As for Santa Claus, when he came that Christmas eve, bringing
morceaux de Brie and of Stilton for the other little mice, he heard
with sorrow of Squeaknibble's fate; and ere he departed he said that
in all his experience he had never known of a mouse or of a child that
had prospered after once saying that he didn't believe in Santa
Claus."
"Well, that is a remarkable story," said the old clock. "But if you
believe in Santa Claus, why aren't you in bed?"
"That's where I shall be presently," answered the little mauve mouse,
"but I must have my scamper, you know. It is very pleasant, I assure
you, to frolic in the light of the moon; only I cannot understand why
you are always so cold and so solemn and so still, you pale, pretty
little moonbeam."
"Indeed, I do not know that I am so," said the moonbeam. "But I am
very old, and I have travelled many, many leagues, and I have seen
wondrous things. Sometimes I toss upon the ocean, sometimes I fall
upon a slumbering flower, sometimes I rest upon a dead child's face. I
see the fairies at their play, and I hear mothers singing lullabies.
Last night I swept across the frozen bosom of a river. A woman's face
looked up at me; it was the picture of eternal rest. 'She is
sleeping,' said the frozen river. 'I rock her to and fro, and sing to
her. Pass gently by, O moonbeam; pass gently by, lest you awaken
her.'"
"How strangely you talk," said the old clock. "Now, I'll warrant me
that, if you wanted to, you could tell many a pretty and wonderful
story.
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