The Pipers Toll

Summer lay heavy on the town,

A fever in the stones;

Beneath the granaries and walls,

The dark had learned to crawl.

The wells gave back a greenish moon; The barns were black with

blight.

Each house heard scratching stir The silence of the night.

At dusk a stranger crossed the square,

In green and silver thread.

A feather nodded at his hat; No shadow crossed his tread.

"Give me the gold you promised,

And I will end this plague."

The mayor smiled and clasped his hand.

The bargain had been made.

He set the flute against his lips.

One curling note took flight,

Slipped under doors, through cracks in stone,

And threaded through the night.

From cellar, wall, and granary,

The rats came streaming out;

They followed him toward the river,

A dark and breathing shroud.

Come, little feet, where the wild notes wind; Leave the warm-lit hearth

and the house behind.

Over the bridge, where the black reeds lean,

Follow the music through mist unseen.

Hush now, mothers. The night has begun.

The Piper is calling—and counting each one.

The river closed its green fist;

By dawn the rats were gone.

The town rang out with grateful bells Beneath the morning sun.

But gold weighs little in the hands Of those who will not

pay.

They barred their doors against the man Who'd swept their fear away.

He raised the flute; a different song Went wandering down the street.

The children heard its lilting call And followed with their feet.

They left their dolls,

their bread, their games,

And followed through the rain;

One child reached back for someone's hand— The tune drew them away.

The hill opened its mouth of stone; The small feet crossed the

seam.

The Piper vanished in the dusk.

The town woke from its dream.

They searched the roads,

the fields, the caves,

The river's shattered foam;

But only wind came wandering back And would not lead them home.

Come, little feet, where the wild notes wind; Leave the warm-lit hearth

and the house behind.

Over the hill, where the dark pines close,

Follow the music no mother knows.

Hush now, Hamelin. The years roll on.

The Piper is gone—but the tune lives on.