THE MOUSE
AND THE MOONBEAM

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THE MOUSE
AND THE MOONBEAM

BY
EUGENE FIELD

NEW YORK
1919

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THE MOUSE AND THE MOONBEAM

W hilst you were sleeping, little Dear-my-soul, strange things happened; but that I saw and heard them, I should never have believed them. The clock stood, of course, in the corner, a moonbeam floated idly on the floor, and a little mauve mouse came from the hole in the chimney corner and frisked and scampered in the light of the moonbeam upon the floor. The little mauve mouse was particu­larly merry; sometimes she danced upon two legs and sometimes upon four legs, but always very daintily and always very merrily.

“Ah, me!” sighed the old clock, “how different mice are nowadays from the mice we used to have in the good old times! Now there was your grandma, Mistress Velvetpaw, and there was your grandpa, Master Sniff­whisker,—how grave and dignified they were! Many a night have I seen them dancing upon the carpet below me, but always the stately minuet and never that crazy frisking which you are executing now, to my surprise—yes, and to my horror, too.”

“But why shouldn’t I be merry?” asked the little mauve mouse. “Tomorrow is Christmas, and this is Christmas eve.”

“So it is,” said the old clock. “I had really forgotten all about it. But, tell me, what is Christmas to you, little Miss Mauve Mouse?”

“A great deal to me!” cried the little mauve mouse. “I have been very good a very long time: I have not used any bad words, nor have I gnawed any holes, nor have I stolen any canary seed, nor have I worried my mother by running behind the flour-barrel where that horrid trap is set. In fact, I have been so good that I am very sure Santa Claus will bring me something very pretty.”

This seemed to amuse the old clock mightily; in fact the old clock fell to laughing so heartily that in an unguarded moment she struck twelve instead of ten, which was exceed­ingly careless and therefore to be repre­hended.

“Why, you silly little mauve mouse,” said the old clock, “you don’t believe in Santa Claus, do you?”

“Of course I do,” answered the little mauve mouse. “Believe in Santa Claus? Why shouldn’t I? Didn’t Santa Claus bring me a beautiful butter-cracker last Christmas, and a lovely ginger­snap, and a delicious rind of cheese, and—and—lots of things? I should be very ungrateful if I did not believe in Santa Claus, and I certainly shall not disbelieve in him at the very moment when I am expecting him to arrive with a bundle of goodies for me.

“I once had a little sister,” continued the little mauve mouse, “who did not believe in Santa Claus, and the very thought of the fate that befell her makes my blood run cold and my whiskers stand on end. She died before I was born, but my mother has told me all about her. Perhaps you never saw her: her name was Squeak­nibble, and she was in stature one of those long, low, rangy mice that are seldom found in well-stocked pantries. Mother says that Squeak­nibble took after our ancestors who came from New England, where the malignant ingenuity of the people and the ferocity of the cats rendered life precarious indeed. Squeak­nibble seemed to inherit many ancestral traits, the most conspi­cuous of which was a dispo­sition to sneer at some of the most respected dogmas in mousedom. From her very infancy she doubted, for example, the widely accepted theory that the moon was composed of green cheese; and this heresy was the first intima­tion her parents had of the sceptical turn of her mind. Of course her parents were vastly annoyed, for their maturer natures saw that this youthful scepti­cism portended serious, if not fatal, conse­quences. Yet all in vain did the sagacious couple reason and plead with their headstrong and heretical child.

“For a long time Squeak­nibble would not believe that there was any such archfiend as a cat; but she came to be convinced to the contrary one memorable night, on which occasion she lost two inches of her beautiful tail, and received so terrible a fright that for fully an hour afterward her little heart beat so violently as to lift her off her feet and bump her head against the top of our domestic hole. The cat that deprived my sister of so large a percentage of her vertebral colophon was the same brindled ogress that nowadays steals ever and anon into this room, crouches treacher­ously behind the sofa, and feigns to be asleep, hoping, forsooth, that some of us, heedless of her hated presence, will venture within reach of her diabolical claws. So enraged was this ferocious monster at the escape of my sister that she ground her fangs viciously together, and vowed to take no pleasure in life until she held in her devouring jaws the innocent little mouse which belonged to the mangled bit of tail she even then clutched in her remorse­less claws.”

“Yes,” said the old clock, “now that you recall the incident, I recollect it well. I was here then, in this very corner, and I remember that I laughed at the cat and chided her for her awkward­ness. My reproaches irritated her; she told me that a clock’s duty was to run itself down, not to be depreci­ating the merits of others! Yes, I recall the time; that cat’s tongue is fully as sharp as her claws.”

“Be that as it may,” said the little mauve mouse, “it is a matter of history, and therefore beyond dispute, that from that very moment the cat pined for Squeak­nibble’s life; it seemed as if that one little two-inch taste of Squeak­nibble’s tail had filled the cat with a consuming passion, or appetite, for the rest of Squeak­nibble. So the cat waited and watched and hunted and schemed and devised and did every­thing possible for a cat—a cruel cat—to do in order to gain her murderous ends. One night—one fatal Christmas eve—our mother had undressed the children for bed, and was urging upon them to go to sleep earlier than usual, since she fully expected that Santa Claus would bring each of them something very palatable and nice before morning. Thereupon the little dears whisked their cunning tails, pricked up their beautiful ears, and began telling one another what they hoped Santa Claus would bring. One asked for a slice of Roquefort, another for Neuf­chatel, another for Sap Sago, and a fourth for Edam; one expressed a prefer­ence for de Brie, while another hoped to get Parmesan; one clamored for imperial blue Stilton, and another craved the fragrant boon of Caprera. There were fourteen little ones then, and conse­quently there were diverse opinions as to the kind of gift which Santa Claus should best bring; still, there was, as you can readily under­stand, an enthusi­astic unanimity upon this point, namely, that the gift should be cheese of some brand or other.

“‘My dears,’ said our mother, ‘what matters it whether the boon which Santa Claus brings be royal English cheddar or fromage de Bricquebec, Vermont sage, or Herkimer County skim-milk? We should be content with what­soever Santa Claus bestows, so long as it be cheese, disjoined from all traps what­soever, unmixed with Paris green, and free from glass, strych­nine, and other harmful ingre­dients. As for myself, I shall be satisfied with a cut of nice, fresh, Western reserve; for truly I recognise in no other viand or edible half the fragrance or half the gustful­ness to be met with in one of these pale but aromatic domestic products. So run away to your dreams now, that Santa Claus may find you sleeping.’

“The children obeyed,—all but Squeak­nibble. ‘Let the others think what they please,’ said she, ‘but I don’t believe in Santa Claus. I’m not going to bed either. I’m going to creep out of this dark hole and have a quiet romp, all by myself, in the moonlight.’ Oh, what a vain, foolish, wicked little mouse was Squeak­nibble! But I will not reproach the dead; her punish­ment came all too swiftly. Now listen: who do you suppose overheard her talking so disrespect­fully of Santa Claus?”

“Why, Santa Claus himself,” said the old clock.

“Oh, no,” answered the little mauve mouse. “It was that wicked, murderous cat! Just as Satan lurks and lies in wait for bad children, so does the cruel cat lie in wait for naughty little mice. And you can depend upon it that, when that awful cat heard Squeak­nibble speak so disrespect­fully of Santa Claus, her wicked eyes glowed with joy, her sharp teeth watered, and her bristling fur emitted electric sparks as big as marrowfat peas. Then what did that blood-thirsty monster do but scuttle as fast as she could into Dear-my-Soul’s room, leap up into Dear-my-Soul’s crib, and walk off with the pretty little white muff which Dear-my-Soul used to wear when she went for a visit to the little girl in the next block! What upon earth did the horrid old cat want with Dear-my-Soul’s pretty little white muff? Ah, the duplicity, the diabolical ingenuity of that cat! Listen.

“In the first place,” resumed the little mauve mouse, after a pause that testified eloquently to the depth of her emotion,—“in the first place, that wretched cat dressed herself up in that pretty little white muff, by which you are to under­stand that she crawled through the muff just so far as to leave her four cruel legs at liberty.”

“Yes, I under­stand,” said the old clock.

“Then she put on the boy doll’s fur cap,” said the little mauve mouse, “and when she was arrayed in the boy doll’s fur cap and Dear-my-Soul’s pretty little white muff, of course she didn’t look like a cruel cat at all. But whom did she look like?”

“Like the boy doll,” suggested the old clock.

“No, no!” cried the little mauve mouse.

“Like Dear-my-Soul?” asked the old clock.

“How stupid you are!” exclaimed the little mauve mouse. “Why, she looked like Santa Claus, of course!”

“Oh, yes; I see,” said the old clock. “Now I begin to be inter­ested; go on.”

“Alas!” sighed the little mauve mouse, “not much remains to be told; but there is more of my story left than there was of Squeak­nibble when that horrid cat crawled out of that miserable disguise. You are to under­stand that, contrary to her sagacious mother’s injunc­tion, and in notorious derision of the mooted coming of Santa Claus, Squeak­nibble issued from the friendly hole in the chimney corner, and gambolled about over this very carpet, and, I dare say, in this very moonlight.”

“I do not know,” said the moonbeam faintly. “I am so very old, and I have seen so many things—I do not know.”

“Right merrily was Squeak­nibble gambolling,” continued the little mauve mouse, “and she had just turned a double back somer­sault without the use of what remained of her tail when, all of a sudden, she beheld, looming up like a monster ghost, a figure all in white fur! Oh, how frightened she was, and how her little heart did beat! ‘Purr, purr-r-r,’ said the ghost in white fur. ‘Oh, please don’t hurt me!’ pleaded Squeak­nibble. ‘No; I’ll not hurt you,’ said the ghost in white fur; ‘I’m Santa Claus, and I’ve brought you a beautiful piece of savory old cheese, you dear little mousie, you.’ Poor Squeak­nibble was deceived; a sceptic all her life, she was at last befooled by the most palpable and most fatal of frauds. ‘How good of you!’ said Squeak­nibble. ‘I didn’t believe there was a Santa Claus, and—’ but before she could say more she was seized by two sharp, cruel claws that conveyed her crushed body to the murderous mouth of mousedom’s most malignant foe. I can dwell no longer upon this harrowing scene. Suffice it to say that ere the morrow’s sun rose like a big yellow Herkimer County cheese upon the spot where that tragedy had been enacted, poor Squeak­nibble passed to that bourn whence two inches of her beautiful tail had preceded her by the space of three weeks to a day. As for Santa Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing morceaux de Brie and of Stilton for the other little mice, he heard with sorrow of Squeak­nibble’s fate; and ere he departed he said that in all his experi­ence he had never known of a mouse or of a child that had prospered after once saying that he didn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Well, that is a remark­able story,” said the old clock. “But if you believe in Santa Claus, why aren’t you in bed?”

“That’s where I shall be presently,” answered the little mauve mouse, “but I must have my scamper you know. It is very pleasant, I assure you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot under­stand why you are always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty little moonbeam.”

“Indeed, I do not know that I am so,” said the moonbeam. “But I am very old, and I have travelled many, many, leagues, and I have seen wondrous things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child’s face. I see the fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies. Last night I swept across the frozen bosom of a river. A woman’s face looked up at me; it was the picture of eternal rest. ‘She is sleeping,’ said the frozen river. ‘I’ll rock her to and fro, and sing to her. Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken her.’”

“How strangely you talk,” said the old clock. “Now, I’ll warrant me that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful story. You must know many a Christmas tale; pray, tell us one to wear away this night of Christmas watching.”

“I know but one,” said the moonbeam. “I have told it over and over again, in every land and in every home; yet I do not weary of it. It is very simple. Should you like to hear it?”

“Indeed we should,” said the old clock; “but before you begin, let me strike twelve; for I shouldn’t want to interrupt you.”

When the old clock had performed this duty with somewhat more than usual alacrity, the moonbeam began its story:

“Upon a time—so long ago that I can’t tell how long ago it was—I fell upon a hill-side. It was in a far distant country; this I know, because, although it was the Christmas time, it was not in that country as it is wont to be in countries to the north. Hither the snow-king never came; flowers bloomed all the year, and at all times the lambs found pleasant pasturage on the hill-sides. The night wind was balmy, and there was a fragrance of cedar in its breath. There were violets on the hill-side, and I fell amongst them and lay there. I kissed them, and they awakened. ‘Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?’ they said, and they nestled in the grass which the lambs had left uncropped.

“A shepherd lay upon a broad stone on the hill-side; above him spread an olive-tree, old, ragged, and gloomy; but now it swayed its rusty branches majestic­ally in the shifting air of night. The shepherd’s name was Benoni. Wearied with long watching, he had fallen asleep; his crook had slipped from his hand. Upon the hill-side, too, slept the shepherd’s flock. I had counted them again and again; I had stolen across their gentle faces and brought them pleasant dreams of green pastures and of cool water-brooks. I had kissed old Benoni, too, as he lay slumbering there; and in his dreams he seemed to see Israel’s King come upon earth, and in his dreams he murmured the promised Messiah’s name.

“‘Ah, is it you, little moonbeam?’ quoth the violets. ‘You have come in good time. Nestle here with us, and see wonderful things come to pass.’

“‘What are these wonderful things of which you speak?’ I asked.

“‘We heard the old olive-tree telling of them to-night,’ said the violets. ‘Do not go to sleep, little violets,’ said the old olive-tree, ‘for this is Christmas night, and the Master shall walk upon the hill-side in the glory of the midnight hour.’ So we waited and watched; one by one the lambs fell asleep; one by one the stars peeped out; the shepherd nodded and crooned, and crooned and nodded, and at last he, too, went fast asleep, and his crook slipped from his keeping. Then we called to the old olive-tree yonder, asking how soon the midnight hour would come; but all the old olive-tree answered was ‘Presently, presently,’ and finally we, too, fell asleep, wearied by our long watching, and lulled by the rocking and swaying of the old olive-tree in the breezes of the night.

“‘But who is this Master?’ I asked.

“‘A child, a little child,’ they answered. ‘He is called the little Master by the others. He comes here often, and plays among the flowers of the hill-side. Sometimes the lambs, gambolling too care­lessly, have crushed and bruised us so that we lie bleeding and are like to die; but the little Master heals our wounds and refreshes us once again.’

“I marvelled much to hear these things. ‘The midnight hour is at hand,’ said I, ‘and I will abide with you to see this little Master of whom you speak.’ So we nestled among the verdure of the hill-side, and sang songs one to another.

“‘Come away!’ called the night wind; ‘I know a beauteous sea not far hence, upon whose bosom you shall float, float, float, away out into the mists and clouds, if you will come with me.’

“But I hid under the violets and amid the tall grass, that the night wind might not woo me with its pleading. ‘Ho, there, old olive-tree!’ cried the violets; ‘do you see the little Master coming? Is not the midnight hour at hand?’

“‘I can see the town yonder,’ said the old olive-tree. ‘A star beams bright over Bethlehem, the iron gates swing open, and the little Master comes.’

“Two children came to the hill-side. The one, older than his comrade, was Dimas, the son of Benoni. He was rugged and sinewy, and over his brown shoulders was flung a goat-skin; a leathern cap did not confine his long, dark curly hair. The other child was he whom they called the little Master; about his slender form clung raiment white as snow, and around his face of heavenly innocence fell curls of golden yellow. So beautiful a child I had not seen before, nor have I ever since seen such as he. And as they came together to the hill-side, there seemed to glow about the little Master’s head a soft white light, as if the moon had sent its tenderest, fairest beams to kiss those golden curls.

“‘What sound was that?’ cried Dimas, for he was exceeding fearful.

“‘Have no fear, Dimas,’ said the little Master. ‘Give me thy hand and I will lead thee.’

“Presently they came to the rock whereon Benoni, the shepherd, lay; and they stood under the old olive-tree, and the old olive-tree swayed no longer in the night wind, but bent its branches rever­ently in the presence of the little Master. It seemed as if the wind, too, stayed in its shifting course just then; for suddenly there was a solemn hush, and you could hear no noise, except that in his dreams Benoni spoke the Messiah’s name.

“‘Thy father sleeps,’ said the little Master, ‘and it is well that it is so; for that I love thee Dimas, and that thou shalt walk with me in my Father’s Kingdom, I would show thee the glories of my birth­right.’

“Then all at once sweet music filled the air, and light, greater than the light of day, illumined the sky and fell upon all that hill-side. The heavens opened, and angels, singing joyous songs, walked to the earth. More wondrous still, the stars, falling from their places in the sky, clustered upon the old olive-tree, and swung hither and thither like colored lanterns. The flowers of the hill-side all awakened, and they, too, danced and sang. The angels, coming hither, hung gold and silver and jewels and precious stones upon the old olive, where swung the stars; so that the glory of that sight, though I might live forever, I shall never see again. When Dimas heard and saw these things he fell upon his knees, and catching the hem of the little Master’s garment, he kissed it.

“‘Greater joy than this shall be thine, Dimas,’ said the little Master; ‘but first must all things be fulfilled.’

“All through that Christmas night did the angels come and go with their sweet anthems; all through that Christmas night did the stars dance and sing; and when it came my time to steal away, the hill-side was still beautiful with the glory and the music of heaven.”

“Well, is that all?” asked the old clock.

“No,” said the moonbeam; “but I am nearly done. The years went on. Sometimes I tossed upon the ocean’s bosom, sometimes I scampered o’er a battle-field, sometimes I lay upon a dead child’s face. I heard the voices of Darkness and mothers’ lullabies and sick men’s prayers—and so the years went on.

“I fell one night upon a hard and furrowed face. It was of ghostly pallor. A thief was dying on the cross, and this was his wretched face. About the cross stood men with staves and swords and spears, but none paid heed unto the thief. Somewhat beyond this cross another was lifted up, and upon it was stretched a human body my light fell not upon. But I heard a voice that somewhere I had heard before,—though where I did not know,—and this voice blessed those that railed and jeered and shame­fully entreated. And suddenly the voice called ‘Dimas, Dimas!’ and the thief upon whose hardened face I rested made answer.

“Then I saw that it was Dimas; yet to this wicked criminal there remained but little of the shepherd child whom I had seen in all his innocence upon the hill-side. Long years of sinful life had seared their marks into his face; yet now, at the sound of that familiar voice, somewhat of the old-time boyish look came back, and in the yearning of the anguished eyes I seemed to see the shepherd’s son again.

“‘The Master!’ cried Dimas, and he stretched forth his neck that he might see him that spake.

“‘O Dimas, how art thou changed!’ cried the Master, yet there was in his voice no tone of rebuke save that which cometh of love.

“Then Dimas wept, and in that hour he forgot his pain. And the Master’s consoling voice and the Master’s presence there wrought in the dying criminal such a new spirit, that when at last his head fell upon his bosom, and the men about the cross said that he was dead, it seemed as if I shined not upon a felon’s face, but upon the face of the gentle shepherd lad, the son of Benoni.

“And shining on that dead and peaceful face, I bethought me of the little Master’s words that he had spoken under the old olive-tree upon the hill-side: ‘Your eyes behold the promised glory now, O Dimas,’ I whispered, ‘for with the Master you walk in Paradise.’”

Ah, little Dear-my-Soul, you know—you know whereof the moonbeam spake. The shepherd’s bones are dust, the flocks are scattered, the old olive-tree is gone, the flowers of the hill-side are withered, and none knoweth where the grave of Dimas is made. But last night, again, there shined a star over Bethlehem, and the angels descended from the sky to earth, and the stars sang together in glory. And the bells,—hear them, little Dear-my-Soul, how sweetly they are ringing,—the bells bear us the good tidings of great joy this Christmas morning, that our Christ is born, and that with him he bringeth peace on earth and good-will toward men.