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]