Part 11 (1/2)

”She was very wise in all things. She proved to me that the watchman could not blow a blast without his horn, which hung loosely about him.

”He piques himself exceedingly upon his performances, and fancies he is the owl of the tower. The sound ought to be very loud, but it is extremely weak. 'Soup of a sausage-stick!'

”I begged her to give me the recipe for the soup, and she explained it to me thus:--

”'Soup of a sausage-stick is but a cant phrase among men, and is differently interpreted. Every one fancies his own interpretation the best, but in sober reality there is nothing in it whatsoever.'

”'Nothing!' cried I. That was a poser. 'Truth is not always pleasant, but truth is always the best.' So also said the old owl. I considered the matter, and came to the conclusion that when I brought _the best_ I brought more than 'soup of a sausage-stick;' and thereupon I hastened homewards, so that I might arrive in good time to bring what is most valuable--THE TRUTH. The mice are an enlightened community, and their king is the cleverest of them all. He can make me his queen for the sake of Truth.”

”Thy truth is a falsehood,” said the mouse who had not yet had an opportunity of speaking. ”I can make the soup, and I will do it.”

V.

HOW THE SOUP WAS MADE.

”I have not travelled at all,” said the last mouse. ”I remained in our own country. It is not necessary to go to foreign lands--one can learn as well at home. I remained there. I have not acquired any information of unnatural beings. I have not eaten information, or conversed with owls. I confined myself to original thoughts. Will some one now be so good as to fill the kettle with water, and put it on?

Let there be plenty of fire under it. Let the water boil--boil briskly; then throw the sausage-stick in. Will his majesty the King of the Mice be so condescending as to put his tail into the boiling pot, and stir it about? The longer he stirs it, the richer the soup will become. It costs nothing, and requires no other ingredients--it only needs to be stirred.”

”Cannot another do this?” asked the king.

”No,” said the mouse. ”The effect can only be produced by the royal tail.”

The water was boiled, and the King of the Mice prepared himself for the operation, though it was rather dangerous. He stuck his tail out, as mice are in the habit of doing in the dairy, when they skim the cream off the dish with their tails; but he had no sooner popped his tail into the warm steam than he drew it out and sprang down.

”Of course you are my queen,” said he; ”but we shall wait for the soup till our golden wedding, and the poor in my kingdom will have something to rejoice over in the future.”

So the nuptials were celebrated; but many of the mice, when they went home, said, ”It could not well be called soup of a sausage-stick, but rather soup of a mouse's tail.”

They allowed that each of the narratives was very well told, but the whole might have been better. ”I, for instance, would have related my adventures in such and such words....”

These were the critics, and they are always so wise--afterwards.

And this history went round the world. Opinions were divided about it, but the historian himself remained unmoved. And this is best in great things and in small.

_The Neck of a Bottle._

Yonder, in the confined, crooked streets, amidst several poor-looking houses, stood a narrow high tenement, run up of framework that was much misshapen, with corners and ends awry. It was inhabited by poor people, the poorest of whom looked out from the garret, where, outside the little window, hung in the suns.h.i.+ne an old, dented bird-cage, which had not even a common cage-gla.s.s, but only the neck of a bottle inverted, with a cork below, and filled with water. An old maid stood near the open window; she had just been putting some chickweed into the cage, wherein a little linnet was hopping from perch to perch, and singing until her warbling became almost overpowering.

”Yes, you may well sing,” said the neck of the bottle; but it did not say this as we should say it, for the neck of a bottle cannot speak, but it thought so within itself, just as we human beings speak inwardly.

”Yes, you may well sing, you who have your limbs entire. You should have experienced, like me, what it is to have lost your lower part, to have only a neck and a mouth, and the latter stopped up with a cork, as I have; then you would not sing. But it is well that somebody is contented. I have no cause to sing, and I cannot. I could once though, when I was a whole bottle. How I was praised at the furrier's in the wood, when his daughter was betrothed! Yes, I remember that day as if it were yesterday. I have gone through a great deal when I look back.

I have been in fire and in water, down in the dark earth, and higher up than many; and now I am suspended outside of a bird-cage in the air and suns.h.i.+ne. It might be worth while to listen to my story; but I do not speak it aloud, because I cannot.”

So it went on thinking over its own history, which was curious enough; and the little bird poured forth its strains, and in the street below people walked and drove, every one thinking of himself, some scarcely thinking at all; but the neck of the bottle _was_ thinking.

It remembered the blazing smelt-furnace at the manufactory where it was blown into life. It remembered even now that it had been extremely warm; that it had looked into the roaring oven, its original home, and had felt strongly inclined to spring back into it; but that by degrees, as it felt cooler, it found itself comfortable enough where it was, placed in a row with a whole regiment of brothers and sisters from the same furnace, some of which, however, were blown into champagne bottles, others into ale bottles; and that made a difference, since out in the world an ale bottle may contain the costly LACRYMae CHRISTI, and a champagne bottle may be filled with blacking; but what they were born to every one can see by their shape, so that n.o.ble remains n.o.ble even with blacking in it.