The Singing Mouse Stories Part 5

The elder hunter bethinks him of a solution for this problem.

The broken blade will do to gnaw off this bough, and it will serve to make a split in the end of it. And if one be fortunate, and if this split bestride the tail of the concealed animal, and if the stick be twisted--

"I've got him!" cried this philosopher for his "Eureka." And then there was twisting and pulling, and scratching and squeaking, and bitten fingers and tears; but after all was over, there lay the squirrel vanquished, at the feet of these young barbarians who had wandered out from home into the unknown lands of earth. Cruel barbarians, thoughtless, relentless! But how much has the world changed?

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The moon was over Ajalon when these two hunters, after all the perils of the long, black road, marched up into the dooryard, bearing on a pole between them their quarry, well suspended by the gambrels. "My boys, I feared that you were lost!"

exclaims the tearful mother who stands waiting in the door.

But the silent father, standing back of her in the glow of the lamplight, sees what the pole is bearing, and in his eye there is a smile. After that, motherly reproach, fatherly inquiry, plenteous bread and milk, many eager explanations and much descriptive narrative simultaneously uttered by two mouths eager both to eat and to talk.

"I see it all," I said to the Singing Mouse. "It all comes back again. No chase was ever or will ever be so great as this one--back there, near the Delectable Mountains, in those days gone by, those incomparable days of youth! I thank you, Singing Mouse; but I beg you do not go for yet a time. The heads upon the wall grin much, and the dust lies thick upon them all."

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[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pa.s.sing of Men]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE Pa.s.sING OF MEN

One night the moon was shining brightly upon the curtain, which had been drawn tight across the window. Within the room the light was dim, so that there could be seen clearly the pictures which the moon was drawing on the curtain, figures which marched, advanced, receded. One might almost have thought these the shadows of some moving boughs, had one not known the ways the moon has at certain times.

It chanced that high up in the curtain there was a tiny hole, and through this opening the moonlight streamed, falling upon the table in a small, silvery ellipse, of a size which one might cover ten times with one's hand. It was natural that in this little well of pale and dreamlike radiance the Singing Mouse should find it fit to manifest itself. I knew not when it came, but as I looked, the spot had found a tenant. The small, transparent paws of the Singing Mouse displayed no shadow as they waved and swung across this pencil of the pale, mysterious light. Yet its eyes shone opaline and brilliant as it sat, so that I could hardly gaze without a shiver of surprise akin to fear, fascinated as though I looked upon a thing unreal. Thus surrounded, almost one might say thus penetrated, by the translucent shaft of radiance which came through the window, the Singing Mouse told me of the figures on the curtain, which now began to have more distinct semblances.

"Do you see the figures there?" said the Singing Mouse. "Do you see the marching men? Have you never heard the hoofs ring on the roof when the wind blows high? Have you not seen their ranks sweep swift across the sky when storms arise? Have you never seen them marching through the long aisles of the wood at night?

These are the warriors of the past. Now earth has always loved the warriors."

I looked, and indeed it was the truth. There was a panorama on the curtain. History had unrolled her scroll. The warriors of the nations and the times were pa.s.sing.

I saw the men of Babylon, and those who came out of Egypt. Dark were these of hair and visage, and their arms were the ancient bow and spear. And there were those who rode light and cast back their rapid archery. These faded, and in their stead marched men close-knit in solid phalanx, with long spears offering impenetrable front. In turn these pa.s.sed away, and there came men with haughty brow, who bore short spears and swords. Near by these were wild, huge men of yellow hair, whose shields were leather and whose swords were broad and long. And as I gazed at all of these, my blood thrilling strangely at the sight, the figures blended and formed into a splendid procession of a martial day gone by. I saw them--a long stream of mounted men, who rode in helmet and cuira.s.s, and bore each aloft a long-beamed spear. In front rode one whose mien was high and stern, and who might well have been commander. High aloft he tossed his great sword as he rode, and sang the time a song of war; and as he sang, the thousands of deep throats behind him made chorus terrible but stirring in its chesty melody, for ictus to the song each warrior smiting sword on shield in a mighty unison whose high, sonorous note thrilled like the voice of actual war. Steady the strong eyes gleamed out and onward as they rode. From the steel-clad breast of each there shone forward a glancing ray of light, as though it came direct from the heart, untamed even by a thousand years of death. My heart leaped to see them ride, so straight and stern and fearless, so goodly, so glorious to look upon. Came the rattle of chain, the clang of arms, the jangle of belt and spur; and still the brave procession pa.s.sed, in tens, in hundreds, in thousands, in a long wave of stately men, whose eyes shone each in all the bold delight of war. Stooped front, hooked hand and avaricious eye--these were as absent as the glow of gold or silver. It was the glorious age of steel.

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Still on they pa.s.sed, always arising the hoa.r.s.e swell of the fighters' chorus. I heard the rumble of the many hoofs, thrilling even the impa.s.sive earth. The spear points shone. The harness rattled. The pennants fluttered stiffly in the breeze.

And then afar I heard a sweet, compelling melody, the invitation of the bugle, that dearest mistress of the heart of man. My blood leaped. I started up. I started forward. The sweep of the ranks drew me on and in irresistibly. I would have raised my voice. I sought to stay, if for but one instant, this army of brave men, this panorama of exalted war, this incomparable pageant of a day gone by! It was the Singing Mouse that checked me; for I heard it sigh:

"Alas!"

And yet again the scene was changed. Across the view streamed yet a long line of warriors. The hair of these did not float yellow from beneath loosened casque, nor indeed did these know aught of armor, nor did they march with banners beckoning, nor to the wooing of the trumpet's voice. The skins of these were red, and their hair was raven-black. Arms they had, and horses, though rude the one and ill-caparisoned the other. Leather and wood, and flint and sinew served them for material. Ill-armed they were; but as they rode, with naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s and painted faces, and tall feathers nodding in their plaited hair, out of the eye of each there shone the soul of the fighting man, the warrior, beloved since ever earth began. Not less than the men of Babylon were these, nor than they of the ancient bow and spear, nor than they of the steel-clad breast; and as I saw them naked, clad only in the armor of a man's fearlessness, the word of commendation was as ready as that of pity.

"They are late, Singing Mouse," said I, "late in the day of war."

"Yes," said the Singing Mouse, with sadness, "they are late, and they must pa.s.s away. But they are warriors of proof, as much as any of those who have pa.s.sed. Did you not see the melancholy of each face as it looked forward? Their fate was known, yet they rode forward to meet it fearlessly, as brave as any fighting men of all the years. In time, they too shall have their story, and with the other warriors of the earth shall march again upon the page of history."

As I looked, the figures of these men grew dimmer. The tinkling of beaded garments and the shuffling of the ponies' hoofs became less and less distinct, and the dust cloud of their traveling became fainter and fainter, and finally faded and melted away.

The curtain was bare. I heard the sighing of the wind.

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[Ill.u.s.tration: The House of Truth]

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THE HOUSE OF TRUTH

One morning I lay upon my bed in the little room which I call my home. Now, among the eaves which rise opposite to my window there are many sparrows which have also made their homes. In the morning, before the sun has arisen, and at the time when the dawn is making the city gray and leaden in color instead of somber and black, these sparrows begin to chatter and chirp and sing in discordant notes, and by this I know the day has come.

Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window near mine the voice of grief and lamentation. Then I knew that one who had long been sick had pa.s.sed away. As the gray morning came on, this spirit, this spark of life, had gone out from its accustomed place. As the day came on, the sounds of lamentation arose. The friends of that one wept. So I asked the sparrows, and the sun, and the gray sky why these friends wept. What is grief? I asked of them. Why should these weep? What has happened when one dies? Where has the spark of life gone? Did it fall to these sodden pavements, for ever done, or did it go on up, to meet the kiss of the rising sun? And the sparrows, which fall to the ground, answered not. The sun rose calm and pa.s.sionless, but dumb. The sky folded in, large but inscrutable. None the less arose the voice of lamentation and of woe.

"I ask you, Singing Mouse," said I, one night as we sat alone, "what is the Truth? How do we reach it? How shall we know it?

Tell me of this spark that has gone out. Tell me, what is life, and where does it go? There are many words. Tell me, what is the Truth?"

The Singing Mouse gazed at me in its way of pity, so I knew I had asked that which could not be. Yet even as I saw this look appear it changed and vanished. And as the Singing Mouse waved its tiny paw I forbore reflection and looked only on the scene which now was spread before me. It seemed a picture of actual colors, and I could see it plainly.

I saw a youth who stood with one older and of austere garb. By the vestments of this older man I knew he was of those who teach people in spiritual things. To him the young man had come in anguish of heart. Then the older man of priestly garb taught the young man in the teachings that had come down to him. But the youth bowed his head in trouble, nor was the cloud cleared upon his heart. I heard him murmur, "Alas! what is the Truth?"

So I saw this same youth pa.s.s on, in various stages of this picture, and before him I saw drawn, as though in another picture, a panorama of the edifices and inst.i.tutions of the religions of all lands.

But the years pa.s.sed, and the panorama of beliefs swept by, and no one could tell this man what was the Truth.

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Yet after this young man had ceased to query and had closed his books, he one day entered alone into one of the great edifices built for the sake of that which he could not understand. In the picture I could see all this. I saw the young man cast himself face down among the cushions of a seat, and there he lay and listened to the music. This, too, I could hear. I could hear the peal of the organ arise like voices of the spirits, going up, up, whispering, appealing, promising, a.s.suring. Then--for I could see and hear with him--there came to that young man when he ceased to seek, the very exaltation he had longed to know.

"Ah! yes, Singing Mouse," I said, "it was very beautiful. But music is not final. Music is not the Truth. Tell me of these things."

The Singing Mouse again seemed to hesitate. "It may be," said the Singing Mouse slowly, "that the Truth will never be found between the covers of any book, no matter how wise. It may be that it never will be found by any who search for it always within walls built by human hands. It may be that no man can convey to another that which is the Truth to him. It may be that the Truth can never be grasped, never be weighed or formulated.

"The ways of Nature are always the same, but Nature does not ask exactness of form. Why, then, shall we ask exactness of faith?

The true faith is nothing final, not more than are final the carved stones of the church which offers it so strenuously. The stones crumble and decay, but new churches rise. New faiths will rise. But were not all well?"

At these things I wondered, and over them I thought for a time, but yet I did not understand all that the Singing Mouse had said. As if it knew my thought, the Singing Mouse said to me:

"Your vision is too narrow. You seek the great truths in small places, and wonder that you do not find them. Come with me."

The Singing Mouse waved its hand, as was its wont, and as in a dream and as though I were now the young man whom we had lately seen, I was transported, by what means I could not tell, into a place far distant. At first it seemed to me there was a figure in vestments, speaking I scarce knew of what. Again there was a church or a cathedral. I could see the rafters as I lay. I could hear the solemn and exalted peal of the organ. I could hear voices that sang up and up, thrilling, compelling.

The sense of the confinement of the building ceased. Insensibly I seemed to see the hewn stones of the walls a.s.sume their primeval and untouched state beneath the gra.s.ses of the hills.

I could feel the rafters vanishing and going back into the bodies of the oaks in which they originally grew. The voice of the organ remained with me, but it might have been the roll of the waves upon the sh.o.r.e. I was in the Temple. In the Temple, one needs not seek for names.