England
Newtown, or Franchville, as 'twas called of old, is a sleepy little
town, upon the Solent shore. Sleepy as it is now, it was once noisy
enough, and what made the noise was -- rats. The place was so infested
with them as to be scarce worth living in. There wasn't a barn or a
corn-rick, a storeroom or a cupboard, but they ate their way into it. Not
a cheese but they gnawed it hollow, not a sugar puncheon but they cleared
out. Why the very mead and beer in the barrels was not safe from them.
They'd gnaw a hole in the top of the tun, and down would go one master
rat's rail, and when he brought it up round would crowd all the friends
and cousins, and each would have a suck at the tail.
Had they stopped here it might have been borne. But the squeaking and
shrieking, the hurrying and scurrying, so that you could neither hear
yourself speak nor get a wink of good honest sleep the live-long night!
Not to mention that mamma must needs sit up and keep watch and ward over
baby's cradle, or there'd have been a big ugly rat running across the poor
little fellow's face, and doing who knows what mischief.
Why didn't the good people of the town have cats? Well they did, and
there was a fair stand-up fight, but in the end the rats were too many,
and the pussies were regularly driven from the field.
Poison, I hear you say? Why, they poisoned so many that it fairly bred
a plague.
Ratcatchers! Why there wasn't a ratcatcher from John o' Groat's house
to the Land's End that hadn't tried his luck. But do what they might, cats
or poison, terrier or traps, there seemed to be more rats than ever, and
every day a fresh rat was socking his tail or pricking his whiskers.
The mayor and the town council were at their wits' end. As they were
sitting one day in the town hall racking their poor brains and bewailing
their hard fate, who should run in but the town beadle.
"Please, your honor," says he, "here is a very queer fellow come to town.
I don't rightly know what to make of him."
"Show him in," said the mayor, and in he stepped.
A queer fellow, truly, For there wasn't a color of the rainbow but you
might find it in some corner of his dress, and he was tall and thin, and
had keen piercing eyes. "I'm called the Pied Piper," he began. "And pray
what might you be willing to pay me, if I rid you of every single rat in
Franchville?"
Well, much as they feared the rats, they feared parting with their
money more, and fain would they have higgled and haggled. But the piper
was not a man to stand nonsense, and the upshot was that fifty pounds were
promised him (and it meant a lot of money in those old days) as soon as
not a rat was left to squeak or scurry in Franchville.
Out of the hall stepped the piper, and as he stepped he laid his pipe
to his lips and a shrill keen tune sounded through street and house. And
as each note pierced the air you might have seen a strange sight. For out
of every hole the rats came tumbling. There were none too old and none too
young, none too big and none too little to crowd at the piper's heels and
with eager feet and upturned noses to patter after him as he paced the
streets. Nor was the piper unmindful of the little toddling ones, for
every fifty yards he'd stop and give an extra flourish on his pipe just to
give them time to keep up with the older and stronger of the band.
Up Silver Street he went, and down Gold Street, and at the end of Gold
Street is the harbor and the broad Solent beyond. And as he paced along,
slowly and gravely, the townsfolk flocked to door and window, and many a
blessing they called down upon his head.
As for getting near him there were too many rats. And now that he was
at the water's edge he stepped into a boat, and not a rat, as he shoved
off into deep water, piping shrilly all the while, but followed him,
plashing, paddling, and wagging their tails with delight. On and on he
played and played until the tide went down, and each master rat sank
deeper and deeper in the slimy ooze of the harbor, until every mother's
son of them was dead and smothered.
The tide rose again, and the piper stepped on shore, but never a rat
followed. You may fancy the townsfolk had been throwing up their caps and
hurrahing and stopping up rat holes and setting the church bells
a-ringing. But when the piper stepped ashore, and not so much as a single
squeak was to be heard, the mayor and the council, and the townsfolk
generally, began to hum and to haw and to shake their heads.
For the town money chest had been sadly emptied of late, and where was
the fifty pounds to come from? Such an easy job, too! Just getting into a
boat and playing a pipe! Why the mayor himself could have done that if
only he had thought of it.
So he hummed and hawed and at last, "Come, my good man," said he. "You
see what poor folk we are. How can we manage to pay you fifty pounds? Will
you not take twenty? When all is said and done, 'twill be good pay for the
trouble you've taken."
"Fifty pounds was what I bargained for," said the piper shortly, "and
if I were you I'd pay it quickly, for I can pipe many kinds of tunes, as
folk sometimes find to their cost."
"Would you threaten us, you strolling vagabond?" shrieked the mayor,
and at the same time he winked to the council. "The rats are all dead and
drowned," muttered he; and so, "You may do your worst, my good man," and
with that he turned short upon his heel.
"Very well," said the piper, and he smiled a quiet smile. With that he
laid his pipe to his lips afresh, but now there came forth no shrill
notes, as it were, of scraping and gnawing, and squeaking and scurrying,
but the tune was joyous and resonant, full of happy laughter and merry
play. And as he paced down the streets the elders mocked, but from
schoolroom and playroom, from nursery and workshop, not a child but ran
out with eager glee and shout following gaily at the piper's call.
Dancing, laughing, joining hands and tripping feet, the bright throng
moved along up Gold Street and down Silver Street, and beyond Silver
Street lay the cool green forest full of old oaks and wide-spreading
beeches. In and out among the oak trees you might catch glimpses of the
pipers many-colored coat. You might hear the laughter of the children
break and fade and die away as deeper and deeper into the lone green wood
the stranger went, and the children followed.
All the while, the elder watched and waited. They mocked no longer now.
And watch and wait as they might, never did they set their eyes again upon
the piper in his parti-colored coat. Never were their hearts gladdened by
the song and dance of the children issuing forth from amongst the ancient
oaks of the forest.
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