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THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES _AND OTHER STORIES_
BY MRS. MOLESWORTH
ILLUSTRATED BY W. J. MORGAN
Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge LONDON Northumberland Avenue W.C. NEW YORK E & J.B. YOUNG & Co
LONDON: ENGRAVED AND PRINTED BY EDMUND EVANS RACQUET-CT., FLEET-ST., E.C.
CONTENTS.
PAGE THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES 7 PIG-BETTY 30 THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE 51 THE CHRISTMAS GUEST 59 OLIVE'S TEA-PARTY 67 A LIVE DUMMY 76 A QUEER HIDING-PLACE 83 BLUE FROCKS AND PINK FROCKS 90
THE MAN WITH THE PAN-PIPES
The man with the Pan-pipes.]
CHAPTER I.
When I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, therecame to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up inGermany. She was almost grown-up--to me, a child of six or seven, sheseemed _quite_ grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteenor sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious toplease and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I wasthe only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children;above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herselfthat she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies.I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as Iwas quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantlyI was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I readfar too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it ispossible to have too much. In those days, fortunately for me, therewere not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, Iwas often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. Thiswas much better for me than always getting new tales and gallopingthrough them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I thinkI lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me whenother things forced me to become more, what is called, "practical."
My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile shegrew tired of always finding me buried in my books.
"It isn't good for you, Addie," she said. "Such a dot as you are, tobe always poking about in a corner reading."
She was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it sheagreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do andsome new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about inthe garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our homewas then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And veryoften when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quicklytired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in thearbour, or walk about--up and down a long gravel path therewas--telling me stories.
That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at tellingstories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knewwhat a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me whatstories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them veryinteresting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite asI was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales andlegends, many of which I think had not then been printed inbooks--certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-upI have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new tomost readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long,long ago.
Tales of Gnomes & Kobolds]
There were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strangeadventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-spritesand dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression onme as one which Meta called "The Man with the Pan-pipes," a storywhich, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poemcalled "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." It was the very same story as tothe facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in thepoem is not described as playing on _pan-pipes_, but on some otherkind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quitedifferent from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there isa wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun,which were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangelydark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver whenshe came to the second visit of the piper, and described how thechildren slowly and unwillingly followed him--how he used to turnround now and then with a glance in his grim face which made thesqueal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in hismusic, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along byhis power; "they just _had_ to go," Meta would say. And when she cameto the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same.
"Are they still there--shut up in the cave?" I would ask.
Meta supposed so.
"Will they never come out--never, never?" I said.
She shook her head.
"And if they ever did," I said, "would they be grown-up people, orquite old like--like that man you were telling me about. Rip--Rip--"
"Rip van Winkle," she said.
"Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they have _stayed_ children likethe boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant?"
Meta considered.
"I almost _think_," she said, seriously, "they would have stayedchildren. But, of course, it's only a story, Addie. I don't supposeit's true. You take things up so. Don't go on puzzling about it."
I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfullyafraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though Iknew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any partof it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. Iwould ask for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly thesame feelings each time she told it, and always at the part where thechildren began to come out of their houses, some leaving theirdinners, some tiny ones waking up out of their sleep, some onlyhalf-dressed, but all with the same strange look on their faces, Iused to catch hold of Meta's hand and say to her, "Hold me fast, I'mso afraid of fancying I hear him," and then she would burst outlaughing at me, and I would laugh at myself. For she was far too kinda girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed, except for a curious"coincidence"--to use a very long word which means something of thesame kind as another thing happening at or about the same time--I donot think the story would have really taken hold of my fancy as itdid.
One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to mysatisfaction.
and Dwarfs]
"What are Pan-pipes?" I asked. The word "pipe" was so mixed up in mymind with white clay pipes, out of which we used to blow soap bubbles,that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of music.
"Oh," said Meta, "they're made of reeds, you know, all in a row likethis," and she held up her fingers to her lips, "and you play them bywhistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when youfasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called'Pan'-pipes because--oh, I forgot, of course you haven't learntmythology yet--'Pan' was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy orwood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of himalways show him playing on these reed pipes!"
I said "Yes," but I didn't really understand her description. It lefta queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medleyalready there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that Ilearnt about "Pan," before Meta left us I was able to see for myself aset of his "pipes."
CHAPTER II.
It was _just_ before my merry cousin left us, to retur
n to her ownhome across the sea.
One day several of us were out walking together. Meta was in frontwith mamma and one of my elder brothers, I was behind with Tony andMichael, the two nearer my own age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.
"Look, Addie," she called back, "there's a set of Pan-pipes; youwanted to know what they were like. They're a very doleful set,certainly; did you _ever_ see such a miserable object? He must besilly in his head, poor thing, don't you think, aunty? May I give hima penny--or Jack will."
For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor man,whom she was indeed right in calling "a miserable object."
Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment, so Ihad a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on to theman's chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as hemoved his head slowly backwards and forwards along them, they gave outthe most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which youever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then a_kind_ of tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps thesight of the piper himself added to the very "creepy" feeling it gaveone. He was not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, anorgan-grinder too, for he carried in front of him, fastened by strapsround his neck in the usual way, the remains of a barrel organ. It hadlong ago been smashed to pieces, and really was now nothing but an oldbroken-in wooden box, with some fragments of metal clinging to it, andthe tatters of a ragged cover. But the handle was still there; perhapsit had been stuck in again on purpose; and all the time, as anaccompaniment to the forlorn quaver of the reed pipes, you heard thehollow rattle of the loose boards of what had been the barrel-organ.He kept moving the handle round and round, without ever stopping,except for a moment, when Jack half threw, half reached him the penny,which brought a sort of grin on to his face, as he clutched at thedirty old tuft of shag on the top of his head, which he doubtlessconsidered his cap.
"Poor creature," said mamma, as we turned away. "I suppose he thinkshe's playing lovely music."
"I've seen him before," said Jack. "Not long after we came here."(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had togo about wherever his regiment was sent.) "But I've not seen himlately. There's some story about him, but I know some of the boys atschool declare he's not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to shamhe is."
"Any way he doesn't need to be afraid of his organ wearing out," saidTony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.
Jack, half threw, half reached him the penny]
"I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending," said mamma. "Helooks almost _too_ miserable."
"And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him," Jack wenton; "they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a properbarrel-organ man."
"I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him," said mamma.
"His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ," said Meta. "Still,Addie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy howpretty they sound sometimes."
It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was fullof it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children thatsometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to thefeelings and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta leftus the very next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to aboutit, for my brothers were all day at school and did not know anythingabout our story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening,that I hoped we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta couldnot think what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Thenshe seemed to remember.
"Oh, he didn't play them at all nicely," she said. "One of the boys athome had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you come toGermany, Addie," for that was a favourite castle in the air of ours--acastle that never was built--that I should one day pay a long visit tomy cousins in their quaint old house, "Fritz will play to you, and youwill then understand the story better."
I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I shouldnever meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to her Iwas rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also noteasy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.
It was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with thePan-pipes again. This time I was out walking with our nurse and thebaby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don'tthink nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but Iheard the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken boxsome way off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her ifwe might turn down a side street and go round another way.
She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not verynoticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got overwithout my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we seemedto be always meeting the poor "silly" organ-man, and every time I sawhim, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeinghim came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was outwith mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read thiswill say, "Why didn't Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother,all about it?" and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, itis partly to show this very thing--how much better it is to tell somekind wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go onbearing it out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish--that Iam relating this simple little story. I really cannot quite explainwhy I did not tell about it to mamma--I think it was partly that beingthe only girl, I had a particularly great fear of being thoughtcowardly--for she was always very kind; and I think, too, it waspartly that from having read so many story-books _to myself_, I hadgot into the habit of being too much inside my own thoughts andfancies. I think story-books would often do much more good, and givereally much more lasting pleasure if children were more in the habitof reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for someunselfishness, why, what then? is it not all the better?
But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread of theman with the pipes got quite beyond my control--happily so for me.
CHAPTER III.
Hitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in somelarge public street where a crowd would not have been allowed tocollect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where wegenerally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.
But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some littlecomfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she hadbeen moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They werevery respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in apoor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were muchinterested in watching several small people, about our own size,playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, afterthrowing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the doorof the house while she went in to see the sick woman.
We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange,well-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle,rattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grewpale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some pacesdown the street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what Ialready knew was coming--the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had thesight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd ofchildren, a regular troop of them following him through the poor partof the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked onquietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the leastafraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking andhooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touchwas added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out ofmine.
"He was surrounded by a crowd of children"]
"Baby wants to see too," he said, and off he trotted down the street.
My senses seemed quite to go.
"He's piping them away," I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say Iturned and fled,
leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into thehouse and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, Isuppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nursecould not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, inanother minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in thestreet. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I tooshould be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears,and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from theapproaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonderthe people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must havelooked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breathgot so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found Iwas quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.
Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far afterall. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurrieddown one street and up another, with the one idea of getting furtherand further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves.
"I wish I could find our home," I thought. "I can't go on running foralways. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way ofkeeping me and Baby safe."
"He's piping them away I screamed"]
But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late tosave him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such asMeta had described in her story. But she had said outside thetown--perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darlingBaby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever ashad been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all myterrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the moreworthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so thatshe would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far fromwhere we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end itwas all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, andnearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of onewhere an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door.
"Oh, please," I gasped, "please tell me where Clarence Terrace is."
The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very cleanold woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with aslight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been sosilly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fancifulideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besidesher face was kind and her voice pleasant.
"Clarence Terrace," she squeaked. "'Tis a good bit from here. Have youlost your way, Missy?"
"I don't know," I said, "I----" but then a giddy feeling came over me,and I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knewwas that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and washolding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Hervoice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. Shesoothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated,"What's ado, then, lovey?" I was able to explain to her some part ofmy troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had senseto know she would have thought _me_ not "right in my head," if I hadtold her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the oldGerman town.
"I thrust my fingers into my ears & dashed down thestreet"]
"Frightened of old Davey," she said, when I stopped. "Dear dear,there's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I'vesaid myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look ofhim, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey."
"Then do you know him?" I asked, with a feeling of great relief. Allthe queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poorcrazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.
"Know him," repeated my new friend, "I should think we did. Bless youhe comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clockstrikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be,since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, andhis organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, nodoubt," and the old woman shook her head sagely. "He couldn't talkproper before, and since, he can say nothink as any one can make heador tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' oldbox as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes atthe 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago somewell-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as hewasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, hedid. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street nearhere, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, andthe neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does noharm, and all the town knows silly Davey."
"But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?" Iasked.
"Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put downif they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll neverbe afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step roundwith you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome."
So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came acrossnurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lostme. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did notfind him interesting.
"Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music," said sensibleBaby.
And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of myweekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in theplace, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature.Especially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wiseenough to see that too many fairy stories, or "fancy" stories are_not_ a good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kindand too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuseme.
The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories Page 1