'No, no! that is not what I mean. I know this Book. This is not it.'
He heard exclamations of surprise, and felt the looks which were fixed on him from all sides.
'What? What do you mean, little man?'
'I know this book. It is the book men believe in. But there is not enough in it—if there were, there would be peace and goodwill among men. And there is none. I mean something different—something which no one can doubt who sees it; in which it is written, precisely and clearly, why everything is as it is.'
'How is that possible? Where can the boy have picked up such a notion?'
'Who taught you that, my little friend?'
'I am afraid that you have read some wicked books, child, and are talking like them.'
Thus spoke the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning—his eyes were dim and dazzled—the room turned round, and the huge flowers on the carpet swayed up and down. Where was the little mouse who had so faithfully helped him that day in the school-room? He wanted her badly.
'I am not talking like any book, and he who taught me what I know is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers and animals, and am friends with them all. And I know too what men are, and how they live. I know all the fairies' secrets and the wood-sprites'; for they all love me—more than men do.'
Oh Mousey, Mousey!