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.
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