ishop Hatto fled to his strong tower that stood in the middle of the
Rhine, and barred himself in and fancied he was safe. But the rats! they
swam the river, they gnawed their way through the thick stone walls, and
ate him alive where he sat.

"They have whetted their teeth against the stones,
And now they pick the bishop's bones;
They gnawed the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him."

Oh, it's a lovely tale.

Then there is the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin, how first he piped
the rats away, and afterward, when the mayor broke faith with him,
drew all the children along with him and went into the mountain. What
a curious old legend that is! I wonder what it means, or has it any
meaning at all? There seems something strange and deep lying hid beneath
the rippling rhyme. It haunts me, that picture of the quaint, mysterious
old piper piping through Hamelin's narrow streets, and the children
following with dancing feet and thoughtful, eager faces. The old folks
try to stay them, but the children pay no heed. They hear the weird,
witched music and must follow. The games are left unfinished and the
playthings drop from their careless hands. They know not whither they
are hastening. The mystic music calls to them, and they follow, heedless
and unasking where. It stirs and vibrates in their hearts and other
sounds grow faint. So they wander through Pied Piper Street away from
Hamelin town.

I get thinking sometimes if the Pied Piper is really dead, or if he may
not still be roaming up and down our streets and lanes, but playing now
so softly that only the children hear him. Why do the little faces look
so grave and solemn when they pause awhile from romping, and stand, deep
wrapt, with straining eyes? They only shake their curly heads and dart
back laughing to their playmates when we question them. But I fancy
myself they have been listening to the magic music of the old Pied
Piper, and perhaps with those bright eyes of theirs have even seen his
odd, fantastic figure gliding unnoticed through the whirl and throng.

Even we grown-up children hear his piping now and then. But the yearning
notes are very far away, and the noisy, blustering world is always
bellowing so loud it drowns the dreamlike melody. One day the sweet, sad
strains will sound out full and clear, and then we too shall, like the
little children, throw our playthings all aside and follow. The loving
hands w