The last of the series recounted what Grandpa Mouse said to the Little Mice on the Moon question. I arranged the ketchup bottle on the edge of the table for Grandpa Mouse. I used the salts and peppers for the little mice in circle round. I used a black hat or so for the swooping, mouse-eating owls that came down from the moon. Having acted out the story first, I recited it, slowly, mind you. Here it is: WHAT GRANDPA MOUSE SAID "The moon's a holy owl-queen: She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till evening, Then sallies forth to war. She pours the owls upon us: They hoot with horrid noise And eat the naughty mousie-girls And wicked mousie-boys. So climb the moon-vine every night And to the owl-queen pray: Leave good green cheese by moonlit trees For her to take away. And never squeak, my children, Nor gnaw the smoke-house door. The owl-queen then will then love us And send her birds no more." At the end I asked for my room and retired. I slept maybe an hour. I was awakened by those tireless little rascals racing along the dark hall and saying in horrible solemn tones, pretending to scare one another: "The moon's a holy owl-queen: She keeps them in a jar Under her arm till night, Then 'allies out to war! She sicks the owls upon us, They 'OOT with 'orrid noise And eat ... the naughty boys, And the MOON'S A HOLY OWL-QUEEN! SHE KEEPS THEM IN A JAR!" And so it went on, over and over. Thereupon I made a mighty and a rash resolve. I renewed that same resolve in the morning when I woke. I said within myself "_I shall write one hundred Poems on the Moon!_" Of course I did not keep my resolve to write one hundred pieces about the moon. But here are a few of those I did write immediately after: THE FLUTE OF THE LONELY [To the tune of Gaily the Troubadour.] Faintly the ne'er-do-well Breathed through his flute: All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute. In their neat doorways sat, Labors all done, Helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought, Evening begun. None of them there beguiled Work-thoughts away, Like to this reckless, wild Loafer by day. (Weeds in his flowers upgrown! Fences awry! Rubbish and bottles heaped! Yard like a sty!) There in his lonely door, Leering and lean, Staggering, liquor-stained, Outlawed, obscene---- Played he his moonlight thought, Mastered his flute. All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute. None but he, in that block, Knew such a tune. All loved the strain, and all _Looked at the moon!_ THE SHIELD OF FAITH The full moon is the Shield of Faith, And when it hangs on high Another shield seems on my arm The hard world to defy. Yea, when the moon has knighted me, Then every poisoned dart Of daytime memory turns away From my dream-armored heart.