The fire was flickering fitfully and painting ghostly shadows on
the wall. It was winter, and late in winter; indeed, the season
was now at length drawing near to the end of winter, and
approaching that dear time of spring which, beyond doubt, will
be the eventful front and closing of the circle in the land
where winter will not come.
I had drawn the little pine table close to the heap of failing
embers, and aided by what light the sulky candle gave, was
bending over and trying to arrange a patch on my old hunting-coat.
It was an old, old hunting-coat, far gone in the sere and yellow
leaf. It was old-fashioned now, though once of proper cut and
comeliness. It was disfigured, stained and worn. The pockets
were torn down. The bindings were worn out. It was quite
willing to be left alone now, hung by upon a forgotten nail,
and subject to no further requisition. Nevertheless, if its
owner wished, it could still do a day or two. I knew that; and
something in the sturdy texture of its oft-tried nature excited
more than half my admiration, and all my love.
Walpurgis on the ceiling, gray coming on in the embers, symptoms
of death in the candle, a blotch of tallow on the Shakespeare,
and the coat not half done. It must have been about then,
I think, that the thin-edged sweetness of the Singing Mouse's
voice pierced keenly through the air. I was right glad when the
little creature came and sat on my knee, and in its affectionate
way began to nibble at my finger-tips. It sat erect, its thin
paws waving with a tiny, measured swing, and in its mystic
voice, so infinitely small, so sweet and yet so majestically
strong, began a song which no pen can transcribe. Knowing that
the awakening must come, but unwilling to lose a moment of the
dream, I, who with one finger could have crushed the little
thing, sat prizing it more and more, as more and more its voice
swept, and swelled, and rang; rang, till the fire burst high in
noble pyramids of flame; rang, till the candle flashed in a
thousand crystals; swelled, till the walls fell silently apart,
and showed that all this time I had been sitting ignorant of,
but yet within a grand and stately hall, whose polished sides
bore speaking canvas and noble marbles; swept up and around,
till every stately niche, and every tapestried corner, and every
lofty dome rang gently back in mellow music--all for the Singing
Mouse and me....
Small wizard, it was fell cunning of ye so to paint upon the
wall this picture of the old mill-dam. How naturally the wooded
hill slopes back beyond the mill! And how, with the same old
sleepy curves, the river winds on back. How green the trees--how
very green! Ah, Singing Mouse, they do not mix that color now.
And nowhere do wide bottom-lands wave and sing in such seemly
grace, so decked with yellow flowers, with odd sweet william and
the small wild rose. And nowhere now on earth, I know, is there
any stream to murmur so sweetly and so comfortably, to say such
words to any dreaming boy, to babble of a work well done, of
conscience clear and of a success and happiness to come. All
that was in the river. If I listen very hard, and imagine very
high and very deep, I can almost pretend to hear them now, those
old words, heard when I was young. The voices are there, I doubt
not, and there are other boys. God keep them boys always, and
may they dream not backward, but ahead!
This lazy pool beneath the far wing of the dam, how smooth it
looks! Yet well we know the sunken log upon its farther side. We
have festooned it full oft with a big hook and hempen line. And
from that pool how many fatuous fishes have we not hauled forth.
Here we came often, when we were boys; and once did not certain
bold souls sleep here all night, curled up along the bank,
waking the next morning, each with a sore throat, 'tis true, but
with heart full proud at such high deed of valor!
And there is the long wooden bridge. What a feat of engineering
that bridge once seemed to our untraveled souls! Behold it now,
as it was then, lying in the level rays of the rising moon,
a brilliant causeway leading over into a land of mystery, to
glory, perhaps; perhaps to failure, forgetfulness, oblivion and
rest. And there, I declare, at the other end of this great
roadway--swimming up, I declare, in the same old way--is the
great round moon whose light served us when we stayed late at
the dam in the summer evenings. And the shadows of the bridge
timbers are just as long and black; and the ripples over the
rocks at the middle span are just as beautiful and white. And
here, right at our feet again, the moon is playing its old
tricks of painting faces in the water....
There are too many faces in the water, Singing Mouse; and I beg
you, cease repeating the words about the _Corpus Delicti_! You
would make one shudder. Let us look no more at the faces in the
water.
[Illustration]
But still you bide by the waters tonight, wizard; for here is
a picture of the sea. It is the sea, and it is talking, as it
always does. There are some who think the sea speaks only
of sorrow, but this is not wholly true. If you will listen
thoughtfully enough, you will find that it is not all of
troubles that the sea is whispering. Nor does it speak always
of restlessness and change. Some find a stimulus beside the
sea, and say it brings forgetfulness. Rather let us call it
exaltation. Much more than of a petty excitement, fit to blot a
man's momentary woes, it speaks in a sterner and a stronger
note. It throbs with the pulse of a further shore. It speaks of
a quiet tide making out to the Fortunate Islands, and tells of a
way of following gales, and of a new Atlantis, somewhere on
beyond. How dear this dream of a different land, this story of
Atlantis, pathetically sought! Certainly, Atlantis is there, out
beyond, somewhere in the sea; and truly there are those who have
discovered it, and those who still may do so. I know it, Singing
Mouse, for I can read it written in the hollow of this tiny
shell of pink you have found here by the shore--borne across to
us, we may not doubt, by an understanding tide from a place
happily attained by those who wrote the message and sought to
let us know.
"Long time upon the mast our brown sail flapped;
Our keel plowed bitter salt, and everywhere
The ominous sky in sullen mystery wrapped,
What side we looked on, either here or there,
The welcome sight of land long sadly sought;
And that Atlantis, hid within the sea,
The land with all our hope and promise fraught,
We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be.
"But as we sailed as manful as we might,
And counted not the sail more fit than oar,
Lo! o'er the wave there burst a vision bright
Of wood, and winding stream, and easy shore.
Then by the lofty light which shone above,
We knew at last our voyage sad was o'er,
And we hard by the haven for which we strove,
And soon all past the need to wander more.
"Then as our craft made safely on the strand,
And we all well our weary brown sail furled,
We gazed as strangers might at that fair land,
And hardly knew if it might be our world;
Till One took gently every weary hand,
And led us on to where still waters be,
And whispered softly, 'Lo! it hath been planned
That thou at last this pleasant place shouldst see.'
"And as those dreaming so awakened we,
And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair sky,
And whispered, hand in hand and eye to eye,
''Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea--
'Tis our Atlantis, from the bitten sea!
'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend, to thee and me!'"
[Illustration: Lake Belle-Marie]
[Illustration]