I ask not what nor who were these two who had come each year to this place of the oaks, but surely they were friends. In shadow, I could hear them talk. In shadow, I could see them smile.
These friends sat by the little fire a time before they went to rest in the tiny house of white. After they had gone, the fire did strange things. All men know that, though you see the fire burned down, when you go into the tent you will some time in the night see the walls lit up by a sudden flash or so, now and then, from the fire which was thought to be dead.
That is the business of the fire, and of the oaks and of the shadows. I know that the shadows dance strangely, and hover and come near at hand, in those late hours of the night; but what then occurs I do not know. These two friends never questioned this. They knew it was the secret of the night, and gave the oak its own request, in pay for its protection and consent. They gave the oak its union with the sacred Past.
In the night I have heard the oak sob. Yet in the morning, when the sun was silvering the wake of all the leaping fishes, the oak was always gentle, and it said, “Wake, wake! God is wise. Waken, waken! God is good!”
As pure shining beads upon a thread of gold I saw this small, dear picture, reiterant and unchanged, year after year, always with the same calm and pure surroundings. Only as year added itself to year, slipping forward on the golden string, I saw the gray figure grow more gray, more bowed, more feeble. Alas! it seemed to me I saw the silver coming upon the head of the younger man, and his eyes growing weary, as of one who looks at the earth too closely (which it is not wise to do). Yet the years came, to the oaks and to the grasses and to the friends.
The grass dies every year, but it is born again. The oak dies in centuries, but it is born again. Man dies in three score years and ten; but he, too, is born again.
As I looked, I could see the passing of the years. In all but the unaltering fire of friendship I could see change creeping on. Grayer, grayer, more bent, more feeble—is it not so, Singing Mouse? And now, this time, what was this gentle warning that the oak tried to whisper softly down? Perhaps the grayer friend heard it, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose and looked about him, as one who had dreamed and was content. He looked up at the solemn stars unafraid, and so murmured to himself. “Day unto day uttereth speech,” he said; “Night unto night showeth knowledge.”
Day unto day, Singing Mouse. Day unto day.