The Singing Mouse Stories | Page 3

water. Those are not ripples. That is silver!
There will be angels walking on that pathway before long! That is not
the moon coming up over the lake! It is the swinging open, by some
careless angel's mischance, of the door of the White City of Rest!...
How old, how sore a man climbed up the steep bank! There were white
fields. In the distance a dog barked. Away across the fields a bright and
cheery light shone out from a window, and as the moon rose higher, it
showed the house which held the light. It was not a large house, but it
seemed to be a home. Home!--what is that? I wondered; and I

remember that I pulled at the frozen legging, and moved, with pain, the
limbs grown tired and sore. And, as one looked at that twinkling,
comfortable light, how plainly the rest of the old song came back:
"When all the world is old, lad, And all the trees are brown, And all the
sports are stale, lad, And all the wheels run down,
"Creep home and take your place there, The sick and maimed among.
God grant you find one face there, You loved when you were young."
The light in the little house went out. I think it was a happy home. May
yours be so, always.
[Illustration]

[Illustration: The Little River]
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE RIVER
The Singing Mouse came out and sat upon my knee. It fixed its small
red eye upon me, and lifted its tiny paws, so thin the fire shone through
them. And it sang.... Like the voice of some night-wandering bird of
melody, hid high in the upper realms of darkness, came faint sweet
notes falling softly down. It was as if from the deep air above, and from
the wide air around, there were dropping and drifting small links of
silken steel, gentle but strong, so that one were helpless even had one
wished to move. To listen was also to see.
There were low rolling hills, covered and crowned with a thick growth
of hazel thickets and short oaks. Between these hills ran long strips of
green, strung on tiny bands of silver. And as these bands moved and
thickened and braided themselves together, I seemed to see a
procession of the trees. The cottonwoods halted in their march. The
box-elders, and maples, and water-elms, and walnuts and such big trees
swept grandly in with waving banners, and wound on and on in long

procession, even down to two blue distant hills set at the edge of the
world, unpassed guardians of a land of dreams. Ah, well-a-day! I look
back at those two hills now, and the land of dreams lies still beyond
them, it is true; but it is now upon the side whence I first gazed. It is
back there, where one can not go again; back there, along that crystal,
murmuring mystery of the little stream one knew when one was young!
[Illustration]
Ah, little river, little river, but I am coming back again. Once more I
push away the long grass and the swinging boughs, and look into your
face. Again I dabble my bare feet, and scoop up my straw hat full, and
watch the tiny streams run down. Again I stand, bare and small and
trembling, wondering if I can swim across. And--listen, little
river--again at the same old place I shall cut me the willow wand, and
down the long slope to the certain place I knew I am going to hurry,
running the last quarter of a mile in sheer expectation, but forgetting
not the binding on of the tough linen line. And now I cast my gaudy
float on that same swinging, wimpling, dimpling eddy, and let it swim
in beneath the bank. And--No! Can it be? Have I here, now, again,
plainly in my hands, the strange and wonderful creature, the gift of the
little stream? Is this its form, utterly lovable? Is this its coat, wrought of
cloth of gold and silver? Are these diamonds its eyes?... Oh, little river,
little river, give me back this gift to keep for ever! Why take such
things from us?... All I have I will give to you, if you will but give back
to me, to have by me all the time, this little fish from the pool beneath
the boughs. I have hunted well for him, believe me, hard and faithfully
in many a place, but he is no longer there. I find him no longer, even in
the remotest spots I search.... But this is he! This, in my hands, here in
actual sight, is my first, my glorious, iridescent, radiant prize! Pray you,
behold the glittering!
But along this little river there were other