"Do you know what the oak says?" asked the Singing Mouse, as it
sat upon my knee. It had needed to nibble again at my fingers
before it could waken me from the dream into which I had fallen,
gazing at the fading fire. "Do you know what the oak says?" it
repeated. "Do you hear it? Do you hear the talking of the
leaves?...
"I know what the oak says," said the Singing Mouse. "When the
wind is soft, the oak says: 'Peace! Peace!' When the breeze is
sharp it sighs and says: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!' And when the storm
has fallen, the oak sobs and cries: 'Woe! Woe! Woe.'
"Do you see the oaks?" asked the Singing Mouse. "Do you see the
little lake? Do you know this place of the oaks? Behold it now!"
It waved a tiny hand.
I gazed at the naked, cheerless wall, seamed and rent with
cracks along its sallow width. And as I gazed the seams and
scars blended and composed into the lines of a map of a noble
country. And as I gazed more intently the map took on color, and
narrowed its semblance to that of a certain region. And as I
gazed yet more eagerly the map faded quite away, and there lay
in its stead the smiling face of an enchanted land.
There was the little silver lake, rippling on its shore of
rushes. Around rose the long curved hills, swelling back from
the shore. The baby river babbled on at the mouth of the lake,
kissing its mother a continual farewell. The small springs
tinkled metallically cold into the silver of the lake. The
tender green of the gentle glades rolled softly back, dividing
the two hills in peaceful separation. And there were the oaks.
At the water's edge, near the lesser spring, the wild apple
trees twisted, but upon the hills and over the great glades
stood the reserved, mysterious oaks, tall and strong.
[Illustration]
One oak, a mighty one, now resolved itself more prominently
forth. Did I not know it well? Could one forget the tortured but
noble soul of this oak? Could one forget the strong arm of
comfort it extended over this most precious spot of all the
glade? One must suffer before one may comfort. The oak had
suffered somewhere. We do not know all things. But over this
spot the great tree reached out sheltering hands, and certainly
from its hands dropped benedictions plenteously down.
Under the arm of the oak I saw a tiny house of white--neat,
well-ordered, full of cheerfulness. Through the wall of
canvas--for it now seemed to be after dusk--there shone a faint
pink gleam of light, the soul of the white house, its pure
spirit of content. As it shone, it scarce seemed lit by mortal
hand.
Near the small house of white, and under the oak's protecting
arm, there burned a little flame, of small compass save in the
vast shadows it set dancing among the trees. Those who built
this fire here, so many times, so many years, each time first
craved pardon of the green grass of that happy glade, for they
would not harm the grass. But the grass said yea to all they
asked, this was sure, for each year the tiny hearth spot was
greener than any other spot, because it remembered what the fire
had said and done. And each year the oak dropped down food
enough for the little fire. The oak took pay in the vast shadows
the fire made for it. That was the way the oak saw the spirits
of the Past, and when it saw them it sighed; but still it
welcomed the shadows of the Past. So the fire, and the grass,
and the oak, and the shadows of the Past were friends, and each
year they met here. It had been thus for many years. Each year,
for many years, the same hand had laid the little fire, in the
same place, and so given back to the oak its Past. Now, the Past
is a very sad but tender thing.
Near by the little fire I saw a small table formed of
straight-laid boughs, and at either side of this were seats made
cunningly in the workshop of the woods. There were two forms at
this small table. I saw them both. One was gray and bowed
somewhat, stooped as the oaks are, silvered as the oaks are in
the winter days. The other was younger and more erect. Once the
younger looked to the older for counsel, but now it seemed to me
the bowed figure turned to the one that had become more strong.
I saw the savory vapors rise. Even, it seemed to me, I could
note a faint, clear odor of innocent potency. I saw the table
laid, not with gleam of snow and silver, but with plain vessels
which, nevertheless, seemed now to have a radiance of their own.
I knew all this. It was as though there actually lay at hand
these pleasant scenes, as though there actually arose the
appealing fragrance of the evening meal.
Now as I looked, the gray figure bowed its head, there, under
the arm of the oak, and asked on the humble board the blessing
of the God who made the oak, and gave the fire and spread the
pleasant waters on the land. Every mealtime, every year, for
many years, it had been thus. Ever, the oak knew, the gray
figure would first bow and ask the blessing of God. And each
time at the close the oak with rustling leaves pronounced
distinct Amen! Let those jest who will. I do not know. I think
perhaps the oak knows or it would not thus for years have
whispered reverently its distinct Amen! I will not scoff. It is
perhaps we who are ignorant. We do not know all things.
[Illustration]
I ask not what nor who were these two who had come each year to
this place of the oaks, but surely they were friends. In shadow,
I could hear them talk. In shadow, I could see them smile.
These friends sat by the little fire a time before they went to
rest in the tiny house of white. After they had gone, the fire
did strange things. All men know that, though you see the fire
burned down, when you go into the tent you will some time in the
night see the walls lit up by a sudden flash or so, now and
then, from the fire which was thought to be dead.
That is the business of the fire, and of the oaks and of the
shadows. I know that the shadows dance strangely, and hover and
come near at hand, in those late hours of the night; but what
then occurs I do not know. These two friends never questioned
this. They knew it was the secret of the night, and gave the oak
its own request, in pay for its protection and consent. They
gave the oak its union with the sacred Past.
In the night I have heard the oak sob. Yet in the morning, when
the sun was silvering the wake of all the leaping fishes, the
oak was always gentle, and it said, "Wake, wake! God is wise.
Waken, waken! God is good!"
As pure shining beads upon a thread of gold I saw this small,
dear picture, reiterant and unchanged, year after year, always
with the same calm and pure surroundings. Only as year added
itself to year, slipping forward on the golden string, I saw the
gray figure grow more gray, more bowed, more feeble. Alas! it
seemed to me I saw the silver coming upon the head of the
younger man, and his eyes growing weary, as of one who looks at
the earth too closely (which it is not wise to do). Yet the
years came, to the oaks and to the grasses and to the friends.
The grass dies every year, but it is born again. The oak dies in
centuries, but it is born again. Man dies in three score years
and ten; but he, too, is born again.
As I looked, I could see the passing of the years. In all but
the unaltering fire of friendship I could see change creeping
on. Grayer, grayer, more bent, more feeble--is it not so,
Singing Mouse? And now, this time, what was this gentle warning
that the oak tried to whisper softly down? Perhaps the grayer
friend heard it, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose and
looked about him, as one who had dreamed and was content. He
looked up at the solemn stars unafraid, and so murmured to
himself. "Day unto day uttereth speech," he said; "Night unto
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]