great,
grim bear's head which hung above the mantel. Every trophy
gathered in years of the chase, once perhaps prized, now perhaps
forgotten, was brought into evidence, nor could one escape
noting each one, and giving to each, for this one night more,
the story which belonged to it. I sat and looked upon them all,
and so there passed a panorama of the years.

"There," thought I, "is the stag which once fell far in the pine
woods of the North. This antelope takes me back to the hard,
white Plains. These huge antlers could grow only amid the
forests of the Rockies. That wolf--how many of the hounds he
mangled, I remember; and the giant bear, it was a good fight he
made, perhaps dangerous, had the old rifle there been less sure.
Yes, yes, of course, I could recall each incident. Of course,
they all were thrilling, exciting, delightful, glorious, all
those things. Of course, the heart must have leaped in those
days. The blood must have surged, in those moments. The pulse
must have grown hard, the mouth must have been dry with the
ardor of the chase, at those times. But now? But why? Does the
heart leap to-night, do the veins fill with the rush of the
blood, tumultuous in the joy of stimulus or danger? Why does not
the old eagerness come back? Which of these trophies is the one
to bring this back again? To which of these grim, silent heads
belongs the keenest story?"

"I know," said the Singing Mouse, which unknown to me had come
and placed itself upon the table. "I know." And it climbed upon
my arm which lay across the table. The fire shone fair upon its
little form, so that in silhouette its outline was delicate and
keen as an image cut from the fiery heart of a noble opal stone.

"And what is it that you know?" I asked. "Maker of dreams, tell
me what you know to-night."

The Singing Mouse balanced and moved itself in harmony with the
beat of the fire's rays. I looked at it so closely that a dream
came upon my eyes, so that the voice of the Singing Mouse
sounded far away and faint, though it was still clear and
resonant in its own peculiar way and very fine and sweet.

"I will tell you which trophy you most prize," it said. "I will
show you your _Iliad_ of the chase. Do you not remember, do you
not see this, the most eventful hunting of all your life?"

And so I gazed where the Singing Mouse pointed, quite beyond the
dusty walls, and there I saw as it had said. I heard not the
thunder of the hoofs of buffalo, no