Soup from a Sausage Skewer肉腸簽子湯

　　“But what was the something more of which you spoke just now？” asked the mouse-king.

　　“Why，” answered the little mouse， “I think it is what they call 'effect；'” and thereupon she turned the staff round， and behold not a single flower was to be seen upon it！ She now only held the naked skewer， and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a concert. “Violets， the elf told me，” continued the mouse， “are for the sight， the smell， and the touch； so we have only now to produce the effect of hearing and tasting；” and then， as the little mouse beat time with her staff， there came sounds of music， not such music as was heard in the forest， at the elfin feast， but such as is often heard in the kitchen—the sounds of boiling and roasting. It came quite suddenly， like wind rushing through the chimneys， and seemed as if every pot and kettle were boiling over. The fire-shovel clattered down on the brass fender； and then， quite as suddenly， all was still，—nothing could be heard but the light， vapory song of the tea-kettle， which was quite wonderful to hear， for no one could rightly distinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil or going to stop. And the little pot steamed， and the GREat pot simmered， but without any regard for each； indeed there seemed no sense in the pots at all. And as the little mouse waved her baton still more wildly， the pots foamed and threw up bubbles， and boiled over； while again the wind roared and whistled through the chimney， and at last there was such a terrible hubbub， that the little mouse let her stick fall.

　　“That is a strange sort of soup，” said the mouse-king； “shall we not now hear about the preparation？”

　　“That is all，” answered the little mouse， with a bow.

　　“That all！” said the mouse-king； “then we shall be glad to hear what information the next may have to give us.”What the Second Mouse Had to Tell

　　WAS born in the library， at a castle，“ said the second mouse. ”Very few members of our family ever had the good fortune to get into the dining-room， much less the store-room. On my journey， and here to-day， are the only times I have ever seen a kitchen. We were often obliged to suffer hunger in the library， but then we gained a GREat deal of knowledge. The rumor reached us of the royal prize offered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage skewer. Then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript which， however， she could not read， but had heard it read， and in it was written， 'Those who are poets can make soup of sausage skewers.' She then asked me if I was a poet. I felt myself quite innocent of any such pretensions. Then she said I must go out and make myself a poet. I asked again what I should be required to do， for it seemed to me quite as difficult as to find out how to make soup of a sausage skewer. My grandmother had heard a great deal of reading in her day， and she told me three principal qualifications were necessary—understanding， imagination， and feeling. 'If you can manage to acquire these three， you will be a poet， and the sausage-skewer soup will be quite easy to you.'

　　“So I went forth into the world， and turned my steps towards the west， that I might become a poet. Understanding is the most important matter in everything. I knew that， for the two other qualifications are not thought much of； so I went first to seek for understanding. Where was I to find it？ 'Go to the ant and learn wisdom，' said the GREat Jewish king. I knew that from living in a library. So I went straight on till I came to the first great ant-hill， and then I set myself to watch， that I might become wise. The ants are a very respectable people， they are wisdom itself. All they do is like the working of a sum in arithmetic， which comes right. 'To work and to lay eggs，' say they， 'and to provide for posterity， is to live out your time properly；' and that they truly do. They are divided into the clean and the dirty ants， their rank is pointed out by a number， and the ant-queen is number ONE； and her opinion is the only correct one on everything； she seems to have the whole wisdom of the world in her， which was just the important matter I wished to acquire. She said a great deal which was no doubt very clever； yet to me it sounded like nonsense. She said the ant-hill was the loftiest thing in the world， and yet close to the mound stood a tall tree， which no one could deny was loftier， much loftier， but no mention was made of the tree. One evening an ant lost herself on this tree； she had crept up the stem， not nearly to the top， but higher than any ant had ever ventured； and when at last she returned home she said that she had found something in her travels much higher than the ant-hill. The rest of the ants considered this an insult to the whole community； so she was condemned to wear a muzzle and to live in perpetual solitude. A short time afterwards another ant got on the tree， and made the same journey and the same discovery， but she spoke of it cautiously and indefinitely， and as she was one of the superior ants and very much respected， they believed her， and when she died they erected an eggshell as a monument to her memory， for they cultivated a great respect for science. I saw，” said the little mouse， “that the ants were always running to and fro with her burdens on their backs. Once I saw one of them drop her load； she gave herself a great deal of trouble in trying to raise it again， but she could not succeed. Then two others came up and tried with all their strength to help her， till they nearly dropped their own burdens in doing so； then they were obliged to stop for a moment in their help， for every one must think of himself first. And the ant-queen remarked that their conduct that day showed that they possessed kind hearts and good understanding. 'These two qualities，' she continued， 'place us ants in the highest degree above all other reasonable beings. Understanding must therefore be seen among us in the most prominent manner， and my wisdom is greater than all.' And so saying she raised herself on her two hind legs， that no one else might be mistaken for her. I could not therefore make an error， so I ate her up. We are to go to the ants to learn wisdom， and I had got the queen.

　　“I now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned， which was an oak. It had a tall trunk with a wide-spreading top， and was very old. I knew that a living being dwelt here， a dryad as she is called， who is born with the tree and dies with it. I had heard this in the library， and here was just such a tree， and in it an oak-maiden. She uttered a terrible scream when she caught sight of me so near to her； like many women， she was very much afraid of mice. And she had more real cause for fear than they have， for I might have gnawed through the tree on which her life depended. I spoke to her in a kind and friendly manner， and begged her to take courage. At last she took me up in her delicate hand， and then I told her what had brought me out into the world， and she promised me that perhaps on that very evening she should be able to obtain for me one of the two treasures for which I was seeking. She told me that Phantaesus was her very dear friend， that he was as beautiful as the god of love， that he remained often for many hours with her under the leafy boughs of the tree which then rustled and waved more than ever over them both. He called her his dryad， she said， and the tree his tree； for the grand old oak， with its gnarled trunk， was just to his taste. The root， spreading deep into the earth， the top rising high in the fresh air， knew the value of the drifted snow， the keen wind， and the warm sunshine， as it ought to be known. 'Yes，' continued the dryad， 'the birds sing up above in the branches， and talk to each other about the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign lands； and on one of the withered boughs a stork has built his nest，—it is beautifully arranged， and besides it is pleasant to hear a little about the land of the pyramids. All this pleases Phantaesus， but it is not enough for him； I am obliged to relate to him of my life in the woods； and to go back to my childhood， when I was little， and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging-nettle could overshadow it， and I have to tell everything that has happened since then till now that the tree is so large and strong. Sit you down now under the GREen bindwood and pay attention， when Phantaesus comes I will find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and to pull out one of the little feathers. That feather you shall have； a better was never given to any poet， it will be quite enough for you.'

　　“And when Phantaesus came the feather was plucked， and，” said the little mouse， “I seized and put it in water， and kept it there till it was quite soft. It was very heavy and indigestible， but I managed to nibble it up at last. It is not so easy to nibble one's self into a poet， 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 in the library. A GREat man has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only use appeared to be that they might relieve mankind of overflowing tears—a kind of sponge， in fact， for sucking up feelings and emotions. I remembered a few of these books， they had always 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 the library， and literally devoured a whole novel， that is， properly speaking， the interior or soft part of it； the crust， or binding， I left. When I had digested not only this， but a second， I felt a stirring within me； then I ate a small piece of a third romance， and felt myself a poet. I said it to myself， and told others the same. I had head-ache and back-ache， and I cannot tell what aches besides. I thought over all the stories that may be said to be connected with sausage 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 clear understanding. I remembered the man who placed a white stick in his mouth by which he could make himself and the stick invisible. I thought of sticks as hobby-horses， staves of music or rhyme， of breaking a stick over a man's back， and heaven knows how many more phrases of the 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 hard to make myself one， I can of course make poetry on anything. I shall therefore be able to wait upon 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 not the third， of the four who were contending for the prize， one whom the rest supposed to be dead. She shot in like an arrow， and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with crape. She had been running day and night. She had watched an opportunity to get into a goods train， and had travelled by the railway； and yet she had arrived almost too late. She pressed forward， looking very much ruffled. She had lost her sausage skewer， but not her voice； for she began to speak at once as if they only waited for her， and would hear her only， and as if nothing else in the world was of the least consequence. She spoke out so clearly and plainly， and she had come in so suddenly， that no one had time to stop her or to say 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 forfeited goods， to the jail， and on arriving I made my escape， and ran into the house of the turnkey. The turnkey was speaking of his prisoners， especially of one who had uttered thoughtless words. These words had given rise to other words， and at length they were written down and registered： 'The whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers，' said he， 'but the soup may cost him his neck.'

　　“Now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner，” continued the little mouse， “and I watched my opportunity， and slipped into his apartment， for there is a mouse-hole to be found 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 looked the blacker for it. The prisoner scratched pictures and verses with white chalk on the black walls， but I did not read the verses. I think he found his confinement wearisome， so that I was a welcome guest. He enticed me with bread-crumbs， with whistling， and with gentle words， 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 and sausage， and I really began to love him. Altogether， I must own that it was a very pleasant intimacy. He let me run about on his hand， and on his arm， and into his sleeve； and I even crept into his beard， and he called me his little friend. I forgot what I had come out into the world for； forgot my sausage skewer which I had laid in a crack in the floor—it is lying there still. I wished to stay with him always where I was， for I knew that if I went away the poor prisoner 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 as usual， and kissed his hand to me. Then he went away， and never came back. I know nothing more of his history.

　　“the jailer took possession of me now. He said something about soup from a sausage skewer， but I could not trust him. He took me in his hand certainly， but it was to place me in a cage like a tread-mill. Oh how dreadful it was！ I had to run round and round without getting any farther in advance， and only to make everybody laugh. The jailer's grand-daughter was a charming little thing. She had curly hair like the brightest gold， merry eyes， and such a smiling mouth.

　　“'You poor little mouse，' said she， one day as she peeped into my cage， 'I will set you free.' She then drew forth the iron fastening， and I sprang out on the window-sill， and from thence to the roof. Free！ free！ that was all I could think of； not of the object of my journey. It GREw dark， and as night was coming on I found a lodging in an old tower， where dwelt a watchman and an owl. I had no confidence in either of them， least of all in the owl， which is like a cat， and has a great failing， for she eats mice. One may however be mistaken sometimes； and so was I， for this was a respectable and well-educated old owl， who knew more than the watchman， and even as much as I did myself. The young owls made a great fuss about everything， but the only rough words she would say to them were， 'You had better go and make some soup from sausage skewers.' She was very indulgent and loving to her children. Her conduct gave me such confidence in her， that from the crack where I sat I called out 'squeak.' This confidence of mine pleased her so much that she assured me she would take me under her own protection， and that not a creature should do me harm. The fact was， she wickedly meant to keep me in reserve for her own eating in winter， when food would be scarce. Yet she was a very clever lady-owl； she explained to me that the watchman could only hoot with the horn that hung loose at his side； and then she said he is so terribly proud of it， that he imagines himself an owl in the tower；—wants to do great things， but only succeeds in small； all soup on a sausage skewer. Then I begged the owl to give me the recipe for this soup. 'Soup from a sausage skewer，' said she， 'is only a proverb amongst mankind， and may be understood in many ways. Each believes his own way the best， and after all， the proverb signifies nothing.' 'Nothing！' I exclaimed. I was quite struck. Truth is not always agreeable， but truth is above everything else， as the old owl said. I thought over all this， and saw quite plainly that if truth was really so far above everything else， it must be much more valuable than soup from a sausage skewer. So I hastened to get away， that I might be home in time， and bring what was highest and best， and above everything—namely， the truth. The mice are an enlightened people， and the mouse-king is above them all. He is therefore capable of making me queen for the sake of truth.”

　　“Your truth is a falsehood，” said the mouse who had not yet spoken； “I can prepare the soup， and I mean to do so.”

　　How It Was Prepared

　　DID not travel，“ said the third mouse； ”I stayed in this country： that was the right way. One gains nothing by travelling—everything can be acquired here quite as easily； so I stayed at home. I have not obtained what I know from supernatural beings. I have neither swallowed it， nor learnt it from conversing with owls. I have got it all from my reflections and thoughts. Will you now set the kettle on the fire—so？ Now pour the water in—quite full—up to the brim； place it on the fire； make up a good blaze； keep it burning， that the water may boil； it must boil over and over. There， now I throw in the skewer. Will the mouse-king be pleased now to dip his tail into the boiling water， and stir it round with the tail. The longer the king stirs it， the stronger the soup will become. Nothing more is necessary， only to stir it.“

　　“Can no one else do this？” asked the king.

　　“No，” said the mouse； “only in the tail of the mouse-king is this power contained.”

　　And the water boiled and bubbled， as the mouse-king stood close beside the kettle. It seemed rather a dangerous performance； but he turned round， and put out his tail， as mice do in a dairy， when they wish to skim the cream from a pan of milk with their tails and afterwards lick it off. But the mouse-king's tail had only just touched the hot steam， when he sprang away from the chimney in a GREat hurry， exclaiming， “Oh， certainly， by all means， you must be my queen； and we will let the soup question rest till our golden wedding， fifty years hence； so that the poor in my kingdom， who are then to have plenty of food， will have something to look forward to for a long time， with great joy.”

　　And very soon the wedding took place. But many of the mice， as they were returning home， said that the soup could not be properly called “soup from a sausage skewer，” but “soup from a mouse's tail.” They acknowledged also that some of the stories were very well told； but that the whole could have been managed differently. “I should have told it so—and so—and so.” These were the critics who are always so clever afterwards.

　　When this story was circulated all over the world， the opinions upon it were divided； but the story remained the same. And， after all， the best way in everything you undertake， GREat as well as small， is to expect no thanks for anything you may do， even when it refers to “soup from a sausage skewer.”