One morning I lay upon my bed in the little room which I call my home. Now, among the eaves which rise opposite to my window there are many sparrows which have also made their homes. In the morning, before the sun has arisen, and at the time when the dawn is making the city gray and leaden in color instead of somber and black, these sparrows begin to chatter and chirp and sing in discordant notes, and by this I know the day has come. Upon this morning it seemed to me the sparrows chattered with an unusual commotion; and as I listened I heard from another window near mine the voice of grief and lamentation. Then I knew that one who had long been sick had passed away. As the gray morning came on, this spirit, this spark of life, had gone out from its accustomed place. As the day came on, the sounds of lamentation arose. The friends of that one wept. So I asked the sparrows, and the sun, and the gray sky why these friends wept. What is grief? I asked of them. Why should these weep? What has happened when one dies? Where has the spark of life gone? Did it fall to these sodden pavements, for ever done, or did it go on up, to meet the kiss of the rising sun? And the sparrows, which fall to the ground, answered not. The sun rose calm and passionless, but dumb. The sky folded in, large but inscrutable. None the less arose the voice of lamentation and of woe. "I ask you, Singing Mouse," said I, one night as we sat alone, "what is the Truth? How do we reach it? How shall we know it? Tell me of this spark that has gone out. Tell me, what is life, and where does it go? There are many words. Tell me, what is the Truth?" The Singing Mouse gazed at me in its way of pity, so I knew I had asked that which could not be. Yet even as I saw this look appear it changed and vanished. And as the Singing Mouse waved its tiny paw I forbore reflection and looked only on the scene which now was spread before me. It seemed a picture of actual colors, and I could see it plainly. I saw a youth who stood with one older and of austere garb. By the vestments of this older man I knew he was of those who teach people in spiritual things. To him the young man had come in anguish of heart. Then the older man of priestly garb taught the young man in the teachings that had come down to him. But the youth bowed his head in trouble, nor was the cloud cleared upon his heart. I heard him murmur, "Alas! what is the Truth?" So I saw this same youth pass on, in various stages of this picture, and before him I saw drawn, as though in another picture, a panorama of the edifices and institutions of the religions of all lands. But the years passed, and the panorama of beliefs swept by, and no one could tell this man what was the Truth. [Illustration]