“I now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned， which was an oak. Ithad a tall trunk with a wide-spreading top， and was very old. I knew that a living being dwelthere， a dryad as she is called， who is born with the tree and dies with it. I had heard this inthe library， and here was just such a tree， and in it an oak-maiden. She uttered a terriblescream when she caught sight of me so near to her; like many women， she was very muchafraid of mice. And she had more real cause for fear than they have， for I might have gnawedthrough the tree on which her life depended. I spoke to her in a kind and friendly manner， andbegged her to take courage. At last she took me up in her delicate hand， and then I told herwhat had brought me out into the world， and she promised me that perhaps on that veryevening 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 oflove， that he remained often for many hours with her under the leafy boughs of the tree whichthen 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 valueof 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 otherabout the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign lands; and on one of the withered boughsa stork has built his nest，—it is beautifully arranged， and besides it is pleasant to hear a littleabout the land of the pyramids. All this pleases Phantaesus， but it is not enough for him; Iam obliged to relate to him of my life in the woods; and to go back to my childhood， when Iwas little， and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging-nettle could overshadow it， andI have to tell everything that has happened since then till now that the tree is so large andstrong. Sit you down now under the GREen bindwood and pay attention， when Phantaesuscomes 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 foryou.'
“And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked， and，” said the little mouse， “Iseized and put it in water， and kept it there till it was quite soft. It was very heavy andindigestible， but I managed to nibble it up at last. It is not so easy to nibble one's self into apoet， 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 inthe library. A GREat man has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only useappeared to be that they might relieve mankind of overflowing tears—a kind of sponge， infact， for sucking up feelings and emotions. I remembered a few of these books， they hadalways 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 thelibrary， and literally devoured a whole novel， that is， properly speaking， the interior or softpart of it; the crust， or binding， I left. When I had digested not only this， but a second， Ifelt a stirring within me; then I ate a small piece of a third romance， and felt myself a poet. Isaid it to myself， and told others the same. I had head-ache and back-ache， and I cannot tellwhat aches besides. I thought over all the stories that may be said to be connected withsausage 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 clearunderstanding. I remembered the man who placed a white stick in his mouth by which he couldmake himself and the stick invisible. I thought of sticks as hobby-horses， staves of music orrhyme， of breaking a stick over a man's back， and heaven knows how many more phrases ofthe 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 hardto make myself one， I can of course make poetry on anything. I shall therefore be able to waitupon 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 willhear what the third mouse has to say.”
“Squeak， squeak，” cried a little mouse at thekitchen door; it was the fourth， and not thethird， of the four who were contending for theprize， one whom the rest supposed to be dead.She shot in like an arrow， and overturned thesausage peg that had been covered with crape. Shehad been running day and night. She had watchedan opportunity to get into a goods train， and hadtravelled by the railway; and yet she had arrivedalmost too late. She pressed forward， looking very much ruffled. She had lost her sausageskewer， 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 timeto 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
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 forfeitedgoods， to the jail， and on arriving I made my escape， and ran into the house of theturnkey. The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners， especially of one who had utteredthoughtless words. These words had given rise to other words， and at length they werewritten down and registered： 'The whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers，' saidhe， 'but the soup may cost him his neck.'
“Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner，” continued the little mouse， “and Iwatched my opportunity， and slipped into his apartment， for there is a mouse-hole to befound 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 lookedthe blacker for it. The prisoner scratched pictures and verses with white chalk on the blackwalls， but I did not read the verses. I think he found his confinement wearisome， so that Iwas a welcome guest. He enticed me with bread-crumbs， with whistling， and with gentlewords， 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 andsausage， and I really began to love him. Altogether， I must own that it was a very pleasantintimacy. He let me run about on his hand， and on his arm， and into his sleeve; and I evencrept into his beard， and he called me his little friend. I forgot what I had come out into theworld for; forgot my sausage skewer which I had laid in a crack in the floor—it is lying therestill. I wished to stay with him always where I was， for I knew that if I went away the poorprisoner 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 asusual， and kissed his hand to me. Then he went away， and never came back. I know nothingmore of his history.