oyed in some song whose language
I do not yet fully understand, faded and sank away; and even as
it passed the walls came back and the ashes lay gray upon the
hearth.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: The Skull and the Rose]

[Illustration]

THE SKULL AND THE ROSE

The Singing Mouse peeped out from the hollow orbit of the
white skull which lies upon the table next to the volume of
Shakespeare. It reached down a tiny pink paw and touched a leaf
of the brave red rose which every day lies before the skull. It
plucked the leaf, which made a buckler for its small throbbing
breast. It spoke:

"The rose is bold and red," said the Singing Mouse. "Blood is
red. A skull is white. The rose and the skull love one another.
They understand. We do not understand.

"As I sat by the skull I saw a dream of the past go by. It was
as you see it now.

"Do you see the waving grasses of the valleys? Do you see the
unmoving front of the white old mountains? Do you see the red
roses growing down among the grasses?

"It is peace upon the land. I can see one who has seen the
lands. He smiles, but he is sad. He crosses the wide sea, but
cares not. He travels upon rails of iron, and he smiles, but
still is sad, because he thinks; and he who thinks must weep. He
leaves the ship and the iron rail, and his road is narrower and
slower, for he travels now by wheels of wood. He sees the
valleys, and his smile has more of peace. His trail becomes
narrower yet. He goes by saddle, and the mountains hem him in,
but now he smiles the more. Now he must leave even the saddle,
and the trail is dim and hard. See, the trail is gone! Here,
where no foot has trod, where the mountains close about, where
the trees whisper, he sits and looks about him. Do you see the
red rose on his breast? Always the rose is there. Do you see him
look up at the mountains, about him at the trees? Do you see him
lay his head upon the earth? Do you still see his smile, the
smile which is weary and yet not afraid? Do you hear him sigh?
And what is this he whispers, here at the end of the long and
narrowing way--'I know not if this be the end or the beginning!'
Ah, what does this man mean who whispers to himself in riddles?

"Look! It is the time of war. There is music. The blood stings.
The heart leaps. The eye flames. The soul exults. Flickering of
light on steel, the flash of servant forces used to slay, the
reverberant growl of engines made for death, the passi