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ROBERT BROWNING

The distinguished author of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, Robert Browning (1812-1889), was born near London. At the age of twelve Robert had written a large number of verses for which his father sought in vain a publisher. The boy was deeply interested in athletics. At Dulwich College, he acquired a good knowledge of music, read much poetry, but he cared little for mathematics.

At the age of twenty Browning traveled through Europe for the purpose of studying history. It must have been at that time that he heard the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin which he has immortalized in the following poem. It is said on good authority that this delightful work was written to amuse a little boy, William Macready, who was confined to his room by illness, as well as to give the child amusing subjects for sketching.

Some years later there was a children's party in the city of Rome, at which Robert Browning and Hans Christian Andersen were present. In the course of the afternoon, Browning acted The Pied Piper of Hamelin to the delight of the children.

Some of his best known poems are: How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, Hervé Riel, The Lost Leader, Saul, The Glove. His religious opinions may be found in Christmas Eve and Easter Day. Though not a Catholic, he gives a most striking description of the Consecration at the midnight Mass in St. Peter's. In the words of The Athenæum, "No poet since Burns-none, perhaps, since Shakespeare - has known and felt so deeply as Browning the pathos of human life."

Willer Pop.

BROWNING

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

I

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

II

Rats!

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

"Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's noddy;

And as for our Corporation

shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine
What's best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV

An hour they sat in council;

At length the Mayor broke silence:
"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,
I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain
I'm sure my poor head aches again,
I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door but a gentle tap?

"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat

Looking little though wondrous fat;

Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
Than a too-long-opened oyster,

Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V

"Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red,
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in;
There was no guessing his kith and kin:
And nobody could enough admire
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire,

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