The Singing Mouse Stories | Page 9

that from its summit he could see many things.
"The man was now growing old, so when he got to the top of this
mountain he sat down to rest. When he sat down, he put his chin in his
hand, and his arm upon his knee; and so he looked out over the land,
seeing many things.
"The sun came up, but the man did not move, but sat and thought. The
moon came, but still he did not move. He only looked, and thought and
smiled.
"After many days it was seen that this man would not come down from
the mountain. The mountain made him part of itself, and turned him
into stone, as he sat there, with his chin in his hand. He is there to-day,
looking out over many things. He never moves, for he is now of stone.
I have seen that place myself. Once I thought I heard this man whisper
of the things he saw. He sits there to-day."
[Illustration]

[Illustration: At the Place of the Oaks ...]
[Illustration]
AT THE PLACE OF THE OAKS

"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