l may do so. I know it, Singing
Mouse, for I can read it written in the hollow of this tiny
shell of pink you have found here by the shore--borne across to
us, we may not doubt, by an understanding tide from a place
happily attained by those who wrote the message and sought to
let us know.

"Long time upon the mast our brown sail flapped;
Our keel plowed bitter salt, and everywhere
The ominous sky in sullen mystery wrapped,
What side we looked on, either here or there,
The welcome sight of land long sadly sought;
And that Atlantis, hid within the sea,
The land with all our hope and promise fraught,
We saw not yet, nor wist where it might be.

"But as we sailed as manful as we might,
And counted not the sail more fit than oar,
Lo! o'er the wave there burst a vision bright
Of wood, and winding stream, and easy shore.
Then by the lofty light which shone above,
We knew at last our voyage sad was o'er,
And we hard by the haven for which we strove,
And soon all past the need to wander more.

"Then as our craft made safely on the strand,
And we all well our weary brown sail furled,
We gazed as strangers might at that fair land,
And hardly knew if it might be our world;
Till One took gently every weary hand,
And led us on to where still waters be,
And whispered softly, 'Lo! it hath been planned
That thou at last this pleasant place shouldst see.'

"And as those dreaming so awakened we,
And looked with eyes unhurt on that fair sky,
And whispered, hand in hand and eye to eye,
''Tis our Atlantis, risen from the sea--
'Tis our Atlantis, from the bitten sea!
'Tis our Atlantis, come again, oh, friend, to thee and me!'"

[Illustration: Lake Belle-Marie]

[Illustration]

LAKE BELLE-MARIE

Lake Belle-Marie lies far away. Beyond the forest the mountains
are white. Beyond the mountains the sky rises blue, high up into
the infinite Unknown.

I do not know where the Singing Mouse lives. No man can tell
what journeys it may make such times as it is absent from the
room that holds the pine table, and the book, and the candle,
and the open fire. But last night when the faint, shrill
sweetness of its little voice grew apart from the lonely silence
of the room, and I turned and saw the Singing Mouse sitting on
the corner of the book, the light of the candle shining pink
through its tiny paws, almost the first word it said was