{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27697/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27697","id":"gutenberg_27697","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27697","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Christmas stories"],"text":"Produced by Louise Hope, David Edwards and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n  THE MOUSE\n  AND THE MOONBEAM\n\n\n  [Illustration]\n\n\n  THE MOUSE\n  AND THE MOONBEAM\n\n  By\n  Eugene Field\n\n  NEW YORK\n  1919\n\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1912\n\nby Charles Scribner's Sons\n\nThrough the courtesy of Charles Scribner's Sons,\nwe were permitted to print this small private edition.\n\n--GIFT--\n\n\n\n\n[Decoration]\n\n\nTHE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM\n\nWhilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-soul, strange things\nhappened; but that I saw and heard them, I should never have\nbelieved them. The clock stood, of course, in the corner, a\nmoonbeam floated idly on the floor, and a little mauve mouse\ncame from the hole in the chimney corner and frisked and\nscampered in the light of the moonbeam upon the floor. The\nlittle mauve mouse was particularly merry; sometimes she danced\nupon two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always very\ndaintily and always very merrily.\n\n\"Ah, me!\" sighed the old clock, \"how different mice are nowadays\nfrom the mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there\nwas your grandma, Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your\ngrandpa, Master Sniffwhisker,--how grave and dignified they\nwere! Many a night have I seen them dancing upon the carpet\nbelow me, but always the stately minuet and never that crazy\nfrisking which you are executing now, to my surprise--yes, and\nto my horror, too.\"\n\n\"But why shouldn't I be merry?\" asked the little mauve mouse.\n\"Tomorrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.\"\n\n\"So it is,\" said the old clock. \"I had really forgotten all\nabout it. But, tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss\nMauve Mouse?\"\n\n\"A great deal to me!\" cried the little mauve mouse. \"I have been\nvery good a very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor\nhave I gnawed any holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor\nhave I worried my mother by running behind the flour-barrel\nwhere that horrid trap is set. In fact, I have been so good that\nI am very sure Santa Claus will bring me something very pretty.\"\n\nThis seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact the old\nclock fell to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment\nshe struck twelve instead of ten, which was exceedingly careless\nand therefore to be reprehended.\n\n\"Why, you silly little mauve mouse,\" said the old clock, \"you\ndon't believe in Santa Claus, do you?\"\n\n\"Of course I do,\" answered the little mauve mouse. \"Believe in\nSanta Claus? Why shouldn't I? Didn't Santa Claus bring me a\nbeautiful butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely\ngingersnap, and a delicious rind of cheese, and--and--lots of\nthings? I should be very ungrateful if I did _not_ believe in\nSanta Claus, and I certainly shall not disbelieve in him at the\nvery moment when I am expecting him to arrive with a bundle of\ngoodies for me.\n\n\"I once had a little sister,\" continued the little mauve mouse,\n\"who did not believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the\nfate that befell her makes my blood run cold and my whiskers\nstand on end. She died before I was born, but my mother has told\nme all about her. Perhaps you never saw her: her name was\nSqueaknibble, and she was in stature one of those long, low,\nrangy mice that are seldom found in well-stocked pantries.\nMother says that Squeaknibble took after our ancestors who came\nfrom New England, where the malignant ingenuity of the people\nand the ferocity of the cats rendered life precarious indeed.\nSqueaknibble seemed to inherit many ancestral traits, the most\nconspicuous of which was a disposition to sneer at some of the\nmost respected dogmas in mousedom. From her very infancy she\ndoubted, for example, the widely accepted theory that the moon\nwas composed of green cheese; and this heresy was the first\nintimation her parents had of the sceptical turn of her mind.\nOf course her parents were vastly annoyed, for their maturer\nnatures saw that this youthful scepticism portended serious,\nif not fatal, consequences. Yet all in vain did the sagacious\ncouple reason and plead with their headstrong and heretical\nchild.\n\n\"For a long time Squeaknibble would not believe that there was\nany such archfiend as a cat; but she came to be convinced to the\ncontrary one memorable night, on which occasion she lost two\ninches of her beautiful tail, and received so terrible a fright\nthat for fully an hour afterward her little heart beat so\nviolently as to lift her off her feet and bump her head against\nthe top of our domestic hole. The cat that deprived my sister of\nso large a percentage of her vertebral colophon was the same\nbrindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and anon into this\nroom, crouches treacherously behind the sofa, and feigns to be\nasleep, hoping, forsooth, that some of us, heedless of her hated\npresence, will venture within reach of her diabolical claws. So\nenraged was this ferocious monster at the escape of my sister\nthat she ground her fangs viciously together, and vowed to take\nno pleasure in life until she held in her devouring jaws the\ninnocent little mouse which belonged to the mangled bit of tail\nshe even then clutched in her remorseless claws.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the old clock, \"now that you recall the incident,\nI recollect it well. I was here then, in this very corner, and\nI remember that I laughed at the cat and chided her for her\nawkwardness. My reproaches irritated her; she told me that a\nclock's duty was to run itself down, _not_ to be depreciating\nthe merits of others! Yes, I recall the time; that cat's tongue\nis fully as sharp as her claws.\"\n\n\"Be that as it may,\" said the little mauve mouse, \"it is a\nmatter of history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that\nvery moment the cat pined for Squeaknibble's life; it seemed as\nif that one little two-inch taste of Squeaknibble's tail had\nfilled the cat with a consuming passion, or appetite, for the\nrest of Squeaknibble. So the cat waited and watched and hunted\nand schemed and devised and did everything possible for a cat--a\ncruel cat--to do in order to gain her murderous ends. One\nnight--one fatal Christmas eve--our mother had undressed the\nchildren for bed, and was urging upon them to go to sleep\nearlier than usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus\nwould bring each of them something very palatable and nice\nbefore morning. Thereupon the little dears whisked their cunning\ntails, pricked up their beautiful ears, and began telling one\nanother what they hoped Santa Claus would bring. One asked for a\nslice of Roquefort, another for Neufchatel, another for Sap\nSago, and a fourth for Edam; one expressed a preference for de\nBrie, while another hoped to get Parmesan; one clamored for\nimperial blue Stilton, and another craved the fragrant boon of\nCaprera. There were fourteen little ones then, and consequently\nthere were diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which Santa\nClaus should best bring; still, there was, as you can readily\nunderstand, an enthusiastic unanimity upon this point, namely,\nthat the gift should be cheese of some brand or other.\n\n\"'My dears,' said our mother, 'what matters it whether the boon\nwhich Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de\nBricquebec, Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk? We\nshould be content with whatsoever Santa Claus bestows, so long\nas it be cheese, disjoined from all traps whatsoever, unmixed\nwith Paris green, and free from glass, strychnine, and other\nharmful ingredients. As for myself, I shall be satisfied with a\ncut of nice, fresh, Western reserve; for truly I recognise in no\nother viand or edible half the fragrance or half the gustfulness\nto be met with in one of these pale but aromatic domestic\nproducts. So run away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus may\nfind you sleeping.'\n\n\"The children obeyed,--all but Squeaknibble. 'Let the others\nthink what they please,' said she, 'but I don't believe in Santa\nClaus. I'm not going to bed either. I'm going to creep out of\nthis dark hole and have a quiet romp, all by myself, in the\nmoonlight.' Oh, what a vain, foolish, wicked little mouse was\nSqueaknibble! But I will not reproach the dead; her punishment\ncame all too swiftly. Now listen: who do you suppose overheard\nher talking so disrespectfully of Santa Claus?\"\n\n\"Why, Santa Claus himself,\" said the old clock.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" answered the little mauve mouse. \"It was that wicked,\nmurderous cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad\nchildren, so does the cruel cat lie in wait for naughty little\nmice. And you can depend upon it that, when that awful cat heard\nSqueaknibble speak so disrespectfully of Santa Claus, her wicked\neyes glowed with joy, her sharp teeth watered, and her bristling\nfur emitted electric sparks as big as marrowfat peas. Then what\ndid that blood-thirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she\ncould into Dear-my-Soul's room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul's\ncrib, and walk off with the pretty little white muff which\nDear-my-Soul used to wear when she went for a visit to the\nlittle girl in the next block! What upon earth did the horrid\nold cat want with Dear-my-Soul's pretty little white muff? Ah,\nthe duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat! Listen.\n\n\"In the first place,\" resumed the little mauve mouse, after\na pause that testified eloquently to the depth of her\nemotion,--\"in the first place, that wretched cat dressed herself\nup in that pretty little white muff, by which you are to\nunderstand that she crawled through the muff just so far as to\nleave her four cruel legs at liberty.\"\n\n\"Yes, I understand,\" said the old clock.\n\n\"Then she put on the boy doll's fur cap,\" said the little mauve\nmouse, \"and when she was arrayed in the boy doll's fur cap and\nDear-my-Soul's pretty little white muff, of course she didn't\nlook like a cruel cat at all. But whom did she look like?\"\n\n\"Like the boy doll,\" suggested the old clock.\n\n\"No, no!\" cried the little mauve mouse.\n\n\"Like Dear-my-Soul?\" asked the old clock.\n\n\"How stupid you are!\" exclaimed the little mauve mouse. \"Why,\nshe looked like Santa Claus, of course!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; I see,\" said the old clock. \"Now I begin to be\ninterested; go on.\"\n\n\"Alas!\" sighed the little mauve mouse, \"not much remains to be\ntold; but there is more of my story left than there was of\nSqueaknibble when that horrid cat crawled out of that miserable\ndisguise. You are to understand that, contrary to her sagacious\nmother's injunction, and in notorious derision of the mooted\ncoming of Santa Claus, Squeaknibble issued from the friendly\nhole in the chimney corner, and gambolled about over this very\ncarpet, and, I dare say, in this very moonlight.\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" said the moonbeam faintly. \"I am so very old,\nand I have seen so many things--I do not know.\"\n\n\"Right merrily was Squeaknibble gambolling,\" continued the\nlittle mauve mouse, \"and she had just turned a double back\nsomersault without the use of what remained of her tail when,\nall of a sudden, she beheld, looming up like a monster ghost, a\nfigure all in white fur! Oh, how frightened she was, and how her\nlittle heart did beat! 'Purr, purr-r-r,' said the ghost in white\nfur. 'Oh, please don't hurt me!' pleaded Squeaknibble. 'No; I'll\nnot hurt you,' said the ghost in white fur; 'I'm Santa Claus,\nand I've brought you a beautiful piece of savory old cheese,\nyou dear little mousie, you.' Poor Squeaknibble was deceived;\na sceptic all her life, she was at last befooled by the most\npalpable and most fatal of frauds. 'How good of you!' said\nSqueaknibble. 'I didn't believe there was a Santa Claus, and--'\nbut before she could say more she was seized by two sharp, cruel\nclaws that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of\nmousedom's most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon this\nharrowing scene. Suffice it to say that ere the morrow's sun\nrose like a big yellow Herkimer County cheese upon the spot\nwhere that tragedy had been enacted, poor Squeaknibble passed to\nthat bourn whence two inches of her beautiful tail had preceded\nher by the space of three weeks to a day. As for Santa Claus,\nwhen he came that Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and\nof Stilton for the other little mice, he heard with sorrow of\nSqueaknibble's fate; and ere he departed he said that in all his\nexperience he had never known of a mouse or of a child that had\nprospered after once saying that he didn't believe in Santa\nClaus.\"\n\n\"Well, that is a remarkable story,\" said the old clock. \"But if\nyou believe in Santa Claus, why aren't you in bed?\"\n\n\"That's where I shall be presently,\" answered the little mauve\nmouse, \"but I must have my scamper you know. It is very\npleasant, I assure you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only\nI cannot understand why you are always so cold and so solemn and\nso still, you pale, pretty little moonbeam.\"\n\n\"Indeed, I do not know that I am so,\" said the moonbeam. \"But I\nam very old, and I have travelled many, many, leagues, and I\nhave seen wondrous things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean,\nsometimes I fall upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon\na dead child's face. I see the fairies at their play, and I hear\nmothers singing lullabies. Last night I swept across the frozen\nbosom of a river. A woman's face looked up at me; it was the\npicture of eternal rest. 'She is sleeping,' said the frozen\nriver. 'I'll rock her to and fro, and sing to her. Pass gently\nby, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken her.'\"\n\n\"How strangely you talk,\" said the old clock. \"Now, I'll warrant\nme that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and\nwonderful story. You must know many a Christmas tale; pray, tell\nus one to wear away this night of Christmas watching.\"\n\n\"I know but one,\" said the moonbeam. \"I have told it over and\nover again, in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary\nof it. It is very simple. Should you like to hear it?\"\n\n\"Indeed we should,\" said the old clock; \"but before you begin,\nlet me strike twelve; for I shouldn't want to interrupt you.\"\n\nWhen the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more\nthan usual alacrity, the moonbeam began its story:\n\n\"Upon a time--so long ago that I can't tell how long ago it\nwas--I fell upon a hill-side. It was in a far distant country;\nthis I know, because, although it was the Christmas time, it was\nnot in that country as it is wont to be in countries to the\nnorth. Hither the snow-king never came; flowers bloomed all the\nyear, and at all times the lambs found pleasant pasturage on the\nhill-sides. The night wind was balmy, and there was a fragrance\nof cedar in its breath. There were violets on the hill-side,\nand I fell amongst them and lay there. I kissed them, and they\nawakened. 'Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?' they said, and they\nnestled in the grass which the lambs had left uncropped.\n\n\"A shepherd lay upon a broad stone on the hill-side; above him\nspread an olive-tree, old, ragged, and gloomy; but now it swayed\nits rusty branches majestically in the shifting air of night.\nThe shepherd's name was Benoni. Wearied with long watching, he\nhad fallen asleep; his crook had slipped from his hand. Upon the\nhill-side, too, slept the shepherd's flock. I had counted them\nagain and again; I had stolen across their gentle faces and\nbrought them pleasant dreams of green pastures and of cool\nwater-brooks. I had kissed old Benoni, too, as he lay slumbering\nthere; and in his dreams he seemed to see Israel's King come\nupon earth, and in his dreams he murmured the promised Messiah's\nname.\n\n\"'Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?' quoth the violets. 'You have\ncome in good time. Nestle here with us, and see wonderful things\ncome to pass.'\n\n\"'What are these wonderful things of which you speak?' I asked.\n\n\"'We heard the old olive-tree telling of them to-night,' said\nthe violets. 'Do not go to sleep, little violets,' said the old\nolive-tree, 'for this is Christmas night, and the Master shall\nwalk upon the hill-side in the glory of the midnight hour.' So\nwe waited and watched; one by one the lambs fell asleep; one by\none the stars peeped out; the shepherd nodded and crooned, and\ncrooned and nodded, and at last he, too, went fast asleep, and\nhis crook slipped from his keeping. Then we called to the old\nolive-tree yonder, asking how soon the midnight hour would come;\nbut all the old olive-tree answered was 'Presently, presently,'\nand finally we, too, fell asleep, wearied by our long watching,\nand lulled by the rocking and swaying of the old olive-tree in\nthe breezes of the night.\n\n\"'But who is this Master?' I asked.\n\n\"'A child, a little child,' they answered. 'He is called the\nlittle Master by the others. He comes here often, and plays\namong the flowers of the hill-side. Sometimes the lambs,\ngambolling too carelessly, have crushed and bruised us so that\nwe lie bleeding and are like to die; but the little Master heals\nour wounds and refreshes us once again.'\n\n\"I marvelled much to hear these things. 'The midnight hour is at\nhand,' said I, 'and I will abide with you to see this little\nMaster of whom you speak.' So we nestled among the verdure of\nthe hill-side, and sang songs one to another.\n\n\"'Come away!' called the night wind; 'I know a beauteous sea not\nfar hence, upon whose bosom you shall float, float, float, away\nout into the mists and clouds, if you will come with me.'\n\n\"But I hid under the violets and amid the tall grass, that the\nnight wind might not woo me with its pleading. 'Ho, there, old\nolive-tree!' cried the violets; 'do you see the little Master\ncoming? Is not the midnight hour at hand?'\n\n\"'I can see the town yonder,' said the old olive-tree. 'A star\nbeams bright over Bethlehem, the iron gates swing open, and the\nlittle Master comes.'\n\n\"Two children came to the hill-side. The one, older than his\ncomrade, was Dimas, the son of Benoni. He was rugged and sinewy,\nand over his brown shoulders was flung a goat-skin; a leathern\ncap did not confine his long, dark curly hair. The other child\nwas he whom they called the little Master; about his slender\nform clung raiment white as snow, and around his face of\nheavenly innocence fell curls of golden yellow. So beautiful a\nchild I had not seen before, nor have I ever since seen such as\nhe. And as they came together to the hill-side, there seemed to\nglow about the little Master's head a soft white light, as if\nthe moon had sent its tenderest, fairest beams to kiss those\ngolden curls.\n\n\"'What sound was that?' cried Dimas, for he was exceeding\nfearful.\n\n\"'Have no fear, Dimas,' said the little Master. 'Give me thy\nhand and I will lead thee.'\n\n\"Presently they came to the rock whereon Benoni, the shepherd,\nlay; and they stood under the old olive-tree, and the old\nolive-tree swayed no longer in the night wind, but bent its\nbranches reverently in the presence of the little Master. It\nseemed as if the wind, too, stayed in its shifting course just\nthen; for suddenly there was a solemn hush, and you could hear\nno noise, except that in his dreams Benoni spoke the Messiah's\nname.\n\n\"'Thy father sleeps,' said the little Master, 'and it is well\nthat it is so; for that I love thee Dimas, and that thou shalt\nwalk with me in my Father's Kingdom, I would show thee the\nglories of my birthright.'\n\n\"Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater\nthan the light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that\nhill-side. The heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs,\nwalked to the earth. More wondrous still, the stars, falling\nfrom their places in the sky, clustered upon the old olive-tree,\nand swung hither and thither like colored lanterns. The flowers\nof the hill-side all awakened, and they, too, danced and sang.\nThe angels, coming hither, hung gold and silver and jewels and\nprecious stones upon the old olive, where swung the stars; so\nthat the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I\nshall never see again. When Dimas heard and saw these things he\nfell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the little Master's\ngarment, he kissed it.\n\n\"'Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,' said the little\nMaster; 'but first must all things be fulfilled.'\n\n\"All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go\nwith their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did\nthe stars dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal\naway, the hill-side was still beautiful with the glory and the\nmusic of heaven.\"\n\n\"Well, is that all?\" asked the old clock.\n\n\"No,\" said the moonbeam; \"but I am nearly done. The years went\non. Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean's bosom, sometimes I\nscampered o'er a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead\nchild's face. I heard the voices of Darkness and mothers'\nlullabies and sick men's prayers--and so the years went on.\n\n\"I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of\nghostly pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his\nwretched face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords\nand spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond\nthis cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a\nhuman body my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice that\nsomewhere I had heard before,--though where I did not know,--and\nthis voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shamefully\nentreated. And suddenly the voice called 'Dimas, Dimas!' and the\nthief upon whose hardened face I rested made answer.\n\n\"Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there\nremained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all\nhis innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had\nseared their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that\nfamiliar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back,\nand in the yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the\nshepherd's son again.\n\n\"'The Master!' cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that\nhe might see him that spake.\n\n\"'O Dimas, how art thou changed!' cried the Master, yet there\nwas in his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of\nlove.\n\n\"Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the\nMaster's consoling voice and the Master's presence there wrought\nin the dying criminal such a new spirit, that when at last his\nhead fell upon his bosom, and the men about the cross said that\nhe was dead, it seemed as if I shined not upon a felon's face,\nbut upon the face of the gentle shepherd lad, the son of Benoni.\n\n\"And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of\nthe little Master's words that he had spoken under the old\nolive-tree upon the hill-side: 'Your eyes behold the promised\nglory now, O Dimas,' I whispered, 'for with the Master you walk\nin Paradise.'\"\n\n\nAh, little Dear-my-Soul, you know--you know whereof the moonbeam\nspake. The shepherd's bones are dust, the flocks are scattered,\nthe old olive-tree is gone, the flowers of the hill-side are\nwithered, and none knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But\nlast night, again, there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the\nangels descended from the sky to earth, and the stars sang\ntogether in glory. And the bells,--hear them, little\nDear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are ringing,--the bells bear us\nthe good tidings of great joy this Christmas morning, that our\nChrist is born, and that with him he bringeth peace on earth and\ngood-will toward men.","title":"The Mouse and The Moonbeam","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":4121}