Tom, Dot and Talking Mouse | Page 6

"Stay together, children," said the miller; and then he entered the arbor.
* * * * * *
"What did I tell you?" said the mouse. The miller was in the old room
at the mill for the last night.
"It matters little what you told me," said the miller--"you taught me so
much."
Now from this time the mouse spoke no more to Tom, though he often
saw the little brown creature. It is only to the lonely and sorrowful that
mice and trees and clouds and wind talk much. And the miller was
happy, for had not Anne consented to marry him, and was not the
wedding-day no farther distant now than to-morrow?
Anne visited the mill with her husband a week later, and she said,
"There are many mice here. Why don't you set traps for them?"
"I cannot do that," said the miller. "One mouse has taught me more
than all the books I have read. The mice are welcome to what they take
of the grain."
And Anne questioned no more. It was enough for her that she and Tom
were together. So I suppose the little brown mouse, or at least its
descendants, still live on unmolested at the mill.

THE OLD ROCKING-HORSE
He was a very old rocking-horse indeed. His first master, sunny-headed
little Robbie, had grown into a man with a beard, and had given his old
playmate to his sister's children.
These children had in their turn grown into great schoolboys, so the old
horse, like the other toys, was left forsaken in the big nursery at the top
of the house. Broken-down furniture and old magazines had found their
way there, together with travelling-trunks and portmanteaux. Spiders
had spun their webs over the windows, and dust lay thick on
everything.
When little Basil found his way into the old nursery it seemed to him
like an enchanted palace. The spiders and dust only made him think
that somewhere he would find the "sleeping beauty." The litter of toys
and paper and boxes suggested hidden treasure. Once in this room of
delightful possibilities, he did not care how long his mother and aunt
continued their wearisome talks downstairs of what they called "old
times." He stretched himself on a faded couch while he considered
where to begin his operations, and stared at the deeply-cut initials on
the mantelshelf, and regretted that the chimney-piece in the nursery at
home, being stone, did not lend itself to similar delights. With a sigh he
rolled over, and the rocking-horse met his gaze. He looked at it so long
that his eyes blinked. Older people would have said that just then the
old horse creaked--as old things have a way of doing. But children
understand these things better than old folks who have grown dull.
Basil knew quite well that the old horse had sighed, and he asked him
what was the matter.
"I was only wishing some one would smarten me up a bit," said the
horse. "My left eye is in that box with the tin soldiers. My tail is tied to
a stick in that cupboard where the tools are--a bit of glue would stick
both in. And one stirrup is nailed to the table-drawer for a handle. It
could be got off, and tied to my saddle-strap with a bit of string. My
mane is gone for ever. Johnny put it on a mask for whiskers one Guy

Fawkes' day, and Herbert threw it in the bonfire. I don't suppose any of
the nails can be got out that Tom knocked into my sides; they are in too
tight. Nor can the buttons and marbles be got out of my inside that
Johnny put in through the hole in my neck. But I might be smartened
up a little!"
"Oh, if that is all you want I dare say I can help you," said Basil,
jumping up and running to the cupboard. "Here's your tail, anyway! and
here's a bottle of liquid glue too. Now I'll look for your eye."
"You know," went on the old horse, "I heard the mother saying the
other day that she would send me back to my old home if I were not so
shabby."
Basil, who had found the missing eye, was now fixing it in its place
with plenty of glue, which ran down and dropped off the horse's nose.
Basil was sure he saw a tear drop from the other eye.
"Does it hurt?" he asked sympathetically.
"Oh, I don't mind that," said the horse. "It is like old times to be hurt by
a little boy; besides, one must always suffer if one would look fine."
"Yes; nurse says something like that when I cry while she combs my
hair," said Basil.
"Robbie