THE MOUSE AND THE
MOONBEAM
By Eugene Field
Whilst you were
sleeping, little Dear-my-Soul, strange things happened; but that I saw and
heard them, I should never have believed them. The clock stood, of course, in
the corner, a moonbeam floated idly on the floor, and a little mauve mouse came
from the hole in the chimney corner and frisked and scampered in the light of
the moonbeam upon the floor. The little mauve mouse was particularly merry;
sometimes she danced upon two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always
very daintily and always very merrily.
"Ah,
me!" sighed the old clock, "how different mice are nowadays from the
mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there was your grandma,
Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master Sniffwhisker,--how grave
and dignified they were! Many a night have I seen them dancing upon the carpet
below me, but always the stately minuet and never that crazy frisking which you
are executing now, to my surprise--yes, and to my horror, too."
"But why shouldn't
I be merry?" asked the little mauve mouse. "To-morrow is Christmas,
and this is Christmas eve."
"So it
is," said the old clock. "I had really forgotten all about it. But,
tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?"
"A great
deal to me!" cried the little mauve mouse. "I have been very good a
very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor have I gnawed any holes, nor
have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I worried my mother by running behind
the flour-barrel where that horrid trap is set. In fact, I have been so good
that I'm very sure Santa Claus will bring me something very pretty."
This seemed to
amuse the old clock mightily; in fact, the old clock fell to laughing so
heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck twelve instead of ten, which
was exceedingly careless and therefore to be reprehended.
"Why, you
silly little mauve mouse," said the old clock, "you don't believe in
Santa Claus, do you?"
"Of course I
do," answered the little mauve mouse. "Believe in Santa Claus? Why
shouldn't I? Didn't Santa Claus bring me a beautiful butter-cracker last
Christmas, and a lovely gingersnap, and a delicious rind of cheese,
and--and--lots of things? I should be very ungrateful if I did _not_ believe in
Santa Claus, and I certainly shall not disbelieve in him at the very moment
when I am expecting him to arrive with a bundle of goodies for me.
"I once had
a little sister," continued the little mauve mouse, "who did not
believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the fate that befell her makes
my blood run cold and my whiskers stand on end. She died before I was born, but
my mother has told me all about her. Perhaps you never saw her; her name was
Squeaknibble, and she was in stature one of those long, low, rangy mice that
are seldom found in well-stocked pantries. Mother says that Squeaknibble took
after our ancestors who came from New England, where the malignant ingenuity of
the people and the ferocity of the cats rendered life precarious indeed.
Squeaknibble seemed to inherit many ancestral traits, the most conspicuous of
which was a disposition to sneer at some of the most respected dogmas in
mousedom. From her very infancy she doubted, for example, the widely accepted
theory that the moon was composed of green cheese; and this heresy was the
first intimation her parents had of the sceptical turn of her mind. Of course,
her parents were vastly annoyed, for their maturer natures saw that this
youthful scepticism portended serious, if not fatal, consequences. Yet all in
vain did the sagacious couple reason and plead with their headstrong and
heretical child.
"For a long
time Squeaknibble would not believe that there was any such archfiend as a cat;
but she came to be convinced to the contrary one memorable night, on which
occasion she lost two inches of her beautiful tail, and received so terrible a
fright that for fully an hour afterward her little heart beat so violently as
to lift her off her feet and bump her head against the top of our domestic
hole. The cat that deprived my sister of so large a percentage of her vertebral
colophon was the same brindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and anon into
this room, crouches treacherously behind the sofa, and feigns to be asleep,
hoping, forsooth, that some of us, heedless of her hated presence, will venture
within reach of her diabolical claws. So enraged was this ferocious monster at
the escape of my sister that she ground her fangs viciously together, and vowed
to take no pleasure in life until she held in her devouring jaws the innocent
little mouse which belonged to the mangled bit of tail she even then clutched
in her remorseless claws."
"Yes,"
said the old clock, "now that you recall the incident, I recollect it
well. I was here then, in this very corner, and I remember that I laughed at
the cat and chided her for her awkwardness. My reproaches irritated her; she
told me that a clock's duty was to run itself down, _not_ to be depreciating
the merits of others! Yes, I recall the time; that cat's tongue is fully as
sharp as her claws."
"Be that as
it may," said the little mauve mouse, "it is a matter of history, and
therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the cat pined for
Squeaknibble's life; it seemed as if that one little two-inch taste of
Squeaknibble's tail had filled the cat with a consuming passion, or appetite,
for the rest of Squeaknibble. So the cat waited and watched and hunted and
schemed and devised and did everything possible for a cat--a cruel cat--to do
in order to gain her murderous ends. One night--one fatal Christmas eve--our
mother had undressed the children for bed, and was urging upon them to go to
sleep earlier than usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus would bring
each of them something very palatable and nice before morning. Thereupon the
little dears whisked their cunning tails, pricked up their beautiful ears, and
began telling one another what they hoped Santa Claus would bring. One asked
for a slice of Roquefort, another for Neufchâtel, another for Sap Sago, and a
fourth for Edam; one expressed a preference for de Brie, while another hoped to
get Parmesan; one clamored for imperial blue Stilton, and another craved the
fragrant boon of Caprera. There were fourteen little ones then, and
consequently there were diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which Santa
Claus should best bring; still, there was, as you can readily understand, an
enthusiastic unanimity upon this point, namely, that the gift should be cheese
of some brand or other.
"'My dears,'
said our mother, 'what matters it whether the boon which Santa Claus brings be
royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec, Vermont sage, or Herkimer
County skim-milk? We should be content with whatsoever Santa Glaus bestows, so
long as it be cheese, disjoined from all traps whatsoever, unmixed with Paris
green, and free from glass, strychnine, and other harmful ingredients. As for
myself, I shall be
satisfied with a
cut of nice, fresh Western reserve; for truly I recognize in no other viand or
edible half the fragrance or half the gustfulness to be met with in one of
these pale but aromatic domestic products. So run away to your dreams now, that
Santa Claus may find you sleeping.'
"The
children obeyed,--all but Squeaknibble. 'Let the others think what they
please,' said she, 'but _I_ don't believe in Santa Claus. I'm not going to bed,
either. I'm going to creep out of this dark hole and have a quiet romp, all by
myself, in the moonlight.' Oh, what a vain, foolish, wicked little mouse was
Squeaknibble! But I will not reproach the dead; her punishment came all too
swiftly. Now listen: who do you suppose
overheard her
talking so disrespectfully of Santa Claus?"
"Why, Santa
Claus himself," said the old clock.
"Oh,
no," answered the little mauve mouse. "It was that wicked, murderous
cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad children, so does the cruel
cat lurk and lie in wait for naughty little mice. And you can depend upon it,
that when that awful cat heard Squeaknibble speak so disrespectfully of Santa
Claus, her wicked eyes glowed with joy, her sharp teeth watered, and her
bristling fur emitted electric sparks as big as
Marrow fat peas.
Then what did that bloodthirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she could
into Dear-my-Soul's room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul's crib, and walk off with
the pretty little white muff which Dear-my-Soul used to wear when she went for
a visit to the little girl in the next block! What upon earth did the horrid
old cat want with Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little
white muff? Ah, the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat! Listen.
"In the
first place," resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause that testified
eloquently to the depth of her emotion,--"in the first place, that
wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little white muff, by which you
are to understand that she crawled through the muff just so far as to leave her
four cruel legs at liberty."
"Yes, I
understand," said the old clock.
"Then she
put on the boy doll's fur cap," said the little mauve mouse,
"and when
she was arrayed in the boy doll's fur cap and Dear-my-Soul's
pretty little
white muff, of course she didn't look like a cruel cat at
all. But whom did
she look like?"
"Like the
boy doll," suggested the old clock.
"No,
no!" cried the little mauve mouse.
"Like
Dear-my-Soul?" asked the old clock.
"How stupid
you are!" exclaimed the little mauve mouse. "Why, she looked like
Santa Claus, of course!"
"Oh, yes; I
see," said the old clock. "Now I begin to be interested; go on."
"Alas!"
sighed the little mauve mouse, "not much remains to be told; but there is
more of my story left than there was of Squeaknibble when that horrid cat
crawled out of that miserable disguise. You are to understand that, contrary to
her sagacious mother's injunction, and in notorious derision of the mooted
coming of Santa Claus, Squeaknibble issued from the friendly hole in the
chimney corner, and gambolled about over this very
carpet, and, I
dare say, in this very moonlight."
"I do not
know," said the moonbeam, faintly. "I am so very old, and I have seen
so many things--I do not know."
"Right
merrily was Squeaknibble gambolling," continued the little mauve mouse,
"and she had just turned a double back somersault without the use of what
remained of her tail, when, all of a sudden, she beheld, looming up like a
monster ghost, a figure all in white fur! Oh, how frightened she was, and how
her little heart did beat! 'Purr, purr-r-r,' said the ghost in white fur. 'Oh,
please don't hurt me!' pleaded Squeaknibble. 'No; I'll not hurt you,' said the
ghost in white fur; 'I'm Santa Claus, and I've brought you a beautiful piece of
savory old cheese, you dear little mousie, you.' Poor Squeaknibble was
deceived; a sceptic all her life, she was at last befooled by the most palpable
and most fatal of frauds. 'How good of you!' said Squeaknibble. 'I didn't
believe there was a Santa Claus, and--' but before she could say more she was
seized by two sharp, cruel claws that conveyed her crushed body to the
murderous mouth of mousedom's most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon
this harrowing scene. Suffice it to say that ere the morrow's sun rose like a
big yellow Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been
enacted,
poor Squeaknibble
passed to that bourn whence two inches of her beautiful tail had preceded her
by the space of three weeks to a day. As for Santa Claus, when he came that
Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and of Stilton for the other little
mice, he heard with sorrow of Squeaknibble's fate; and ere he departed he said
that in all his experience he had never known of a mouse or of a child that had
prospered after once saying that he didn't believe in Santa Claus."
"Well, that
is a remarkable story," said the old clock. "But if you believe in
Santa Glaus, why aren't you in bed?"
"That's
where I shall be presently," answered the little mauve mouse, "but I
must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure you, to frolic in
the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why you are always so cold and
so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty little moonbeam."
"Indeed, I
do not know that I am so," said the moonbeam. "But I am very old, and
I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen wondrous things. Sometimes
I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I
rest upon a dead child's face. I see the fairies at their play, and I hear
mothers singing lullabies. Last night I
swept across the
frozen bosom of a river. A woman's face looked up at me; it was the picture of
eternal rest. 'She is sleeping,' said the frozen river. 'I rock her to and fro,
and sing to her. Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken
her.'"
"How
strangely you talk," said the old clock. "Now, I'll warrant me that,
if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful story. You must
know many a Christmas tale; pray tell us one to wear away this night of
Christmas watching."
"I know but
one," said the moonbeam. "I have told it over and over again, in
every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it. It is very simple.
Should you like to hear it?"
"Indeed we
should," said the old clock; "but before you begin, let me strike
twelve; for I shouldn't want to interrupt you."
When the old
clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than usual alacrity, the
moonbeam began its story:--
"Upon a
time--so long ago that I can't tell how long ago it was--I fell upon a
hillside. It was in a far distant country; this I know, because, although it
was the Christmas time, it was not in that country as it is wont to be in
countries to the north. Hither the snow-king never came; flowers bloomed all
the year, and at all times the lambs found pleasant pasturage on the hillsides.
The night wind was balmy, and there was a fragrance of cedar in its breath.
There were violets on the hillside, and I fell amongst them and lay there. I
kissed them, and they awakened. 'Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?' they said,
and they nestled in the grass which the lambs had left uncropped.
"A shepherd
lay upon a broad stone on the hillside; above him spread an olive-tree, old,
ragged, and gloomy; but now it swayed its rusty branches majestically in the
shifting air of night. The shepherd's name was Benoni. Wearied with long
watching, he had fallen asleep; his crook had slipped from his hand. Upon the
hillside, too, slept the shepherd's flock. I had counted them again and again;
I had stolen across their gentle faces and
brought them
pleasant dreams of green pastures and of cool water-brooks. I had kissed old
Benoni, too, as he lay slumbering there; and in his dreams he seemed to see
Israel's King come upon earth, and in his dreams he murmured the promised
Messiah's name.
"'Ah, is it
you, little moonbeam?' quoth the violets. 'You have come in good time. Nestle
here with us, and see wonderful things come to pass.'
"'What are
these wonderful things of which you speak?' I asked.
"'We heard
the old olive-tree telling of them to-night,' said the violets. '"Do not
go to sleep, little violets," said the old olive-tree, "for this is
Christmas night, and the Master shall walk upon the hillside in the glory of
the midnight hour." So we waited and watched; one by one the lambs fell
asleep; one by one the stars peeped out; the shepherd nodded and crooned and
crooned and nodded, and at last he, too, went fast asleep, and his crook
slipped from his keeping. Then we called to the old olive-tree yonder, asking
how soon the midnight hour would come; but all the old olive-tree answered was
"Presently, presently," and finally we, too, fell asleep, wearied by
our long watching, and lulled by the rocking
and swaying of
the old olive-tree in the breezes of the night.'
"'But who is
this Master?' I asked.
"'A child, a
little child,' they answered. 'He is called the little Master by the others. He
comes here often, and plays among the flowers of the hillside. Sometimes the
lambs, gambolling too carelessly, have crushed and bruised us so that we lie
bleeding and are like to die; but the little Master heals our wounds and
refreshes us once again.'
"I marvelled
much to hear these things. 'The midnight hour is at hand,' said I, 'and I will
abide with you to see this little Master of whom you speak.' So we nestled
among the verdure of the hillside, and sang songs one to another.
"'Come
away!' called the night wind; 'I know a beauteous sea not far hence, upon whose
bosom you shall float, float, float away out into the mists and clouds, if you
will come with me.'
"But I hid
under the violets and amid the tall grass, that the night wind might not woo me
with its pleading. 'Ho, there, old olive-tree!' cried the violets; 'do you see
the little Master coming? Is not the midnight hour at hand?'
"'I can see
the town yonder,' said the old olive-tree. 'A star beams bright over Bethlehem,
the iron gates swing open, and the little Master comes.'
"Two
children came to the hillside. The one, older than his comrade, was Dimas, the
son of Benoni. He was rugged and sinewy, and over his brown shoulders was flung
a goat-skin; a leathern cap did not confine his long, dark curly hair. The
other child was he whom they called the little Master; about his slender form
clung raiment white as snow, and around his face of heavenly innocence fell
curls of golden yellow. So beautiful a child I had not seen before, nor have I
ever since seen such as he. And as they came together to the hillside, there
seemed to glow about the little Master's head a soft white light, as if the
moon had sent its tenderest, fairest beams to kiss those golden curls.
"'What sound
was that?' cried Dimas, for he was exceeding fearful.
"'Have no
fear, Dimas,' said the little Master. 'Give me thy hand, and I will lead thee.'
"Presently
they came to the rock whereon Benoni, the shepherd, lay; and they stood under
the old olive-tree, and the old olive-tree swayed no longer in the night wind,
but bent its branches reverently in the presence of the little Master. It seemed
as if the wind, too, stayed in its shifting course just then; for suddenly
there was a solemn hush, and you
could hear no
noise, except that in his dreams Benoni spoke the Messiah's
name.
"'Thy father
sleeps,' said the little Master, 'and it is well that it is so; for that I love
thee, Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in my Father's kingdom, I would
show thee the glories of my birthright.'
"Then all at
once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than the light of day,
illumined the sky and fell upon all that hillside. The heavens opened, and
angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the earth. More wondrous still, the
stars, falling from their places in the sky, clustered upon the old olive-tree,
and swung hither and thither like colored lanterns. The flowers of the hillside
all awakened, and they, too, danced and sang. The angels, coming hither, hung
gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old olive, where swung
the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I
shall never see again. When Dimas heard and saw these things he fell upon his
knees,
and catching the
hem of the little Master's garment, he kissed it.
"'Greater
joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,' said the little Master; 'but first must
all things be fulfilled.'
"All through
that Christmas night did the angels come and go with their sweet anthems; all
through that Christmas night did the stars dance and sing; and when it came my
time to steal away, the hillside was still
beautiful with
the glory and the music of heaven."
"Well, is
that all?" asked the old clock.
"No,"
said the moonbeam; "but I am nearly done. The years went on. Sometimes I
tossed upon the ocean's bosom, sometimes I scampered o'er a battle-field,
sometimes I lay upon a dead child's face. I heard the voices of Darkness and
mothers' lullabies and sick men's prayers,--and so the years went on.
"I fell one
night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor. A thief was
dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the cross stood men
with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat
beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body
my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard
before,--though where I did not know,--and this
voice blessed
those that railed and jeered and shamefully entreated. And suddenly the voice
called 'Dimas, Dimas!' and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made
answer.
"Then I saw
that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there remained but little of the
shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon the hillside. Long
years of sinful life had seared their marks into his face; yet now, at the
sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back,
and in the yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd's son
again.
"'The
Master!' cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might see him
that spake.
"'O Dimas,
how art thou changed!' cried the Master, yet there was in his voice no tone of
rebuke save that which cometh of love.
"Then Dimas
wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the Master's consoling voice and
the Master's presence there wrought in the dying criminal such a new spirit,
that when at last his head fell upon his bosom, and the men about the cross
said that he was dead, it seemed as if
I shined not upon
a felon's face, but upon the face of the gentle shepherd lad, the son of
Benoni.
"And shining
on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the little Master's words
that he had spoken under the old olive-tree upon the hillside: 'Your eyes
behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,' I whispered, 'for with the Master you
walk in Paradise.'"
Ah, little
Dear-my-Soul, you know--you know whereof the moonbeam spake. The shepherd's
bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the old olive-tree is gone, the
flowers of the hillside are withered, and none knoweth where the grave of Dimas
is made. But last night, again, there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the
angels descended from the sky to earth, and the stars sang together in glory.
And the bells,--hear them, little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are
ringing,--the bells bear us the good tidings of great joy this Christmas
morning, that our Christ is born, and that with him he bringeth peace on earth
and good-will toward men.
Grateful thanks
to Project Gutenberg
