Behind the stove there was a small hole.
The mouth of the hole was round and black.
It was just big enough for him.
In that hole lived a little mouse.
He was very small.
He was smaller than a date.
His ears were thin, like paper.
His home was warm.
The floor of it was lined with old cotton.
His mother had carried that cotton there, a little at a time.
He had a gray coat.
There was no pattern on it.
His paws were pink.
His tail was long.
He had a mother.
She was small too.
She smelled of cotton.
Every night, when the lamp was lit, he woke up.
The lamp was small.
Its belly was round.
It was made of clay.
Inside it there was a little pool of oil.
The oil was yellow.
The oil shone, and it rocked, and it shone.
The light fell on the wall.
And a round bright spot lived on the wall.
The spot moved when the wick moved.
Sometimes the spot was big.
Sometimes it was small.
The little mouse stayed just outside it.
He was one step away from the light.
He could feel the warm on his nose.
He watched it for many nights.
He thought about it in the daytime too.
He thought: what is in there?
So one night he decided to go and see.
First he climbed onto a little stool.
The stool was low, so that was easy.
He liked the stool.
It was a good stool.
Then he climbed up the leg of the table.
The leg was smooth.
His claws made a small sound.
Halfway up, he stopped to breathe.
It was a long way for a small mouse.
His small whiskers shook.
Then he went on.
He was almost at the top.
He reached the top of the table.
He walked across it.
The table was wide.
It was like a field.
There was one grain of rice on the table.
He did not stop for it.
That grain was from yesterday.
He did not care about rice tonight.
He could smell the oil now.
The smell was a little sweet.
He came to the stand of the lamp.
The stand was narrow.
He climbed it one small step at a time.
And then he saw the oil.
It was bright, like a little piece of the moon.
He had never been so close to it.
He put his head down.
He took one small sip.
It was warm.
It was sweet.
It was better than rice.
He lifted his head.
Then he looked down.
The table had grown very tall.
The stool had grown very small.
The floor was far, far below.
The stool looked like a small dark stone.
The little mouse was afraid.
All four of his feet began to shake.
He lay flat on the lamp stand.
He did not move at all.
His tail hung down behind him.
He called out once.
His mother was down there.
She lifted her head.
She stood up on her back legs.
She said: do not be afraid.
She said: I am right here, under you.
The little mouse closed his eyes.
He jumped.
He came down.
He rolled twice.
He rolled into his mother’s arms.
Her arms were soft.
His mother licked his ears.
He did not move.
His heart slowed down again.
He took a long breath.
He was safe.
In China, very small children learn a song about this.
They sing: little mouse, up the lamp, steal the oil, cannot get down.
They laugh when they sing it.
They clap on the last word.
His mother picked him up.
She carried him back to the hole.
She smoothed the cotton flat.
She put him down in the middle of it.
Then she curled up beside him.
He pushed his head into her fur.
It was warm there.
The lamp was blown out.
The house was quiet.
The mice were home.
The hole was dark and warm.
The cotton smelled like home.
The little mouse fell asleep at once.
This is an old Chinese folktale.
It is a small and gentle Chinese fairy tale.
And it has been a favorite Chinese bedtime story for a very long time.
Now it is time to close your eyes.
Good night, little mouse.
Good night, mother.
This is a very old Chinese bedtime story. It is not long, and it is very gentle. Best read slowly, with the lights low.
