Once more he stept into the street,

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

180

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, 185
And like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatter-
ing

Out came the children running:

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by-
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
And now the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

I

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However, he turned from south to west,

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;

205

Great was the joy in every breast.

'He never can cross that mighty top;

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!'

When, lo! as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain side shut fast.

Did I say all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,

'It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me:

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And everything was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
And their dogs outran our fallow-deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

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215

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And horses were born with eagles' wings;
And just as I became assured

The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was man's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,
And Piper and dancers were gone forever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly,
If after the day of the month and year
These words did not as well appear:
'And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,

Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:'
And the better in memory to fix

The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labor.

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Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,

And on the great church window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say

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That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people, that ascribe

270

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

So Willy, let you and me be wipers

Of scores out with all men-especially pipers,

280

And whether they pipe us free from rats or from

mice

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our

promise.

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY°

BY OBEDIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITHLINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN IRETON'S REGIMENT

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-1859) was a brilliant essayist and historian of the nineteenth century. As a child he was extremely precocious, writing before eight a 'Compendium of Universal History,' and a long poem called the 'Battle of Cheviot.' He was an insatiable reader, and his memory was so prodigious that it is said he knew Homer and Milton by heart. Although by nature and inclination a man of letters, he was also distinguished as a statesman. His essays covered a great range of subjects and their wonderfully clear style and brilliant movement won for them many readers, and their popularity is still very great. Among the best are those on Milton, Dryden, Samuel Johnson, Clive, and Warren Hastings. His greatest work is his 'History of England,' which, though never completed, is the most popular history ever written. Macaulay was also a poet of no mean ability, and the simplicity, sonorousness, and movement of such poems as the 'Lays of Ancient Rome,' 'Ivry,' 'The Battle of Naseby,' etc., make them admirable introductions to the higher walks of literature.

OH! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,

With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment

all red?

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?

And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which

ye tread?

Oh, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

5

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we

trod;