The Singing Mouse Stories | Page 7

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. '?on unto ?on! 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 the rose is there. Do you see him look up at the mountains, about him at the trees? Do you see him lay his head upon the earth? Do you still see his smile, the smile which is weary and yet not afraid? Do you hear him sigh? And what is this he whispers, here at the end of the long and narrowing way--'I know not if this be the end or the beginning!' Ah, what does this man mean who whispers to himself in riddles?
"Look! It is the time of war. There is music. The blood stings. The