Newtown, or Franchville, as 't was called of old, is a sleepy little
town, as you all may know, 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 store-room 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 tail, 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 cocking 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 Honour," 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
colour 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 harbour 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 harbour, 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 ha 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 ha'ad 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, 't will 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
school-room and play-room, 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
Piper's many-coloured 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 elders 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-coloured coat. Never were their hearts
gladdened by the song and dance of the children issuing forth from
amongst the ancient oaks of the forest.