The Beast
Terrible

The little room was resplendent one night with a firewhich flamed and flickered gloriously. It set in motion many shadowswhich had their home in the corners of the walls, and bade them ceasetheir sullenness and come forth to dance in the riot of the hour. And soeach shadow found its partner in a ray of firelight, and there theydanced. They danced about the tangled front of the big bison’shead which hung upon the wall. They crossed the grinning skull of thegray wolf. They softened the eyes of the antelope’s head, and madedark lines behind the long-tined antlers of the elk and of the deer.They brought forth toview in alternate eclipse and definition the great, grim bear’shead which hung above the mantel. Every trophy gathered in years of thechase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps forgotten, was brought intoevidence, nor could one escape noting each one, and giving to each, forthis one night more, the story which belonged to it. I sat andlooked upon them all, and so there passed a panorama of the years.

“There,” thought I, “is the stag which once fell far in the pine woods of the North. This antelope takes me back to the hard, white Plains. These huge antlers could grow only amid the forests of the Rockies. That wolf—how many of the hounds he mangled, I remember; and the giant bear, it was a good fight he made, perhaps dangerous, had the old rifle there been less sure. Yes, yes, of course, I could recall each incident. Of course, they all were thrilling, exciting, delightful, glorious, all those things. Of course, the heart must have leaped in those days. The blood must have surged, in those moments. The pulse must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads belongs the keenest story?”

“I know,” said the Singing Mouse, which unknown to me had come and placed itself upon the table. “I know.” And it climbed upon my arm which lay across the table. The fire shone fair upon its little form, so that in silhouette its outline was delicate and keen as an image cut from the fiery heart of a noble opal stone.

“And what is it that you know?” I asked. “Maker of dreams, tell me what you know to-night.”

The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the beat of the fire’s rays. I looked at it so closely that a dream came upon my eyes, so that the voice of the Singing Mouse sounded far away and faint, though it was still clear and resonant in its own peculiar way and very fine and sweet.

“I will tell you which trophy you most prize,” it said. “I will show you your Iliad of the chase. Do you not remember, do you not see this, the most eventful hunting of all your life?”

And so I gazed where the Singing Mouse pointed, quite beyond the dusty walls, and there I saw as it had said. I heard not the thunder of the hoofs of buffalo, nor the faint crack of the twig beneath the panther’s foot. I saw not the lurching gallop of the long-jawed wolf, nor the high, elastic bounding of the deer. The level swinging speed of the antelope, the slinking of the lynx, the crashing flight of the wapiti—no, it was none of these that came to mind; nor did the mountains nor the plains, nor the wilderness of the pines. But when the Singing Mouse whispered, “Do you see?” I murmured in reply, “I see it all again!”

I saw the small, low hills, well covered with short oaks and hazel bushes, which rolled on away from the village, far out, almost to the Delectable Mountains, which are well known to be upon the edge of the world. Through these low hills a winding road led on, a road whose end no man had ever reached, but which went to places where, no doubt, many wonders were—perhaps even to the Delectable Mountains; for so a wise man once had said, his words harkened to with awe. This was a pleasant road, lined with brave sumacs, with bushes of the wild blackberry, and with small hazel trees which soon would offer fruit for the regular harvest of the fall, this same to be spread for drying on the woodshed roof. It was perhaps wise curiosity as to the crop of nuts which had brought thus far from home these two figures—an enormous distance, perhaps at least a mile beyond what heretofore had been the utmost limit of their wanderings. It was not, perhaps, safe to venture so far. There were known to be strange creatures in these woods, one knew not what. It was therefore well that the younger boy should clasp tightly the hand of the older, him who bore with such confidence the bow and arrows, potent weapons of those days gone by!