“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 will hear what the third mouse has to say.”
“Squeak， squeak，” cried a little mouse at the kitchen door; it was the fourth， and notthe third， of the four who were contending for the prize， one whom the rest supposed to bedead. She shot in like an arrow， and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered withcrape. She had been running day and night. She had watched an opportunity to get into agoods train， and had travelled by the railway; and yet she had arrived almost too late. Shepressed forward， looking very much ruffled. She had lost her sausage skewer， but not hervoice; for she began to speak at once as if they only waited for her， and would hear heronly， and as if nothing else in the world was of the least consequence. She spoke out soclearly and plainly， and she had come in so suddenly， that no one had time to stop her or tosay 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.
“the jailer took possession of me now. He said something about soup from a sausageskewer， but I could not trust him. He took me in his hand certainly， but it was to place me ina cage like a tread-mill. Oh how dreadful it was! I had to run round and round without gettingany farther in advance， and only to make everybody laugh. The jailer's grand-daughter was acharming little thing. She had curly hair like the brightest gold， merry eyes， and such asmiling mouth.