Part 3
As I looked, I could see the passing of the years. In all but the unaltering fire of friendship I could see change creeping on. Grayer, grayer, more bent, more feeble--is it not so, Singing Mouse? And now, this time, what was this gentle warning that the oak tried to whisper softly down? Perhaps the grayer friend heard it, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose and looked about him, as one who had dreamed and was content. He looked up at the solemn stars unafraid, and so murmured to himself. "Day unto day uttereth speech," he said; "Night unto night showeth knowledge."
Day unto day, Singing Mouse. Day unto day.
Woe is me, Singing Mouse, and these are bitter tears for that which you have shown I see it all again, the oaks, the glade, the tiny house of white, the small pleasant fire. Here again is the little table, and here is the evening meal. The table is still spread for two. A double portion is served as was wont before. Yet why? For all is not the same. At this table there is but one form now. The younger man is there, although now he has grown gray and stooped. Year unto year, day unto day, the beads have slipped along the string. Once young, now old, he keeps the camp alone!
[Illustration]
But is he then alone? Hush! The squirrels have grown still, and even the oak is silent. What is that opposite, across the table, at the seat long years held only by the elder of these two? Tell me, Singing Mouse, is it not true that I see there, sitting as of old at the table, the same sturdy form, the same simple, innocent and believing face? It is the gray ghost of one grown gray in goodness. It is the shadow of a shadow, the apparition of a soul!
The one at the table pauses, as was the wont before the beginning of a meal. He looks across the table to the shadow, as if the shadow were his friend. The shadow bows its head. The living man bows also his head at the board. The shadow moves its lips. Doubt not those words are heard this day.
See, the sun rises through the trees. The glorious day sets on once more. Doubt not, fear not, sorrow not, ye two. Bow the head still, ye two, and let not my picture perish. Whisper again the benediction of the years, and let me hear once more the murmur of the oak's Amen!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Birth of the Hours]
[Illustration]
THE BIRTH OF THE HOURS
"Do you know the story of the Wedding of the Times?" said the Singing Mouse. "You know, all life is a wedding. The flowers love, and the grasses, and the trees; and the circle of the wedding ring is the circle of life and the sign of eternity. Death and life, not life and then death, is the order and the law.
"The hours are born of parents, as are the flowers. The hours of the day are born of the wedding of Night and Morning. It is the way of Life. Come with me."
So with the Singing Mouse I went into a place where I was once long before. I could see it very well. It was in the deep woods, far away. Near by there were tall, sweet grasses. I could hear the faint tinkle of a falling stream. Other than that, it was silent in the deep woods. Overhead the sky was clear and filled with stars. The stars trembled and twinkled and shone radiantly fair. So now all at once I knew they were the jewels on the veil of Night. And the far shadows were the drapery of the Night, and the greater light of the heavens was the star upon her coronal.
When I first looked forth, the Night was a babe, but as I gazed it grew. The Night is full of change and charm. Those who live within the walls do not see these things. When I saw them, I could not sleep, for the Night in all her changes seemed to speak.
The Night grew older, drawing about her her more ornate garb of witchery. Across her bosom fell a wondrous tissue, trembling with exuberance of unprismed light. These were the gems in thousands of the skies, all fair against the blackness of the robes of Night, and I knew that the blackness of the one was as lovely as the radiance of the other. Nor could one separate one from the other, for there arose a thin mist of light, so that one saw form or features only dimly, as through a cloth of silver lace, such as the spiders weave upon a morning.
The Night grew on, changing at every moment, for change is the law. There were small frowns of clouds which were replaced by smiles of light. Did never you hear the laughter of the Night? It is a strange thing. Not all men have heard it. The Singing Mouse told me of this.
Now as I lay and looked at this glorious apparition, there came still another change, and one most wonderful. In the heart of the Night there came a tremulous exultation. Upon the face of the Night appeared a roseate tinge of joyous perturbation. So then I knew the lover of the Night was coming, and knew, too, whence we have derived the signs of love as among human beings we see it indicated. I saw the flush upon the cheek of Night flame slowly and faintly up, until it touched her very forehead. This is the way of Love. But the Night went on, for this is the way of Life. Love and Life, these are ever and for ever. We mock at them and understand them not, but they are ever and for ever.
And now the Night, I know not whether startled or in joy, whether ashamed of her dark garb, or unconscious of it in the proud sureness of her beauty, dropped loose a portion of the shadows of her robe, and stood forth radiant, clad with the dazzling beauty of her stars. Then she raised her hand and laid it on her heart.
And so the Morning came and took her in his arms and kissed her on the brow. So here was Love again. And of this wedding there were born the hours.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Stone that Had no Thought]
THE STONE THAT HAD NO THOUGHT
"Once," said the Singing Mouse, "while many men hurried into the city, as, each day, they do, they saw many other men standing about a place where a large building was growing. There were those who raised stones on long arms of steel, and swung them about, high up into the wall. Others remained upon the earth to place these stones upon the long arms of steel. Now a stone had fallen, and beneath it lay what had been a man; and around this many stood.
"The long arm reached out after stones, and so this stone again was taken and raised into the air. That which had been a man lay broken, never again to rise and smile and walk. Near to it stood a woman, not weeping, being still too sad for weeping. Above her arose the stone once more, heavy and without thought. It rose above the woman and above this that had been a man, and as it swung high and slow above her the woman looked up at it, as though to ask of it mercy. But the stone passed slowly on, heavy and without thought. It is in the wall to-day, heavy and without thought. Some say that is a temple, others that there is a God in it. But no God replies. And the stone is in the wall, heavy, without thought."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Tear and the Smile]
[Illustration]
THE TEAR AND THE SMILE
The Singing Mouse came and sat near by. Undoubtedly the room was dingy to the last degree. The dust lay thick upon the corner of the table. It crusted the window ledge and hung upon the sallow wall. What was the use, things being as they were, to disturb the dust? Let it lie in all its bitterness. And let the charred ends of the fagots roll out upon the floor. And let the fire die down to ashes. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. It was very fit.
But the Singing Mouse came and sat near by. I could hear it patter among the dead leaves of the flowers that lay upon the table. I turned my head and saw it sitting close by my fallen hand. Its tiny paws were waving. I could see its breast, for which a rose leaf would have been a giant buckler, pulsing and beating above its throbbing heart. Its eyes were shining.... A rhythm came into the swing of the pink-tinted paws. And then, so high and thin and sweet that at first I looked above to trace the sound, there came the singing of the Singing Mouse.... Dreams fell upon my eyes.
I heard that sweet sound of the woods, the tinkle of falling water, which is so full of change, now keen, clear and metallically musical, now soft, slurred and full of sleep. I could not see the little stream, but knew it ran down there beneath the talking pines. But very well one could see the hill where the small white house had stood among the trees. The white house was gone now, though the grass pressed down by the blankets had not yet fully arisen. The smoke of the camp-fire still wavered up. It followed one, with long, out-reaching arms of vapor. With its fingers it beckoned and begged for its old companions yet a while. Did never one look back at the smoke of the camp-fire that one leaves? Always, the heart of the fire will stir at this time of parting. A little blaze will burst out among the embers, and the smoke will reach out and beckon one to stay. It is very hard to leave such a fire.
Certainly there must be strange things, of which we know but little. Surely there was a figure in the wreath of smoke. I could see the drapery shape itself about a form. I could see the outstretched arms. I could see the face, the gravely smiling lips.
"There are many things in the land of the Singing Mouse," murmured my small magician. "It is only there that one sees clearly." So I looked and listened to the figure which was in the smoke of the little fire.
"Believe me," said the figure in the smoke, "the ashes and the dust are not so bitter as you think them. The tears rain on them, and they go back into the earth and are born again. Look around you, as here you may look, unhindered by any confining walls. Do you not see the flowers smiling bravely? Yet every blossom is a tear. Do you not see the strong forest trees? Yet every tree grows on the ashes of the past. We know not what you mean by grief. With us, all things point to Hope. I have swum above a thousand forests. Ask this forest, the youngest of them all, whether it whispers of dread and of grief. Rather it whispers of wonder and of joy. Come to it, and it may tell you of its comfort. Turn your eyes up to the blue sky, and put your hands out upon this grass, which is but dust renewed, and at your eyes and at your fingers you shall drink peace and knowledge. The shape of a room and of a grave is square and cruel, but the shape of the earth and of the great sky is that of the perpetual circle, and it is kind. Come to these. Come to me. I will wave my hands above you, and you shall sleep. When you awaken the flowers will be blooming; and upon the lid of each you shall see the tear, but upon the lips of each shall rest a smile."
So now the figure in the smoke waved, and nodded, and smiled and beckoned, until I said to the Singing Mouse it seemed scarce like things we ordinarily know.
"Lie down and sleep," said the Singing Mouse.
So I lay down and slept. And when I awoke there were some small flowers not far away; and when I looked I saw it was as had been said. Each flower had a tiny tear hidden away beneath its lid, but upon the lips of each there rested a brave smile. And from among the flowers there arose a sweet odor.
"This," said the Singing Mouse, when it saw me note the fragrance, "this is a Memory. It belongs to you. See how soft and sweet it is."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: How the Mountains Ate up the Plains]
[Illustration]
HOW THE MOUNTAINS ATE UP THE PLAINS
"I once knew a man," said the Singing Mouse, "who had seen the mountains in the winter time, when they were covered deep in snow. It is the belief of most men that the mountains are then asleep, but this man said that they are not asleep, but that they have only drawn over their heads the white council-robes, for then they are sitting in council. Now the mountains are very old and wise. This man told me he heard strange sounds coming from under the council-robes of the mountains then, voices not distinctly heard, but wonderful and strong and of a sort to make one fear.
"This man told me that once he heard the mountains tell of a time when they ate up the plains. 'Once man was a dweller of the plains,' sang the mountains in a great song; 'there man dug and strove. Never he lifted up the eye, but at his feet, at his feet, there he still gazed down. The clouds bore not up his gaze, neither did the hills comfort him. Things false, of no worth, these man sought and prized. Though we whispered to him, still he made deaf his ear. Then we, the mountains, we the strong, the just, the wise, we rose, we set together our shoulders and so marched on. Thus we ate up the plain. Now we stand where once man was, for man lifted not up his eyes. Therefore, now let man look up, let him not make small his gaze. We the strong, we the just, the wise, we shall eat up the plain. For on our brows sits the light, about our heads is the calm. That which is high shall in the days prevail. We the strong, the just, the wise, this we have said!'
"This man told me that he could not hear all the song that the mountains chanted, nor all they whispered among themselves. But he thought they said that they had swallowed up and consumed one race of beings who became fixed only upon the winning of what they called wealth, and had crushed out this wealth and burned up their precious things. This may be true, for to-day men visit the mountains to dig there for wealth, and this which they call gold is found much scattered, as though it had been crumbled and burned and blown wide over the earth upon the four winds. For these reasons this man thought that the mountains had once eaten up the plains; and that perhaps at some time they might do this again."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Savage and its Heart]
[Illustration]
THE SAVAGE AND ITS HEART
"Once," said the Singing Mouse, "I knew a man who found a little dog, starved, beneath a building where it had been left. He took it and fed it; and each time he held out his hand to give it food, it bit his hand, knowing not that he was its friend. Many times he fed it, and always it bit his hand. It was a long time before it learned that the man was its friend. It was but a savage. He fed it patiently, and so after a time the dog bit him no more, having learned that he was its friend. When it had ceased to be savage, it loved him. The man gave it neither blow nor unkindness, and fed it, knowing that he was older and more wise and that in time it might love him. So at last it did; and this may often happen for those who wait, large and kind and patient; and so often friends are made."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Beast Terrible]
[Illustration]
THE BEAST TERRIBLE
The little room was resplendent one night with a fire which flamed and flickered gloriously. It set in motion many shadows which had their home in the corners of the walls, and bade them cease their sullenness and come forth to dance in the riot of the hour. And so each shadow found its partner in a ray of firelight, and there they danced. They danced about the tangled front of the big bison's head which hung upon the wall. They crossed the grinning skull of the gray wolf. They softened the eyes of the antelope's head, and made dark lines behind the long-tined antlers of the elk and of the deer. They brought forth to view in alternate eclipse and definition the great, grim bear's head which hung above the mantel. Every trophy gathered in years of the chase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps forgotten, was brought into evidence, nor could one escape noting each one, and giving to each, for this one night more, the story which belonged to it. I sat and looked upon them all, and so there passed a panorama of the years.
"There," thought I, "is the stag which once fell far in the pine woods of the North. This antelope takes me back to the hard, white Plains. These huge antlers could grow only amid the forests of the Rockies. That wolf--how many of the hounds he mangled, I remember; and the giant bear, it was a good fight he made, perhaps dangerous, had the old rifle there been less sure. Yes, yes, of course, I could recall each incident. Of course, they all were thrilling, exciting, delightful, glorious, all those things. Of course, the heart must have leaped in those days. The blood must have surged, in those moments. The pulse must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads belongs the keenest story?"
"I know," said the Singing Mouse, which unknown to me had come and placed itself upon the table. "I know." And it climbed upon my arm which lay across the table. The fire shone fair upon its little form, so that in silhouette its outline was delicate and keen as an image cut from the fiery heart of a noble opal stone.
"And what is it that you know?" I asked. "Maker of dreams, tell me what you know to-night."
The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the beat of the fire's rays. I looked at it so closely that a dream came upon my eyes, so that the voice of the Singing Mouse sounded far away and faint, though it was still clear and resonant in its own peculiar way and very fine and sweet.
"I will tell you which trophy you most prize," it said. "I will show you your _Iliad_ of the chase. Do you not remember, do you not see this, the most eventful hunting of all your life?"
And so I gazed where the Singing Mouse pointed, quite beyond the dusty walls, and there I saw as it had said. I heard not the thunder of the hoofs of buffalo, nor the faint crack of the twig beneath the panther's foot. I saw not the lurching gallop of the long-jawed wolf, nor the high, elastic bounding of the deer. The level swinging speed of the antelope, the slinking of the lynx, the crashing flight of the wapiti--no, it was none of these that came to mind; nor did the mountains nor the plains, nor the wilderness of the pines. But when the Singing Mouse whispered, "Do you see?" I murmured in reply, "I see it all again!"
I saw the small, low hills, well covered with short oaks and hazel bushes, which rolled on away from the village, far out, almost to the Delectable Mountains, which are well known to be upon the edge of the world. Through these low hills a winding road led on, a road whose end no man had ever reached, but which went to places where, no doubt, many wonders were--perhaps even to the Delectable Mountains; for so a wise man once had said, his words harkened to with awe. This was a pleasant road, lined with brave sumacs, with bushes of the wild blackberry, and with small hazel trees which soon would offer fruit for the regular harvest of the fall, this same to be spread for drying on the woodshed roof. It was perhaps wise curiosity as to the crop of nuts which had brought thus far from home these two figures--an enormous distance, perhaps at least a mile beyond what heretofore had been the utmost limit of their wanderings. It was not, perhaps, safe to venture so far. There were known to be strange creatures in these woods, one knew not what. It was therefore well that the younger boy should clasp tightly the hand of the older, him who bore with such confidence the bow and arrows, potent weapons of those days gone by!
[Illustration]
It was half with fear and half with curiosity that these two wandered on, along this mysterious road, through this wild and unknown wilderness, so far from any habitation of mankind. The zeal of the explorer held them fast. They scarce dared fare farther on, but yet would not turn back. The noises of the woods thrilled them. The sudden clanging note of the jay near by caused them to stop, heart in mouth for the moment. Strange rustlings in the leaves made them cross the road, and step more quickly. Yet the cawing of a crow across the woods seemed friendly, and a small brown bird which hopped ahead along the road was intimate and kind, and thus touched the founts of bravery in the two venturous hearts. Certainly they would go on. It was no matter about the sun. This was the valley of Ajalon, perhaps, of which one had heard in the class at Sabbath-school. And surely this was a good, droning, yellow-bodied bee--where did the bees go to when they rose up straight into the air? And this little mouse, what became of it in winter? And--ah! What was that--that awful burst of sound? Clutch closer, little brother, though both be pale! How should either of you yet know the thunderous flight of the wild grouse, this great bird which whirled away through the brown leaves of the oaks? Father must be asked about this tremendous, startling bird. Meantime, the heart having begun to beat again, let the two adventurers press yet a little farther on.