Melody unformulate, 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 the years 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, what would 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, I could 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 leaves of 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Of the Greatest Sorrow...]
[Illustration]