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hang about for hours outside the cellar door for the purpose of sneaking in
on the first opportunity and lapping up the drippings from the beer…cask。 I
do not mention this habit of hers in praise of the species； but merely to
show how almost human some of them are。 If the transmigration of souls
is a fact； this animal was certainly qualifying most rapidly for a Christian；
for her vanity was only second to her love of drink。 Whenever she caught
a particularly big rat； she would bring it up into the room where we were
all sitting； lay the corpse down in the midst of us； and wait to be praised。
Lord！ how the girls used to scream。
Poor rats！ They seem only to exist so that cats and dogs may gain
credit for killing them and chemists make a fortune by inventing
specialties in poison for their destruction。 And yet there is something
fascinating about them。 There is a weirdness and uncanniness attaching to
them。 They are so cunning and strong； so terrible in their numbers； so
cruel； so secret。 They swarm in deserted houses； where the broken
casements hang rotting to the crumbling walls and the doors swing
creaking on their rusty hinges。 They know the sinking ship and leave her；
no one knows how or whither。 They whisper to each other in their hiding…
places how a doom will fall upon the hall and the great name die forgotten。
They do fearful deeds in ghastly charnel…houses。
No tale of horror is complete without the rats。 In stories of ghosts and
murderers they scamper through the echoing rooms； and the gnawing of
their teeth is heard behind the wainscot； and their gleaming eyes peer
through the holes in the worm…eaten tapestry； and they scream in shrill；
unearthly notes in the dead of night； while the moaning wind sweeps；
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
sobbing； round the ruined turret towers； and passes wailing like a woman
through the chambers bare and tenantless。
And dying prisoners； in their loathsome dungeons； see through the
horrid gloom their small red eyes； like glittering coals； hear in the death…
like silence the rush of their claw…like feet； and start up shrieking in the
darkness and watch through the awful night。
I love to read tales about rats。 They make my flesh creep so。 I like that
tale of Bishop Hatto and the rats。 The wicked bishop； you know； had ever
so much corn stored in his granaries and would not let the starving people
touch it； but when they prayed to him for food gathered them together in
his barn； and then shutting the doors on them； set fire to the place and
burned them all to death。 But next day there came thousands upon
thousands of rats； sent to do judgment on him。 Then Bishop Hatto fled to
his strong tower that stood in the middle of the Rhine； and barred himself
in and fancied he was safe。 But the rats！ they swam the river； they gnawed
their way through the thick stone walls； and ate him alive where he sat。
〃They have whetted their teeth against the stones； And now they pick
the bishop's bones； They gnawed the flesh from every limb； For they were
sent to do judgment on him。〃 Oh； it's a lovely tale。
Then there is the story of the Pied Piper of Hamelin； how first he piped
the rats away； and afterward； when the mayor broke faith with him； drew
all the children along with him and went into the mountain。 What a
curious old legend that is！ I wonder what it means； or has it any meaning
at all？ There seems something strange and deep lying hid beneath the
rippling rhyme。 It haunts me； that picture of the quaint； mysterious old
piper piping through Hamelin's narrow streets； and the children following
with dancing feet and thoughtful； eager faces。 The old folks try to stay
them； but the children pay no heed。 They hear the weird； witched music
and must follow。 The games are left unfinished and the playthings drop
from their careless hands。 They know not whither they are hastening。 The
mystic music calls to them； and they follow； heedless and unasking where。
It stirs and vibrates in their hearts and other sounds grow faint。 So they
wander through Pied Piper Street away from Hamelin town。
I get thinking sometimes if the Pied Piper is really dead； or if he may
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
not still be roaming up and down our streets and lanes； but playing now so
softly that only the children hear him。 Why do the little faces look so
grave and solemn when they pause awhile from romping； and stand； deep
wrapt； with straining eyes？ They only shake their curly heads and dart
back laughing to their playmates when we question them。 But I fancy
myself they have been listening to the magic music of the old Pied Piper；
and perhaps with those bright eyes of theirs have even seen his odd；
fantastic figure gliding unnoticed through the whirl and throng。
Even we grown…up children hear his piping now and then。 But the
yearning notes are very far away； and the noisy； blustering world is always
bellowing so loud it drowns the dreamlike melody。 One day the sweet； sad
strains will sound out full and clear； and then we too shall； like the little
children； throw our playthings all aside and follow。 The loving hands will
be stretched out to stay us； and the voices we have learned to listen for will
cry to us to stop。 But we shall push the fond arms gently back and pass out
through the sorrowing house and through the open door。 For the wild；
strange music will be ringing in our hearts； and we shall know the
meaning of its song by then。
I wish people could love animals without getting maudlin over them；
as so many do。 Women are the most hardened offenders in such respects；
but even our intellectual sex often degrade pets into nuisances by absurd
idolatry。 There are the gushing young ladies who； having read 〃David
Copperfield；〃 have thereupon sought out a small； longhaired dog of
nondescript breed； possessed of an irritating habit of criticising a man's
trousers； and of finally commenting upon the same by a sniff indicative of
contempt and disgust。 They talk sweet girlish prattle to thi