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oak…maiden。 She uttered a terrible scream when she caught sight of
me so near to her； like many women； she was very much afraid of
mice。 And she had more real cause for fear than they have； for I might
have gnawed through the tree on which her life depended。 I spoke to
her in a kind and friendly manner； and begged her to take courage。
At last she took me up in her delicate hand； and then I told her
what had brought me out into the world； and she promised me that
perhaps on that very evening she should be able to obtain for me one
of the two treasures for which I was seeking。 She told me that
Phantaesus was her very dear friend； that he was as beautiful as the
god of love； that he remained often for many hours with her under
the leafy boughs of the tree which then rustled and waved more than
ever over them both。 He called her his dryad； she said； and the tree
his tree； for the grand old oak； with its gnarled trunk； was just to
his taste。 The root； spreading deep into the earth； the top rising
high in the fresh air； knew the value of the drifted snow； the keen
wind； and the warm sunshine； as it ought to be known。 'Yes；' continued
the dryad； 'the birds sing up above in the branches； and talk to
each other about the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign
lands； and on one of the withered boughs a stork has built his
nest；… it is beautifully arranged； and besides it is pleasant to
hear a little about the land of the pyramids。 All this pleases
Phantaesus； but it is not enough for him； I am obliged to relate to
him of my life in the woods； and to go back to my childhood； when I
was little； and the tree so small and delicate that a
stinging…nettle could overshadow it； and I have to tell everything
that has happened since then till now that the tree is so large and
strong。 Sit you down now under the green bindwood and pay attention；
when Phantaesus comes I will find an opportunity to lay hold of his
wing and to pull out one of the little feathers。 That feather you
shall have； a better was never given to any poet； it will be quite
enough for you。'
〃And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked； and；〃 said
the little mouse； 〃I seized and put it in water； and kept it there
till it was quite soft。 It was very heavy and indigestible； but I
managed to nibble it up at last。 It is not so easy to nibble one's
self into a poet； there are so many things to get through。 Now；
however； I had two of them； understanding and imagination； and through
these I knew that the third was to be found in the library。 A great
man has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only use
appeared to be that they might relieve mankind of overflowing tears… a
kind of sponge； in fact； for sucking up feelings and emotions。 I
remembered a few of these books； they had always appeared tempting
to the appetite； they had been much read； and were so greasy； that
they must have absorbed no end of emotions in themselves。 I retraced
my steps to the library； and literally devoured a whole novel； that
is； properly speaking； the interior or soft part of it； the crust；
or binding； I left。 When I had digested not only this； but a second； I
felt a stirring within me； then I ate a small piece of a third
romance； and felt myself a poet。 I said it to myself； and told
others the same。 I had head…ache and back…ache； and I cannot tell what
aches besides。 I thought over all the stories that may be said to be
connected with sausage pegs； and all that has ever been written
about skewers； and sticks； and staves； and splinters came to my
thoughts； the ant…queen must have had a wonderfully clear
understanding。 I remembered the man who placed a white stick in his
mouth by which he could make himself and the stick invisible。 I
thought of sticks as hobby…horses； staves of music or rhyme； of
breaking a stick over a man's back； and heaven knows how many more
phrases of the same sort relating to sticks； staves； and skewers。
All my thoughts rein on skewers； sticks of wood； and staves； and as
I am； at last； a poet； and I have worked terribly hard to make
myself one； I can of course make poetry on anything。 I shall therefore
be able to wait upon you every day in the week with a poetical history
of a skewer。 And that is my soup。〃
〃In that case；〃 said the mouse…king； 〃we will hear what the
third mouse has to say。〃
〃Squeak； squeak；〃 cried a little mouse at the kitchen door； it was
the fourth； and not the third； of the four who were contending for the
prize； one whom the rest supposed to be dead。 She shot in like an
arrow； and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with
crape。 She had been running day and night。 She had watched an
opportunity to get into a goods train； and had travelled by the
railway； and yet she had arrived almost too late。 She pressed forward；
looking very much ruffled。 She had lost her sausage skewer； but not
her voice； for she began to speak at once as if they only waited for
her； and would hear her only； and as if nothing else in the world
was of the least consequence。 She spoke out so clearly and plainly；
and she had come in so suddenly； that no one had time to stop her or
to say a word while she was speaking。 And now let us hear what she
said。
WHAT THE FOURTH MOUSE； WHO SPOKE
BEFORE THE THIRD； HAD TO TELL
〃I started off at once to the largest town；〃 said she； 〃but the
name of it has escaped me。 I have a very bad memory for names。 I was
carried from the railway； with some forfeited goods； to the jail；
and on arriving I made my escape； and ran into the house of the
turnkey。 The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners； especially of
one who had uttered thoughtless words。 These words had given rise to
other words； and at length they were written down and registered： 'The
whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers；' said he； 'but
the soup may cost him his neck。'
〃Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner；〃 continued
the little mouse； 〃and I watched my opportunity； and slipped into
his apartment； for there is a mouse…hole to be found behind every
closed door。 The prisoner looked pale； he had a great beard and large；
sparkling eyes。 There was a lamp burning； but the walls were so
black that they only looked the blacker for it。 The prisoner scratched
pictures and verses with white chalk on the black walls； but I did not
read the verses。 I think he found his confinement wearisome； so that I
was a welcome guest。 He enticed me with bread…crumbs； with
whistling； and with gentle words； and seemed so friendly towards me；
that by degrees I gained confidence in him； and we became friends；
he divided his bread and water with me； gave me cheese and sausage；
and I really began to love him。 Altogether； I must own that it was a
very pleasant intimacy。 He let me run about on his hand； and on his
arm； and into his sleeve； and I even crept into his beard； and he
called me his little friend。 I forgot what I had come out into the
world for； forgot my sausage skewer which I had laid in a crack in the
floor… it is lying there still。 I wished to stay with him always where
I was； for I knew that if I went away the poor prisoner would have
no one to be his friend； which is a sad thing。 I stayed； but he did
not。 He spoke to me so mournfully for the last time； gave me double as
much bread and cheese as usual； and kissed his hand to me。 Then he
went away； and never came back。 I know nothing more of his history。
〃The jailer took possession of me now。 He said something about
soup from a sausage skewer； but I could not trust him。 He took me in
his hand certainly； but it was to place me in a cage like a
tread…mill。 Oh how dreadful it was！ I had to run round and round
without getting any farther in advance； and only to make everybody
laugh。 The jailer's grand…daughter was a charming little thing。 She
had curly hair like the brightest gold； merry eyes； and such a smiling
mouth。
〃'You poor little mouse；' said she； one day as she peeped into
my cage； 'I will set you free。' She then drew forth the iron
fastening； and I sprang out on the window…sill； and from thence to the
roof。 Free！ free！ that was all I could think of； not of the object
of my journey。 It grew dark； and as night was coming on I found a
lodging in an old tower； where dwelt a watchman and an owl。 I had no
confidence in either of them； least of all in the owl； which is like a
cat； and has a great failing； for she eats mice。 One may however be
mistaken sometimes； and so was I； for this was a respectable and
well…educated old owl； who knew more than the watchman； and even as
much as I did myself。 The young owls made a great fuss about
everything； but the only rough words she would say to them were；
'You had better go and make some soup from sausage skewers。' She was
very indulgent and loving to her children。 Her conduct gave me such
confidence in her； that from the crack where I sat I called out
'squeak。' This confidence of mine pleased her so much that she assured
me she would take me under h