The Singing Mouse Stories | Page 6

knew at last our voyage sad was o'er, And we hard by the haven for which we strove, And soon all past the need to wander more.
"Then as our craft made safely on the strand, And we all well our weary brown sail furled, We gazed as strangers might at that fair land, And hardly knew if it might be our world; Till One took gently every weary hand, And led us on to where still waters be, And whispered softly, 'Lo! it hath been planned That thou at last this pleasant place shouldst see.'
"And as those dreaming so awakened we, And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair sky, And whispered, hand in hand and eye to eye, ''Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea-- 'Tis our Atlantis, from the bitten sea! 'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend, to thee and me!'"

[Illustration: Lake Belle-Marie]
[Illustration]
LAKE BELLE-MARIE
Lake Belle-Marie lies far away. Beyond the forest the mountains are white. Beyond the mountains the sky rises blue, high up into the infinite Unknown.
I do not know where the Singing Mouse lives. No man can tell what journeys it may make such times as it is absent from the room that holds the pine table, and the book, and the candle, and the open fire. But last night when the faint, shrill sweetness of its little voice grew apart from the lonely silence of the room, and I turned and saw the Singing Mouse sitting on the corner of the book, the light of the candle shining pink through its tiny paws, almost the first word it said was of the far-off Lake of Belle-Marie.
"Do you see it?" asked the Singing Mouse.
"You mean--"
"The moon there through the window? Do you see the moon and the stars? Do you know where they are shining to-night? Do you see them, there, deep in the water? Do you know where that is? Do you know the water? I know. It is Lake Belle-Marie."
And all I could do was to sit speechless. For the fire was gone, and the wall was open, and the room was not a room. The voice of the Singing Mouse, shrill and sweet, droned on a thousand miles away in smallness, but every word a crystal of regret and joy.
"A thousand feet deep, or more, or bottomless, lies Lake Belle-Marie, for no man has ever fathomed it. But no matter how deep, the moon lies to-night at the bottom, and you can see it shining there, deep down in the blue. The stars are smaller, so they stay up and sparkle on the surface. The forest is very black to-night, is it not? and the shadow of the pines on the point looks like a mass of actual substance. Wait! Did you see that silver creature leap from the quiet water? You may know the shadow is but a shadow, for you can see the chasing ripples pass through it and break it up into a crinkled fabric of the night.
"Do you see the pines waving, away up there in their tops, and do you hear them talking? They are always talking. To-night they are saying: 'Hush, Belle-Marie; slumber, Belle-Marie; we will watch, we will watch, hush, hush, hush!' Didn't you ever know what the pines said? They wish no one ever to come near Lake Belle-Marie. Well for you that you only sat and looked at the face of Belle-Marie, and cast no line nor fired untimely shot around such shores! The pines would have been angry and would have crushed you. You do not know how they live, seeking only to keep Belle-Marie from the world, standing close and sturdy together and threatening any who approach. It would break their hearts to have her hiding-place found out. You do not know how they love her. The pines are old, old, old, many of them, but they told me that no footprint of man was ever seen upon those shores, that no boat ever rested on that little sea, neither did ever a treacherous line wrinkle even the smallest portion of its smoothest coves. Believe me, to have Belle-Marie known would break the hearts of the pines. They told me they lived all the time only that they might every night sing Belle-Marie to sleep, 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