But the Singing Mouse will not come out, not while you are here. True, after you have gone, after the fire has burned down and the room is all still--usually near midnight, as I sit and muse alone over the dead or dying fire--true, then the Singing Mouse comes out and asks for its bit of bread; and then it folds its tiny paws and sits up, and turning its bright red eye upon me, half in power and half in beseeching, as of some fading memory of the past--why, it sings, I say to you; it sings! And I listen.... During such singing the fire blazes up. The walls are rich in art. My rod is new and trig. There is work, but there is no worry.... I am rich, rich! I have the Singing Mouse. And so strange, so wondrous, so real are the things it sings; so bewitching is the song, so sweeter than that of any siren's; so broad and fine are the countries; so strong and true are the friendships; so brave and kind are the men I meet--so beautiful the whole world of the Singing Mouse, that when it is over, and in a chill I start up, I scarce can bear the shrinking in of the walls, and the grayness of the once red fire, and my gold turned to earthenware, and my pictures turned to splotches. In my hand everything I touch feels awkward. A pen--a pen--to talk of that? If one could use it while in the land of the Singing Mouse--then it might do. I think the pens there are not of wood and iron, stiff things of torture to reader and writer. I have a notion--though I have not examined the pens there--that they are made from plumes of an angel's wing; and that if they chose they could talk, and say things which would make you and me ashamed and afraid. Pens such as these we do not have. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Burden of A Song] [Illustration] THE BURDEN OF A SONG The Singing Mouse came out. Quaintly and sweetly and with wondrous clearness it began an old, old song I first heard long ago. And as it sang, back with red electric thrill came the fine blood of youth, and beat in pulse with the song: "When all the world is young, lad, And all the trees are green, And every goose a swan, lad, And every lass a queen. "Then hey! for boot and saddle, lad, And round the world away! Young blood must have its course, lad, And every dog his day!" And young blood began its course anew. Booted and spurred, into the saddle again! Face toward the West! And off for round the world away!