them smile.

These friends sat by the little fire a time before they went to
rest in the tiny house of white. After they had gone, the fire
did strange things. All men know that, though you see the fire
burned down, when you go into the tent you will some time in the
night see the walls lit up by a sudden flash or so, now and
then, from the fire which was thought to be dead.

That is the business of the fire, and of the oaks and of the
shadows. I know that the shadows dance strangely, and hover and
come near at hand, in those late hours of the night; but what
then occurs I do not know. These two friends never questioned
this. They knew it was the secret of the night, and gave the oak
its own request, in pay for its protection and consent. They
gave the oak its union with the sacred Past.

In the night I have heard the oak sob. Yet in the morning, when
the sun was silvering the wake of all the leaping fishes, the
oak was always gentle, and it said, "Wake, wake! God is wise.
Waken, waken! God is good!"

As pure shining beads upon a thread of gold I saw this small,
dear picture, reiterant and unchanged, year after year, always
with the same calm and pure surroundings. Only as year added
itself to year, slipping forward on the golden string, I saw the
gray figure grow more gray, more bowed, more feeble. Alas! it
seemed to me I saw the silver coming upon the head of the
younger man, and his eyes growing weary, as of one who looks at
the earth too closely (which it is not wise to do). Yet the
years came, to the oaks and to the grasses and to the friends.

The grass dies every year, but it is born again. The oak dies in
centuries, but it is born again. Man dies in three score years
and ten; but he, too, is born again.

As I looked, I could see the passing of the years. In all but
the unaltering fire of friendship I could see change creeping
on. Grayer, grayer, more bent, more feeble--is it not so,
Singing Mouse? And now, this time, what was this gentle warning
that the oak tried to whisper softly down? Perhaps the grayer
friend heard it, as he sat musing by the fire. He rose and
looked about him, as one who had dreamed and was content. He
looked up at the solemn stars unafraid, and so murmured to
himself. "Day unto day uttereth speech," he said; "Night unto
night showeth knowledge."

Day unto day, Singing Mouse. Day unto day.

Woe is me, Singing Mouse, and these are bitter tears for that
which you have shown