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    The Singing Mouse Stories
    The Singing Mouse Stories
    The Singing Mouse Stories
    Ebook155 pages1 hour

    The Singing Mouse Stories

    By Mayo Bunker and Emerson Hough

    ()

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013

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      Book preview

      The Singing Mouse Stories - Mayo Bunker

      The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Singing Mouse Stories, by Emerson Hough, Illustrated by Mayo Bunker

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: The Singing Mouse Stories

      Author: Emerson Hough

      Release Date: April 7, 2007 [eBook #21004]

      Language: English

      Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

      ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES***

      E-text prepared by Louise Hope, David Edwards,

      and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

      (http://www.pgdp.net)

      from digital material generously made available by

      Internet Archive/Children's Library

      (http://www.archive.org/details/iacl)

      Transcriber's note:

      Some title pages had to be modified slightly to fit this e-text, and the more complicated designs may not display as intended in all browsers. All illustrated title pages are shown as thumbnails at the end of the text.

      THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES

      The Singing Mouse Stories

      By

      EMERSON HOUGH

      Author of The Purchase Price, 54-40 or Fight, Etc.

      With Decorations by

      Mayo Bunker

      NEW YORK

      HURST & COMPANY

      PUBLISHERS

      Copyright 1910

      By Emerson Hough

      CONTENTS

      THE SINGING MOUSE STORIES

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      T

      his is my room. I live here; and my friends come here sometimes, such as I have left. There is little to offer them, but they are welcome to what there is. There is the table. There is the fire. There are not any keys.

      That is my coat upon the wall. It is worn, a little. The barrels of the old gun are worn; and the stock of the rifle, broken in the mountains long ago, is mended but rudely; and the tip of the old rod is broken, and the silk is fraying in the lashings, and upon the hand-grasp the cord is loose. The silver cord will loosen and break in the best of men in time; wherefore, I beseech you, mock not at these belongings, though your own may far surpass them. You are welcome to anything there is here....

      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.

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