I sat and looked upon them all, and so there passed a panorama of the years.
“There,” thought I, “is the stag which once fell far in the pine woods of the North. This antelope takes me back to the hard, white Plains. These huge antlers could grow only amid the forests of the Rockies. That wolf—how many of the hounds he mangled, I remember; and the giant bear, it was a good fight he made, perhaps dangerous, had the old rifle there been less sure. Yes, yes, ofcourse, I could recall each incident. Of course, they all were thrilling, exciting, delightful, glorious, all those things. Of course, the heart must have leaped in those days. The blood must have surged, in those moments. The pulse must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads belongs the keenest story?”
“I know,” said the Singing Mouse, which unknown to me had come and placed itself upon the table. “I know.” And it climbed upon my arm which lay across the table. The fire shone fairupon its little form, so that in silhouette its outline was delicate and keen as an image cut from the fiery heart of a noble opal stone.
“And what is it that you know?” I asked. “Maker of dreams, tell me what you know to-night.”
The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the beat of the fire’s rays. I looked at it so closely that a dream came upon my eyes, so that the voice of the Singing Mouse sounded far away and faint, though it was still clear and resonant in its own peculiar way and very fine and sweet.
“I will tell you which trophy you most prize,” it said. “I will show you yourIliadof the chase. Do you not remember, do you not see this, the most eventful hunting of all your life?”
And so I gazed where the SingingMouse pointed, quite beyond the dusty walls, and there I saw as it had said. I heard not the thunder of the hoofs of buffalo, nor the faint crack of the twig beneath the panther’s foot. I saw not the lurching gallop of the long-jawed wolf, nor the high, elastic bounding of the deer. The level swinging speed of the antelope, the slinking of the lynx, the crashing flight of the wapiti—no, it was none of these that came to mind; nor did the mountains nor the plains, nor the wilderness of the pines. But when the Singing Mouse whispered, “Do you see?” I murmured in reply, “I see it all again!”
I saw the small, low hills, well covered with short oaks and hazel bushes, which rolled on away from the village, far out, almost to the Delectable Mountains, which are well known to be upon theedge of the world. Through these low hills a winding road led on, a road whose end no man had ever reached, but which went to places where, no doubt, many wonders were—perhaps even to the Delectable Mountains; for so a wise man once had said, his words harkened to with awe. This was a pleasant road, lined with brave sumacs, with bushes of the wild blackberry, and with small hazel trees which soon would offer fruit for the regular harvest of the fall, this same to be spread for drying on the woodshed roof. It was perhaps wise curiosity as to the crop of nuts which had brought thus far from home these two figures—an enormous distance, perhaps at least a mile beyond what heretofore had been the utmost limit of their wanderings. It was not, perhaps, safe to venture so far. There were known to bestrange 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!
rabbit
It was half with fear and half with curiosity that these two wandered on, along this mysterious road, through this wild and unknown wilderness, so far from any habitation of mankind. The zeal of the explorer held them fast. They scarce dared fare farther on, but yet would not turn back. The noises of the woods thrilled them. The sudden clanging note of the jay near by caused them to stop, heart in mouth for the moment. Strange rustlings in the leaves made them cross the road, and step more quickly. Yet the cawing of a crow across the woods seemed friendly, and a small brown birdwhich hopped ahead along the road was intimate and kind, and thus touched the founts of bravery in the two venturous hearts. Certainly they would go on. It was no matter about the sun. This was the valley of Ajalon, perhaps, of which one had heard in the class at Sabbath-school. And surely this was a good, droning, yellow-bodied bee—where did the bees go to when they rose up straight into the air? And this little mouse, what became of it in winter? And—ah! What was that—that awful burst of sound? Clutch closer, little brother, though both be pale! How should either of you yet know the thunderous flight of the wild grouse, this great bird which whirled away through the brown leaves of the oaks? Father must be asked about this tremendous, startling bird. Meantime, the heart having begun to beatagain, let the two adventurers press yet a little farther on.
And so, with fears and tremblings, with doubts and joys, through briers and flowers, through hindrances and recompenses, along this crooked, winding, unknown road which led on out into the Unknown, they wandered, as in life we all are wandering to-day.
butterfly
But hush! Listen! What is it, this sound, approaching, coming directly toward the road? Surely, it must be the footfall of some large animal, this cadenced rustling on the leaves! It comes—it will cross near—there, it has turned, it is near the road! Look! There it is, a great animal, half the length of one’s arm, with bushy, long red tail arched high for easier running, its grayish coat showing in the bars of sunlight, its eyes bright and black and keen. Had it notbeen said there were wild animals in these woods?
Each heart now thumped hard with the surging blood it bore; but it was now the blood of hunters and not of boys. Fear vanished at the sight of the quarry, and the only thought remaining was that of battle and of victory. Well for the animal that it ran—ill for it that it ran down the road and not back into the cover. The bow twanged, the arrow flew—blunt, but keenly sped. Down went the smitten prey! Pæan! Forward! Victory!
But ho! the creature rallies—recovers! It gathers its forces, it flies! Pursuit then, but pursuit apparently useless, for the animal has found refuge deep in this hollow stump, beyond the reach of longest mortal arm!
Rustle now, ye leaves, and threatennow, all ye boughs with menacings. Roar, grouse, and clamor on, all ye jangling jays. No longer can ye strike terror into these two souls, small though they be. The heart of the hunter has now been born for each. Fear and defeat are known no longer in the compass of their thoughts. Follow, follow, follow! So spake the good old savagery of the natural man. Better for this creature had it never disturbed these two with its footfalls approaching among the leaves. Out of its refuge now must it come. Yea, though one lost a thousand suppers that night, and though a thousand stones lay waiting in the dark along the road to hurt bare, unprotected toes.
The sun forgot its part, and sank red, though reluctant, beyond the Delectable Mountains. Thou moon, this is Ajalon! Be kindly, for by moonlight one still maylabor, 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?
decorative plant
The elder hunter bethinks him of a solution for this problem. The broken blade will do to gnaw off this bough, and it will serve to make a split in the end of it. And if one be fortunate, and if this split bestride the tail of the concealed animal, and if the stick be twisted—
“I’ve got him!” cried this philosopher for his “Eureka.” And then there was twisting and pulling, and scratching and squeaking, and bitten fingers and tears; but after all was over, there lay the squirrel vanquished, at the feet of these young barbarians who had wandered out from home into the unknown lands of earth. Cruel barbarians, thoughtless,relentless! But how much has the world changed?
The moon was over Ajalon when these two hunters, after all the perils of the long, black road, marched up into the dooryard, bearing on a pole between them their quarry, well suspended by the gambrels. “My boys, I feared that you were lost!” exclaims the tearful mother who stands waiting in the door. But the silent father, standing back of her in the glow of the lamplight, sees what the pole is bearing, and in his eye there is a smile. After that, motherly reproach, fatherly inquiry, plenteous bread and milk, many eager explanations and much descriptive narrative simultaneously uttered by two mouths eager both to eat and to talk.
“I see it all,” I said to the Singing Mouse. “It all comes back again. Nochase was ever or will ever be so great as this one—back there, near the Delectable Mountains, in those days gone by, those incomparable days of youth! I thank you, Singing Mouse; but I beg you do not go for yet a time. The heads upon the wall grin much, and the dust lies thick upon them all.”
boy's head
The Passing of Men
Onenight the moon was shining brightly upon the curtain, which had been drawn tight across the window. Within the room the light was dim, so that there could be seen clearly the pictures which the moon was drawing on the curtain, figures which marched, advanced, receded. One might almost have thought these the shadows of some moving boughs, had one not known the ways the moon has at certain times.
It chanced that high up in the curtain there was a tiny hole, and through this opening the moonlight streamed, falling upon the table in a small, silvery ellipse,of a size which one might cover ten times with one’s hand. It was natural that in this little well of pale and dreamlike radiance the Singing Mouse should find it fit to manifest itself. I knew not when it came, but as I looked, the spot had found a tenant. The small, transparent paws of the Singing Mouse displayed no shadow as they waved and swung across this pencil of the pale, mysterious light. Yet its eyes shone opaline and brilliant as it sat, so that I could hardly gaze without a shiver of surprise akin to fear, fascinated as though I looked upon a thing unreal. Thus surrounded, almost one might say thus penetrated, by the translucent shaft of radiance which came through the window, the Singing Mouse told me of the figures on the curtain, which now began to have more distinct semblances.
“Do you see the figures there?” said the Singing Mouse. “Do you see the marching men? Have you never heard the hoofs ring on the roof when the wind blows high? Have you not seen their ranks sweep swift across the sky when storms arise? Have you never seen them marching through the long aisles of the wood at night? These are the warriors of the past. Now earth has always loved the warriors.”
I looked, and indeed it was the truth. There was a panorama on the curtain. History had unrolled her scroll. The warriors of the nations and the times were passing.
I saw the men of Babylon, and those who came out of Egypt. Dark were these of hair and visage, and their arms were the ancient bow and spear. And there were those who rode light and castback their rapid archery. These faded, and in their stead marched men close-knit in solid phalanx, with long spears offering impenetrable front. In turn these passed away, and there came men with haughty brow, who bore short spears and swords. Near by these were wild, huge men of yellow hair, whose shields were leather and whose swords were broad and long. And as I gazed at all of these, my blood thrilling strangely at the sight, the figures blended and formed into a splendid procession of a martial day gone by. I saw them—a long stream of mounted men, who rode in helmet and cuirass, and bore each aloft a long-beamed spear. In front rode one whose mien was high and stern, and who might well have been commander. High aloft he tossed his great sword as he rode, and sang the time a song ofdecorative thistle plantwar; and as he sang, the thousands of deep throats behind him made chorus terrible but stirring in its chesty melody, for ictus to the song each warrior smiting sword on shield in a mighty unison whose high, sonorous note thrilled like the voice of actual war. Steady the strong eyes gleamed out and onward as they rode. From the steel-clad breast of each there shone forward a glancing ray of light, as though it came direct from the heart, untamed even by a thousand years of death. My heart leaped to see them ride, so straight and stern and fearless, so goodly, so glorious to look upon. Came the rattle of chain, the clang of arms, the jangle of belt and spur; and still the brave procession passed, in tens, in hundreds, in thousands, in a long wave of stately men, whose eyes shone each in all the bold delight ofwar. Stooped front, hooked hand and avaricious eye—these were as absent as the glow of gold or silver. It was the glorious age of steel.
Still on they passed, always arising the hoarse swell of the fighters’ chorus. I heard the rumble of the many hoofs, thrilling even the impassive earth. The spear points shone. The harness rattled. The pennants fluttered stiffly in the breeze. And then afar I heard a sweet, compelling melody, the invitation of the bugle, that dearest mistress of the heart of man. My blood leaped. I started up. I started forward. The sweep of the ranks drew me on and in irresistibly. I would have raised my voice. I sought to stay, if for but one instant, this army of brave men, this panorama of exalted war, this incomparable pageant of a daygone by! It was the Singing Mouse that checked me; for I heard it sigh:
“Alas!”
And yet again the scene was changed. Across the view streamed yet a long line of warriors. The hair of these did not float yellow from beneath loosened casque, nor indeed did these know aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor to the wooing of the trumpet’s voice. The skins of these were red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they had, and horses, though rude the one and ill-caparisoned the other. Leather and wood, and flint and sinew served them for material. Ill-armed they were; but as they rode, with naked breasts and painted faces, and tall feathers nodding in their plaited hair, out of the eye of each there shone the soulof the fighting man, the warrior, beloved since ever earth began. Not less than the men of Babylon were these, nor than they of the ancient bow and spear, nor than they of the steel-clad breast; and as I saw them naked, clad only in the armor of a man’s fearlessness, the word of commendation was as ready as that of pity.
“They are late, Singing Mouse,” said I, “late in the day of war.”
“Yes,” said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, “they are late, and they must pass away. But they are warriors of proof, as much as any of those who have passed. Did you not see the melancholy of each face as it looked forward? Their fate was known, yet they rode forward to meet it fearlessly, as brave as any fighting men of all the years. In time, they too shall have their story, and withthe 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.
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The House of Truth
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Onemorning I lay upon my bed in the little room which I call my home. Now, among the eaves which rise opposite to my window there are many sparrows which have also made their homes. In the morning, before the sun has arisen, and at the time when the dawn is making the city gray and leaden in color instead of somber and black, these sparrows begin to chatter and chirp and sing in discordant notes, and by this I know the day has come. Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window near mine the voice ofgrief and lamentation. Then I knew that one who had long been sick had passed away. As the gray morning came on, this spirit, this spark of life, had gone out from its accustomed place. As the day came on, the sounds of lamentation arose. The friends of that one wept. So I asked the sparrows, and the sun, and the gray sky why these friends wept. What is grief? I asked of them. Why should these weep? What has happened when one dies? Where has the spark of life gone? Did it fall to these sodden pavements, for ever done, or did it go on up, to meet the kiss of the rising sun? And the sparrows, which fall to the ground, answered not. The sun rose calm and passionless, but dumb. The sky folded in, large but inscrutable. None the less arose the voice of lamentation and of woe.
“I ask you, Singing Mouse,” said I, one night as we sat alone, “what is the Truth? How do we reach it? How shall we know it? Tell me of this spark that has gone out. Tell me, what is life, and where does it go? There are many words. Tell me, what is the Truth?”
The Singing Mouse gazed at me in its way of pity, so I knew I had asked that which could not be. Yet even as I saw this look appear it changed and vanished. And as the Singing Mouse waved its tiny paw I forbore reflection and looked only on the scene which now was spread before me. It seemed a picture of actual colors, and I could see it plainly.
I saw a youth who stood with one older and of austere garb. By the vestments of this older man I knew he was of those who teach people in spiritual things. To him the young man had comein anguish of heart. Then the older man of priestly garb taught the young man in the teachings that had come down to him. But the youth bowed his head in trouble, nor was the cloud cleared upon his heart. I heard him murmur, “Alas! what is the Truth?”
So I saw this same youth pass on, in various stages of this picture, and before him I saw drawn, as though in another picture, a panorama of the edifices and institutions of the religions of all lands.
But the years passed, and the panorama of beliefs swept by, and no one could tell this man what was the Truth.
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 youngman cast himself face down among the cushions of a seat, and there he lay and listened to the music. This, too, I could hear. I could hear the peal of the organ arise like voices of the spirits, going up, up, whispering, appealing, promising, assuring. Then—for I could see and hear with him—there came to that young man when he ceased to seek, the very exaltation he had longed to know.
“Ah! yes, Singing Mouse,” I said, “it was very beautiful. But music is not final. Music is not the Truth. Tell me of these things.”
The Singing Mouse again seemed to hesitate. “It may be,” said the Singing Mouse slowly, “that the Truth will never be found between the covers of any book, no matter how wise. It may be that it never will be found by any who searchfor it always within walls built by human hands. It may be that no man can convey to another that which is the Truth to him. It may be that the Truth can never be grasped, never be weighed or formulated.
“The ways of Nature are always the same, but Nature does not ask exactness of form. Why, then, shall we ask exactness of faith? The true faith is nothing final, not more than are final the carved stones of the church which offers it so strenuously. The stones crumble and decay, but new churches rise. New faiths will rise. But were not all well?”
At these things I wondered, and over them I thought for a time, but yet I did not understand all that the Singing Mouse had said. As if it knew my thought, the Singing Mouse said to me:
“Your vision is too narrow. You seekthe great truths in small places, and wonder that you do not find them. Come with me.”
The Singing Mouse waved its hand, as was its wont, and as in a dream and as though I were now the young man whom we had lately seen, I was transported, by what means I could not tell, into a place far distant. At first it seemed to me there was a figure in vestments, speaking I scarce knew of what. Again there was a church or a cathedral. I could see the rafters as I lay. I could hear the solemn and exalted peal of the organ. I could hear voices that sang up and up, thrilling, compelling.
The sense of the confinement of the building ceased. Insensibly I seemed to see the hewn stones of the walls assume their primeval and untouched state beneath the grasses of the hills. I could feelthe rafters vanishing and going back into the bodies of the oaks in which they originally grew. The voice of the organ remained with me, but it might have been the roll of the waves upon the shore. I was in the Temple. In the Temple, one needs not seek for names.
It was night. I lay upon a bank of sweet-smelling grasses, and about me were the great oaks. The organ, or the waves, spoke on. I looked up, up, into the great circle of the sky, so far, so blue, so kind in its bending over, so pitying it seemed to me, yet so high in its up-reaching. I looked upon the glorious pageant of the stars.
“That star,” thought I, “shone over the grave of some ancestor of mine; back, back in the unmirrored past, some father of some father of mine. He is gone, like a fly. He is dust. I may belying on his grave. Soon, like a fly, I, too, shall be dead, gone, turned into dust. But the star will still shine on. Small as that father’s dust may be, that dust still lives. It is about me. This grass, these trees, may hold it. He has lived again in the cycle of natural forces. My dust, when I am dead, will in turn make part of this world, one of an unknown sea of stars. Small then, as I am, I am kin to that star. The stars go on. Nature goes on. Then shall man—shall I—”
“Ah,” said the Singing Mouse, its voice sounding I knew not whence; “from this place can you see?”
So now I thought I began to see what I had not seen before. And since this was in the land of the Singing Mouse, I sought to find no name for what I saw, nor tried to measure it. What one man sees is not what another sees. Shallone 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.
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Where the City Went
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Oneday there was a white frost that fell upon the city, lasting for many hours, so that a strange thing happened, at which men wondered very much. The city put aside its colors of black and brown and gray, and dressed itself in silvery white. No stone nor brick was seen except in this silvern frosty color. All the spires were glittering in silver, and all the columns bore traceries as though the hands of spirits had labored long and delicately and had seen their tender fretwork frozen softly but for ever into silver. The gross city had put aside corporeal things, and for once its spirit shone fair and radiant; so thatmen said no such thing had ever been before.
That evening the frost still remained, and as the night came on a mist fell upon the city. From the windows men looked out, and lo! the beautiful city so made spiritual was vanishing. One by one the great buildings, the tall spires, the lofty columns had faded into a white dream, dimmer, fainter, less and less perceptible, seen through a gentle envelope of whitening haze. This thing was of a sort almost to make one tremble as he looked upon it, for the city which had been silver had turned to mist, and the mist seemed fair to turn into a dream. There are those who say it did become a dream, and afterward descended. For wanderers in desert countries tell that at times they have seen some far city ofdreams, alluringly beautiful, but evanescent, intangible, unattainable, trembling and floating upon the wavering air.
Now when I saw the city thus fade away and disappear, I sat down at my table, and, as many men did that night, I wondered much at what I had seen. For surely the soul of the city had arisen. Then the Singing Mouse came and gazed into my face.
“What you have seen is true,” said the Singing Mouse. “There is no city now. It has gone. You have seen it disappear. Its soul has arisen. This does not often happen, yet it can be, for even the city has a soul if you can find it.
“But if I say the city has gone, I mean only that it has left the place where once it was. That which once was, is always, corporate or not corporate. We err onlywhen we ask to see all with our eyes, to balance all within our hands. Come with me, and I will show you where the city went.”
So now the Singing Mouse waved its hands, and I saw, though I knew not where I looked.
I saw a country where the trees grew big and where the wild-fowl came. It was where the trees had never been felled, nor had the stones ever been hewn. The sky was blue, and the water was blue, except where it played and laughed, and there it was white.
There was a small house, of a sort one has never seen, for none in the cities is like it. The blue smoke curling from the chimney named it none the less a home. I hardly knew what time or place we had come upon, for the Singing Mouse, whose voice seemed high andexalted, spoke as though much was in the past.
“This is a Home,” said the Singing Mouse. “Once there were no homes. In those days there was only one fire, and it was red. By this man sat. He sought not to see.
“Once a man sat at night and looked up at the heavens, seeking to know what the stars were saying. He besought the stars, praying to them and asking them to listen to the voice of the water, and to the voice of the oaks and to the whispers of the grasses, and to tell him why the fire of earth was red, while the fire of the stars was white.
“Now, while this man besought the stars, to him a strange thing happened. As he looked up he saw falling from the heavens above him a ray of the white light of the stars. It fell near to himand lay shining like a jewel in the grass. To this the man ran at once, gladly, and took up the white light, and put it in his bosom, that the winds might not harm it. Always this man kept the white light in his bosom after that. And by its light he saw many things which till that time men had never known. This man found that this new light, with the red light that had been known, filled all his house with a great radiance, so that small strifes were not so many, and so that life became plain and sweet. This then that you see is that Home.
“This that you see around you,” it continued slowly, “the large trees and the green grass, and the blue sky and the smiling waters, all this is wealth; wealth not corporate, wealth valuable, wealth that belongs to every man ever born upon the earth, and which can not ofright 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.”
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Then as I looked, there stepped from the house a man, or one whom I took to be a man. This man stood in the cool, fresh morning, and gazed at the sun, now rising above the tops of the great trees. He smiled gently, and taking in each hand a little water from a tiny stream that flowed near by, he raised his hands, and still smiling, offered tribute of the water to the sun. I saw the water fallingdown from his hands in a small stream of silver drops, shining brightly. It was the way of the land, the Singing Mouse said; for they thought that as the water came from the sky and returned to it, so did man and the thoughts of man, and the fruits of his progress; never to be destroyed.
At all this I looked almost in fear, for the thought came that perhaps this was not Man as we knew him, but the successor of Man. “Where is this land,” I asked of the Singing Mouse, “and what is this time upon which we have come?”
The Singing Mouse looked at the green trees, and at the kind sun, and at the blue sky and the pleasant waters, and it said to me slowly: “There was once a city where these trees now stand.”
The Bell and the Shadows
Melodyunformulate, music immaterial, such was the voice of the Singing Mouse; faint, small and clear, a piping of fifes so fine, a touching of strings so delicate, that it seemed to come from instruments of beryl and of diamond, a phantom music, impossible to fetter with staff or bar, and past the hope of compassing in words.
It was the last night of the year, and the bell upon the church near by had made many strokes the last time it had been heard; many heavy strokes which throbbed sullenly, mournfully on the air. The presence of passing Time was at hand. The year soon would join theyears gone by. Regret, remorse, despair, abandonment, the hopelessness of humanity—was it the breath of these which arose and burdened heavily the note of the chronicling bell? Where were the chimes of joy?
“These shadows that you see are not upon the wall,” said the Singing Mouse. “They are very much beyond the windows. If only we will look out from our windows, there are always great pictures waiting for us—pictures in pearl and opal, in liquid argent, in crimson and gold. But always there must be the shadows. Without these, there can be no picture anywhere.
“Have you not seen what the shadows do? Have you not seen them trooping through the oak forest in the evening, through the pine forest in open day,across the prairies under the moon at night, legions of them, armies of them? Have you never seen them march across the grass-lands in the daytime, cohort after cohort, hurrying to the call of the unseen trumpets? In the woods, have you never heard strange sounds, when you put your ear to the ground—sounds untraceable to any animate life? Have you never heard vague voices in the trees? Have you not heard distant, mysterious noises in the forest, whose cause you could never learn, seek no matter how you might? These were the voices of the shadows, the people who live there. Who else should it be to whisper and sing to you and make you happy when you are there? Without these people, what would be the woods, the prairies, the waters, the sky, the world?
“Without the shadows, too, whatwould be our lives? Thoughts, thoughts and remembrances, what have we that is sweeter than these? Have you never seen the smile upon the lips of those who have died? They say they are looking upon the Future. Perhaps they look also upon the Past, and therefore smile in happiness, seeing again Youth, and Hope, and Faith, and Trust; which are tender and beautiful things. Life has no actuality of its own, and in material sense is only a continual change. But the shadows of thought and of remembrance do not change. It is only the shadows that are real.”
As I pondered upon this, there passed by many pleasant pictures upon the wall, after the way the Singing Mouse had; many pictures of days gone by, which made me think that perhaps what the Singing Mouse had said was true.
I could see the boy, sitting idle and a-dream, watching the shadows drifting across the clover fields where the big bees came. I saw the youth wandering in the woods where the squirrels lived, loitering and looking, peering into corners full of the secrets of the wild creatures, unraveling the delicious mysteries which Nature ever offers to those not yet grown old. It was a comfortable picture, full of the brilliant greens of springtime, the mellow tints of summer, the red and russet of autumn days, the blue and white of winter. I could hear, also, sounds intimately associated with the scenes before me; the bleat of little lambs, the low of cattle, the neighing of a distant horse.
And then both sound and scene progressed, and once more as the woods and hills grew bolder and more wild, Icould hear clearly the rifle’s thin report, could note the whisper of the secret-loving paddle, the slipping of the snow-shoe on the snow, the clatter of the hoofs of horses, the baying of the bell-mouthed hounds. The delights of it all came back again, and in this varied phantom chase among the keen joys of the past, I saw as plainly and exultantly as ever in my life, the panorama of the brown woods, and the gray plains, and the purple hills—saw it distinctly, with all the old vibrant joy of youth—line for line, sound for sound, shadow for shadow, joy for joy!
And then the Singing Mouse, without wish of mine, caused these scenes to change into others of more quiet sort, which told not of the fields, but of the home. In the shadows of evening, I seemed to see a pleasant place, well surrounded by trees and flowers, the leavesof which were stirred softly in the breath of a faint summer breeze, strong enough only to carry aloft in its hands the odor of the blooming rose. This picture faded slowly. There were shadows in the spaces between the trees. There were shadows in the dark-growing vine which draped a column. One could only guess if he caught sight of garb or of the outline of a form among the shadows. He could only guess, too, whether he heard music, faint as the breeze, faint as the incense of the flowers. He could only guess if he had seen the image of the House Beautiful, that temple known as Home.
“Thoughts,” said the Singing Mouse softly. “Thoughts and remembrances. These are the things that live for ever. It is only the shadows that are real!”
The solemn note of the bell struck in. It counted twelve. The new year had come. The chimes of joy arose. But still the faint music from the Past had not died away, and still the shadows waved and beckoned on the wall, strong and beautiful, and enduring, and not like the fading of a dream. So then I knew that what the Singing Mouse had said was true, and that it is, indeed, only the shadows that are real.
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Of the Greatest Sorrow...
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Athousand times in the night I reach out (it seems to me), and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark. A thousand times in the night I gaze upon her face, her eyes shielded, her lips gently closed and curved. A thousand times in the night (it seems to me), I bend above her and whisper, “I love you!” And she, though asleep and myriads of miles away among the stars, hears me always and stirs just faintly, and still sleeping whispers through lips that barely part, “I know!” It is perhaps that thing called Love which causes me to do this, because I always whisper, “I love you;” though no word quite iswide and deep and soft and kind enough to say what is in the soul at certain times.
Now in lives there are ways. Some have few sorrows and many things of fortune taken lightly, the things wished coming easily. Again, others gain only by pain and suffering and long effort and hard denyings. As it is decreed by chance, the way with most is to gain all things hardly, and to know always denial, and always to have longing. That is the way with most. Of these things I spoke with the Singing Mouse, and told of many things that came as sorrows and griefs and denials, saying that, since this was decreed by chance, there was naught that a man ought not to receive without murmur; and the Singing Mouse said that this was true, that many things were denied, and that many knew great sorrows.This was the reason we came to speak of sorrows. I named very many sorrows that I had known, and many that friends of mine had known, some of these far greater than my own; as is most often the case when one comes to see deeply into these things.
“All sorrows,” said the Singing Mouse, “come to us, and we must bear them, though some are very hard to bear; as when friends do not know we love them, and think us ill-formed and crooked, small and mean, when in truth in soul we are tall and comely, large and strong. Or when we are thought to have done a bad action when in truth we have done a good one; or when hunger and thirst come and we have little comforts; or when sickness and weakness come to us when we wish our strength; or when those die whom we have loved. All, allthese sorrows, and very many others, come to us; and each sorrow must be borne, for that is the way of life.”
“What,” I asked of the Singing Mouse, “is the greatest sorrow?”
“That,” said the Singing Mouse, “is a thing hard to tell; for each man thinks that the sorrow that he has is the greatest sorrow for him or for the world; though perhaps in truth it is not large. What to you,” asked the Singing Mouse, “is the greatest sorrow of those which have not yet come to you?”
... “A thousand times in the night, Singing Mouse,” said I, “I reach out and touch her hair, as it lies spread and dark. I whisper to her, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars; and she hears; and she answers! This is because of that thing called Love. Now, this sorrow has not yet come to me; that whenI reach out my hand in the night I shall not touch her hair; that when I bend to kiss her sleeping she shall not be there any more; that when I whisper to her she may no longer answer to me, seeing that this thing called Love can be no more between us. That,” said I to the Singing Mouse, “I could not endure.”
Indeed, at the thought of this, so sharp an agony came to me that I arose and cried out loud. “I can not endure it, I can not endure it!” I cried (although this sorrow had not yet come to me).
“Ah!” said the Singing Mouse, “how idle and weak is the human mind in the country where you live. Have you not said but now that, though she be myriads of miles away among the stars, she answers you when you whisper? Does she not hear? Do not her lips move in speech as you whisper?”
“That is true,” said I. “And will she always hear?”
“She will always hear,” said the Singing Mouse. “So this sorrow will not come as you fear.”
“And shall I reach out and touch her hair as it lies spread and dark?” This I asked of the Singing Mouse.
“You shall touch it, spread and dark, and fragrant as when you were young,” said the Singing Mouse, “if so you wish.”
So then it seemed that perhaps all sorrows, even very great ones, are a part of life. Although I know that, if I could no longer know the fragrance of her hair, or hear the whisper of her answer, then that sorrow would be more than I could bear.
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The Shoes of the Princess
OnceI was in a place where there were those who had opened many tombs, and had taken from the tombs, that had been in Egypt, and were very old, many things that had been placed there for silence and repose thousands of years ago. There were grave-clothes and grave-caskets, the one embroidered, the other graven; and the colors of both were as they were thousands of years ago. There were signs over which men pondered, not knowing their own writing, and their own thoughts, and their own fate. There were also, a sad thing to see, the bodies of those that had died long ago, that had lain down for restand silence; and of these some were called kings, and some were called queens and others princesses; and all had once been young, and some had once been beautiful. For here, after thousands of years, was praise of their beauty, and love and care for it. So I pondered very long and sadly. But most I looked at two little golden shoes.
These little shoes had once been the shoes of one who lay here, a princess, dead thousands of years, and once very beautiful, as these carven symbols told. They were small and dainty and threaded with fine gold, and laced across with care about the feet of her who was once a woman and a princess and owner of much beauty, and who was in her life beloved, and in her death mourned; as these graven symbols said. A thousand years this love reached out its arms toher to-day; although for a thousand years Death had enfolded her in his grasp, that does not yield. She who had lain down for rest and silence was still here, withal at rest in her grave-garb, and silent in her sleep; but those who had done these things had removed the grave-clothing so that these small shoes could be seen, still upon the feet of the princess that had slept a thousand years, enfolded in love.
For a price these might have sold the shoes of the princess, for there were those cruel enough to strip her of that which she had worn when she lay down to be alone. But this I could not do. I did not carry away the shoes in my hands, but in some way it seemed to me that I took them; for that night, as I sat at the little table in my room, with the dim light falling as is its wont at those hours, I saw upon the table before methese same shoes of the princess of thousands of years ago, small and golden; things to make one weep, so sad their story, disturbed thus after they had been placed away for silence. I gazed at them for a time, and presently I saw appear upon the table beside them, the form of the Singing Mouse, as tall perhaps as the fronts of these golden shoes.
“See,” said the Singing Mouse, “here are her shoes, those of the princess who has been resting. They crossed the paved floors of palaces. They knew the steps of a throne. They were made by love for love and given in love to rest and silence. She was as one you have known, as many whom others know now. Tell me, is she not beautiful?”
I saw standing before me the figure of the princess, tall and slender and very beautiful. And now the grave garmentswere not seen, for her robe was of silk, new and soft and shapely like to herself, and her arms were round and soft, and her eyes were full and dark, and her hair was as deep shadows. A band of gold was about her brow, and her cheek was red and tender in its bloom. Her neck was white and round, and her hands were white, and her slender fingers curved slightly as her arms hung down by her sides. Her feet were small and straight, and all, all of her was beautiful, and she was a princess.
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Now as I gazed, I saw the face and saw that it was one I knew, and had known long; so then I knew that the princess who was placed away for rest and silence had never died; for did she not stand here before me, and had I not long known her thus? Ah, beautiful!
I took up these small golden shoes inmy hands and held them out to her. “Take these little shoes,” I said, “wrought as cunning as man may know. Place them upon thy feet for me, and may never thorn assail thee in all thy going. Wear them and tread the steps of thrones, years and years, ages and ages, Princess, beloved! See, they are wrought in love.”
Now I saw upon the lips of the princess who had lain down thousands of years ago, but who lives in a place I know to-day, a smile, very faint and far away. So as the Singing Mouse told me, it was to be seen that she did not die. Even as she faded away from the wall against which she stood, I knew, though I wept, that the princess was not dead and would not die. She was beautiful, she was beloved; and these things have not died. “Ah, beautiful!” I said to theSinging Mouse. “But alas! for a princess there should be a palace, and here is none!”
“Look about you,” said the Singing Mouse. “See, for the time this is a palace.”
I looked about me, and it was as the Singing Mouse said. For the time my room was a palace. I saw standing there again the princess, upon her feet small golden shoes.
“What is this?” I asked. “And who am I?” But as I turned, I saw that the Singing Mouse was gone. But this I knew, and so may you know: that love does not die; and here was proof of it.
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Of White Moths
“Once,” said the Singing Mouse, “I was at the side of a little stream. Grasses grew all about, and small plants and flowers. Beyond the shores of the little stream arose a forest, wide and dark, into which the eye could reach but a little way.
“As I stood near the little stream, there arose from the grass and flowers two small moths, soft and dainty, beautiful, and very white, covered also with a white dust or powder which was so light that did they but receive a touch they must lose some of this soft white powderand so be injured, so gentle and tender were they.
“These two moths, soft and white and silent, arose in the air and circled one about the other, rising for a time, then falling, but ever circling one about the other. It seemed that perhaps they spoke one to the other, but if that were true it was in speech so small that not even I could hear it. They passed over the tops of the grasses and flowers, up and up, until they reached the tops of the trees, where they seemed very small.
“I do not know why these moths no longer cared for the grasses and flowers. But I saw them, circling, cross over the little stream, high in the air, and then pass on directly into the wide dark forest. For a moment they appeared, a small spot of white, against the black shadows of the forest across the stream; then they wenton, straight into the shadows, until I could no longer see this small spot of white they made.
“It is in this way,” said the Singing Mouse, “that human souls pass through life. To me, who can see them, they look small and delicate and white; and they circle one about another; and they pass on, into the deep forest.”
The House of Dreams
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Uponwhat couch,” I asked the Singing Mouse, “may one have the most noble dreams?”
The Singing Mouse sat for a time and looked at me with its bright eye, and it seemed to me that the walls opened and widened. I saw that I was within a great palace, whose walls were hung in tapestries, and whose doors were of golden panelings, and whose windows were of curious crystals, and whose furnishings were rich and wonderful, and around whose stately limits swam wide gardens of strange flowers, full of deep perfumes. I heard soft voices of birdsand the music also of gentle human voices singing, and tenderly played instruments of silken and silvern strings. It seemed to me that I lay upon a great couch of thrice-piled down, and touched hands with delights in all manners that one could think. But alas! I did not dream as I lay upon this couch.
Then I saw these walls fade away in turn, and in their stead arose a vast cathedral of the woods. A music was in the trees, and a solemn mountain stood as orator to the sky for me. My couch was that of the earth and the leaves, and my jewels were upon the grasses all about. I touched hands with delights; and so I dreamed, and was very happy and content.
Again the place changed, and I lay in my own small room, with naked walls and little cheer or comfort, as you maysee. The couch was hard and narrow, and that which covered it over was worn and threadbare, and by no means cloth of woven silk and golden tracery. But it seemed to me that upon the walls were pictures. And here and there were shadows of things which I had wished—many things, very sweet and precious. Upon this couch, as upon that of the earth, it seemed to me that I dreamed....
“There were once some leaves and grasses in this couch,” said the Singing Mouse, “and that is why you dreamed. Around this manner of resting-place often arises the House of Dreams, and not, as many have supposed, about the couch of down and silken tapestries. Always, near a House of Dreams, must be a mountain or a sea, and trees, and grasses, with the sky also, and the stars, which are the candles of our dreamhouses. See, you had not noticed it, but there is a star in your candle.”
I looked, and it was as the Singing Mouse had said. A star was at the candle top. By its light I could dream nobly, and many things seemed true which have not yet come true when the star in the candle does not shine. But they are true in the land of the Singing Mouse. In that country it is not palaces alone that are Houses of Dreams. I know this thing is true. Wherefore, all ye who have come hither, let your hope and your joy be strong; and by no means despair, for better than despair are hope and joy.
stump of candle in candlestick