He came up to the Mayor and said, “I hear you are troubled with rats in this town.”

“I should say we were,” groaned the Mayor.

“Would you like to get rid of them?  I can do it for you.”

“You can?” cried the Mayor.  “How?  Who are you?”

“Men call me the Pied Piper,” said the man, “and I know a way to draw after me everything that walks, or flies, or swims.  What will you give me if I rid your town of rats?”

“Anything, anything,” said the Mayor.  “I don’t believe you can do it, but if you can, I’ll give you a thousand guineas.”

“All right,” said the Piper, “it is a bargain.”

And then he went to the door and stepped out into the street and stood, and put the long flute-like thing to his lips, and began to play a little tune.  A strange, high, little tune.  And before

        three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
    You heard as if an army muttered;
    And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
    And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
    And out of the houses the rats came tumbling! 
    Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
    Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
    Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
      Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
    Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
      Families by tens and dozens,
    Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—­
    Followed the Piper for their lives!

From street to street he piped, advancing, from street to street they followed, dancing.  Up one street and down another, till they came to the edge of the big river, and there the piper turned sharply about and stepped aside, and all those rats tumbled hurry skurry, head over heels, down the bank into the river and—­were—­drowned.  Every single one.  No, there was one big old fat rat; he was so fat he didn’t sink, and he swam across, and ran away to tell the tale.

Then the Piper came back to the town hall.  And all the people were waving their hats and shouting for joy.  The Mayor said they would have a big celebration, and build a tremendous bonfire in the middle of the town.  He asked the Piper to stay and see the bonfire,—­very politely.

“Yes,” said the Piper, “that will be very nice; but first, if you please, I should like my thousand guineas.”

“H’m,—­er—­ahem!” said the Mayor.  “You mean that little joke of mine; of course that was a joke.” (You see it is always harder to pay for a thing when you no longer need it.)

“I do not joke,” said the Piper very quietly; “my thousand guineas, if you please.”

“Oh, come, now,” said the Mayor, “you know very well it wasn’t worth sixpence to play a little tune like that; call it one guinea, and let it go at that.”

“A bargain is a bargain,” said the Piper; “for the last time,—­will you give me my thousand guineas?”

“I’ll give you a pipe of tobacco, something good to eat, and call you lucky at that!” said the Mayor, tossing his head.