The Singing Mouse Stories | Page 7

and every morning look upon her face, innocent,
pure, unknown and unknowing, therefore good, sincere and utterly

trustworthy. That is why the pines live. That is what they are talking
about. In many places I know the hearts of the pines are broken, and
they grieve continually. That is because there are too many people. In
this valley the pines do not grieve. They only talk among themselves.
In the morning they will wave their hands quite gaily and will say:
'Waken, waken, Belle-Marie! Sweet is the day, sweet is the day, God
hath given, given, given!' That is what the pines say in the morning.
[Illustration]
"The white mountains yonder are very old. How strong and quiet they
are, and how sure of themselves! To be quiet and strong one needs to
be old, for small things do not matter then. Do you know what the
mountains think, as they stand there shoulder to shoulder--for they live
only to shield and protect the forest, here in the valley. They told me
they were thinking of the smallness and the quickness of the days. 'Age
unto age!' is what the mountains whisper. 'Æon unto æon! Strong,
strong, strong is Time!'
"And yet I knew these mighty pillars stood only to shield the forest
which shielded Belle-Marie. So I stood upon the last mountain and
looked upon the great blue of the sky, and there again I saw the face of
Lake Belle-Marie; and the circle was complete, and I sought no more,
for I knew that from the abode of perfect, unhurt nature it is but a step
up to the perfect peace and rest of the land where lives that Time whose
name the mountains voice in awe.
"And now, do you see what is happening on Lake Belle-Marie?
Through the cleft in the forest the pink of the early day is showing, and
light shines through the spaces of the pines. And down the pebbles of
the beach, knee-deep into the shining flood, steps a noble creature,
antlered, beautiful, admirable. Do you see him drink, and do you see
him raise his head and look about with gentle and fearless eye? This
creature is of the place, and no hand must harm him.
"Let the thin, blue smoke die down. Attempt no foot farther on. Disturb
not this spot. Return. But before you go, take one more look upon the
Lake of Belle-Marie!"

So again I gazed upon the face of the lake, which seemed innocent, and
sincere, and trustworthy, and deserving of the protection of the league
of the pines, and the army of the mountains, and the canopy of the
unshamed sky. And then the voice of the Singing Mouse, employed in
some song whose language I do not yet fully understand, faded and
sank away; and even as it passed the walls came back and the ashes lay
gray upon the hearth.
[Illustration]

[Illustration: The Skull and the Rose]
[Illustration]
THE SKULL AND THE ROSE
The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit of the white skull
which lies upon the table next to the volume of Shakespeare. It reached
down a tiny pink paw and touched a leaf of the brave red rose which
every day lies before the skull. It plucked the leaf, which made a
buckler for its small throbbing breast. It spoke:
"The rose is bold and red," said the Singing Mouse. "Blood is red. A
skull is white. The rose and the skull love one another. They understand.
We do not understand.
"As I sat by the skull I saw a dream of the past go by. It was as you see
it now.
"Do you see the waving grasses of the valleys? Do you see the
unmoving front of the white old mountains? Do you see the red roses
growing down among the grasses?
"It is peace upon the land. I can see one who has seen the lands. He
smiles, but he is sad. He crosses the wide sea, but cares not. He travels
upon rails of iron, and he smiles, but still is sad, because he thinks; and
he who thinks must weep. He leaves the ship and the iron rail, and his

road is narrower and slower, for he travels now by wheels of wood. He
sees the valleys, and his smile has more of peace. His trail becomes
narrower yet. He goes by saddle, and the mountains hem him in, but
now he smiles the more. Now he must leave even the saddle, and the
trail is dim and hard. See, the trail is gone! Here, where no foot has trod,
where the mountains close about, where the trees whisper, he sits and
looks about him. Do you see the red rose on his breast? Always