"Oh, oh! He will drown our children in the river!" cried the people. But
the Piper turned and went along by the bank, and all the children followed
after. Up, and up, and up the hill they went, straight toward the mountain
which is like the roof of a house. And just as they got to it, the
mountain _opened_,--like two great doors, and the Piper went in through
the opening, playing the little tune, and the children danced after
him--and--just as they got through--the great doors slid together again
and shut them all in! Every single one. No, there was one little lame
child, who couldn't keep up with the rest and didn't get there in time.
But none of his little companions ever came back any more, not one.

But years and years afterward, when the fat old rat who swam across the
river was a grandfather, his children used to ask him, "What made you
follow the music, Grandfather?" and he used to tell them, "My dears, when
I heard that tune I thought I heard the moving aside of pickle-tub boards,
and the leaving ajar of preserve cupboards, and I smelled the most
delicious old cheese in the world, and I saw sugar barrels ahead of me;
and then, just as a great yellow cheese seemed to be saying, 'Come, bore
me'--I felt the river rolling o'er me!"

And in the same way the people asked the little lame child, "What made you
follow the music?" "I do not know what the others heard," he said, "but
I, when the Piper began to play, I heard a voice that told of a wonderful
country hard by, where the bees had no stings and the horses had wings,
and the trees bore wonderful fruits, where no one was tired or lame, and
children played all day; and just as the beautiful country was but one
step away--the mountain closed on my playmates, and I was left alone."

That was all the people ever knew. The children never came back. All that
was left of the Piper and the rats was just the big street that led to the