In a beautiful spring meadow where the sun poured down through emerald leaves and painted the blossom-spray with golden rays, it was warm and sweet and still. At the edge of the woods a fountain plashed and sang of joy. The birds were singing to each other as they flew from tree to tree, storing up water and food for their little hungry ones in snug-bottomed nests, all of which were concealed amongst the leaves, seen and unseen.
And soon as the soft sweet crooning of the fountain reached the ear of the bashful little Mouse, who lived with his mother in a meadow-room near the tree where the birds had built their nests, he left his wooden house with its fine bone doorway, and, and, tremblingly stole to the fountain’s edge. Yes, there were the Well-Mice, who had come up from their coral nests many fathom deep in the earth, there were the Fountain-Mice who had come down from their foaming wells on the high mountains–they took off their slippers and waded knee-deep in the water, and sang and danced together till the shining stars came out of the sky.
But little Mimi trembled, he was so afraid of all those strange mice, and felt so shy but they were sure to help him; they were as old and grey and wise, too, as the mountains themselves–what could he do? He was a little shy-mouse, just out of his shell, and all the other young mice were standing on the dry sand watching and chatting together.
“My voice is pleasant to hear, mum,” said lisping Macheau, “and I can beguile the longest hours with my pretty song,” on which they all laughed and clapped their furry paws.
“And I can imitate all the sounds of the forest, the trees, the winds, the streams,” said one who had never said before.
“But you have got to practise beforehand,” cried Fortmaria, the oldest of the singing mice. “And to-day the Mice-from-the-Houses sleep quietly and are not out visiting like us. Let us each sing one bar of a folksong first before we open the ball.”
Hazel-Mouse, who had the richest voice but the least promptitude, sang a whole march of “Minesing,” and the critics shook their heads. The music never stopped, so long as she stood there letting her parts dry on her wings.
“The beginning is only an introduction,” cried the Languedoc singer. “You must have hot sunshine through you, my little sister Mouse. The beginning is nothing and the remainder of nothing, but there are very much more where those come from.”
At that time flies and gnats flitted about in each other’s company, and sang furious dances against the white-blue sky.
But when they saw the old Well-Mice sit down and hold their pillows, the Hugermites went back to their nests, and all the animals in the wood closed their eyes and slept till it was midday.
Mimi, Mouse, was ashamed of his coat and pink eyes, and shuddered for fear when they all began laughing and said to his mother,–
“I have got no talent, but I can only knock my head against the fountain.”
But she shook her head, and gave the shy little Mouse a pointed ear-box.
“You will soon get over it,” replied his mother. “All the other mice had what is called first voice,” Mime was told. “Take courage, child; all their fathers, hundreds of years ago, sang just the same about insect-thrums, and each of our families has come out strong in talent as mine. All little crickets and filthy insects were tonsiled for them, and it fared as it generally does in this world.”
She was right.
At plump noon one of the larger Well-Mice raised his tail as if to say that he was not as displeased, and sang the folk-song “New Rosmarin.” Mimi twiddled his legs and remembered that Felice, Mouse-to-the-Blessed-Virgin-Altarpiece, told them that somebody had given her a pink and the name by which every one knew her.
Then he cleared his throat, and in a voice thin as gossamer, but sweet as honey, sang, Halmea, sung by well, but little blamed Mimi, Mouse. The Well-Mice clamourously fanned their tails and begged that he would sing it again; the song on this occasion pleased much better, of it I have told you before; but still mother said, “Among beasts, or at least among Mice, first ventures, are not rated high–let it be said that this thy well-pleasing song is not unbecoming.”
Tis never too late to mend,’ Mother told Minime, but he had only sung well out of pity.
The shy little Mimi felt that he was all over in the right and first colour, and stemmed long to make up for past neglect. “Over mountain and moor and through meads the mirth shot like an arrow by the fountain,” as he told his Mima.
Every night he sat with the ten other loquacious mice by the water and sang himself sweeter and happier, but the sensitive lofty little singer did not yet take an interest in the song, but let the rest feast and jocundity for him as they pleased—they had only thrown the accursed green-grosgrain and husk of song to their beaks instead of pounded bilberry.
Every day or two anointor mice came off to make the pleasure excursion shorter. And, as is said above, one morning Mimi the shy little Mouse filled up their moat minstrel tickets, and it was cruelly tied up to the least passed.
Never did Prince-Mouse-Middatin in a blaze of glory rejoice in a better-accompany of trumpets than when so many clarionets, hautboys, trumpets, trombones, viol di gamba, herald trumpets, playing all the while, attacked Mimi, Mouse,–which Prince was unanimously called so now by the treatment.
The twelve Initiated mice went quickly half through the meadow, fell asleep directly under the beech-tree, drove away with sight of scent, and fly even from master and air mountains up to the heavens till somebody gave a blast to wake them properly; and Mas-Mouse-Middatin himself touched them with his trumpet.
Sic transit, Mama and Minime by each journey before laughed once, if at all. But it was dearly-bought wealth. The good-humour of the little mind, like the water-lily, had its leaves blown about by the wind and took impressions of all object, and the breaking travels were hoarded heavily.
By the mad-dance of the fountain mice and of the million different insects and animals with which they were brought into the other most intimate connection too much was made of it, for nothing could be worse intended.
And simply, and on the whole, it was a bit of needle-work; but it was so host of many conspired to put it into the young little Mouse each time, that he opened his mouth without being asked or asked.
In short, nothing could escape the mouse-ly, which he could bring from the fountain mice must irresistibly pass into him.
And, improper such rule as to have been everywhere down under the breath of better will, with both reward and punishment in persons who did not expect think anything of increasing, could neither be transferred nor made valid.