Rats! The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning

RATS!

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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.

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.

At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
“Tis clear,” cried they, ”Our Mayor’s a 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.

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!”

“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 smile 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,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”

He advanced to the council-table:
And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats,
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? fifty thousand!” was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished!
Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
To Rat-land home his commentary:
Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe:
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:

And it seemed as if a voice
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out: “Oh rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!”
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, “Come, bore me!”
I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “And get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders,
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!” when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something to drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Baghdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor,”D’ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

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)
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,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
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.
But how 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 roll’d its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
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-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,
And horses were born with eagles’ wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured,
The music stopped and I stood still,
And found myself outside the hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!”

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says that heaven’s gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
The mayor sent East, West, North and South,
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’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 endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
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 labour.
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
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why, they don’t understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
Of scores out with all men – especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

 

“Calling at: Machynlleth, Caersws, Aberystwyth, Borth, Dovey Junction, Harlech.”

“Calling at: Machynlleth, Caersws, Aberystwyth, Borth, Dovey Junction, Harlech.”  Shrewsbury station – travelling on the train to Birmingham I have often wished to be going the other way to these strange-sounding names by the sea.  Today my wish has come true and we are getting the train to Harlech and travelling through the Welsh hillsides, along the coast to visit Harlech Castle.

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The train pulls out of Shrewsbury station and soon we are passing cornfields, golden in the early morning sunshine, some of the wheat has been cut leaving bales, straw blocks, dotted around the fields like faceless dominoes.  Other fields have plastic wrapped silage bales, scattered like alien larvae; gone are the days of haystacks that we used climb up and slide down, landing in a giggling heap, then scrambling up for another ride.

It’s not long before we arrive at Welshpool, the trees and bushes grow so close to the train tracks that they sometimes brush the windows, then the rails rise above the surrounding countryside and reveal magnificent views stretching to distant hills, the foothills of misty mountains beyond.  The tracks are patterned in pink and yellow with willowherb and ragwort – and Himalayan Balsam, an alien invader from another part of the world that smothers everything in its path but still our native bees love it and it makes beautiful honey.  We pass Welshpool Cattle market, the empty car park waiting for market day – sheep, cattle and pigs all arriving to be sold on – for breeding – or butchers.  Then on to Caersws, past the coal merchants, cars waiting at the level crossing for the train to pass.

Grassy churchyards, isolated standing stones, relics of an ancient past, of others that have lived and died without seemingly leaving a mark.  The landscape becomes wilder, fields criss-crossed with hedges, tiny foals stretched out lazily in the sun, sustained by mother’s milk, they have no need to constantly chew the grass.  Scalped, a hill devoid of trees, ferns shrinking from the sunlight, with no respite until the saplings grow again, shading, cooling the earth beneath.  Bracken, meadowsweet, willowherb, lining the tracks, viaducts crossing deep valleys, rocky streams tumbling down hillsides to valleys below, bounding towards the sea.  Anticipation mounting as the children become aware that the train is nearing its destination and the seaside is imminent.

The river meanders through the fields leaving shingly beaches and deep pools on the bends, under the willows where pike and perch are lurking, stalking unsuspecting minnows darting from the shallows.

Then the train travels right along the edge of the sea, the waves breaking along the shore, to the Barmouth estuary, the railway bridge crossing the river – with magnificent views out to sea and inland to Snowdonia.

Until we finally reach our destination – Harlech castle towering above us, guarding the coast and watching over Snowdonia, history unfolds within its towers and castellated walkways.

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Trains travel this route regularly from Shrewsbury to Pwllheli and you can alight, wander around one of the places en route and hop back on the next train home.  A great day out!

Pumpkin Pie?

Pumpkin Pie?

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I didn’t intend to grow enormous pumpkins because they are totally unmanageable – I just wanted some large enough to make Jack’o’Lanterns for Halowe’en and some to store for the winter to make spicy pumpkin soup (see recipes) to warm us up on Bonfire Night and to cheer us up for December lunchtimes.

Pumpkins must love rabbit manure because this is the result!  I do admit that I did dig quite a bit of manure into the pumpkin patch.  Fortunately, not all of the pumpkins are this big but it’s going to take all the boys to lift this, a saw to cut it in two – and probably all day hollowing it out, taking out the seeds and cutting the flesh into manageable chunks for soup!

Last year I dried pumpkin seeds on baking paper in a slow oven and they were really tasty – they made a great substitute for peanuts and I served them in bowls with olives.

 

Glorious Autumn

Glorious Autumn

What a surprise!  One damp and dreary early Autumn morning I stumbled out to feed the chickens and was suddenly stunned wide awake by this beautiful bright blue flower positively glowing – Morning Glory!  It’s supposed to be really easy to grow but I nurtured tiny seedlings that struggled to survive and, when I finally planted them out they just sat there and refused to climb up the bamboo wigwam – until I got bored waiting and forgot all about them – until this morning!  Every morning since there have been new flowers – they love the early mornings and close up later in the day – hence the name.  It’s a type of convolvulus – our native white version can be a troublesome weed as it chokes other plants – hence its common name – bindweed.  All of the plant is poisonous as it contains tropane alkaloids – especially the seeds – but this flower certainly brightened up my morning.

Today’s Treasurers – Stalybridge – an Amazing Train Journey

There are some amazing train journeys from Whitchurch Railway Station.

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One Friday morning, I was travelling by train to a conference in Wakefield.  It was a long journey and I had to change trains 3 times so I was not looking forward to it – I thought it would be really boring – how wrong can you be?

I got off at Stockport to find that I was getting the one train a week to Stalybridge. Evidently it was featured on Paul Merton’s TV programme about ‘Request Stops’ – except there are no request stops on the Stockport to Stalybridge weekly service – as the train has to run at least once a week by Government decree and the train has to stop at every station. It’s mainly a freight train line but has to have at least one passenger train a week in order to stay open.

I was about to get on the train when someone said:  “I hope you’re not planning to come back on this train.”  Puzzled I asked why:  “Because it only goes one way once a week.  If you want to get back to Stockport you have to go via Manchester.”  The speaker got on the train with me – and I discovered that most of the people on the train were travelling for fun – I was probably the only person for a long while who had actually used the service to get from ‘A’ to ‘B’.  One of the passengers was a member of ‘The Friends of Denton Station” who told me all about it along with the conductor who nearly featured in Paul Merton’s programme – but it was his brother who was the guard on the train that day.

The little old train rattled along the track – brushing past overhanging brambles, trees and shrubs, purple with buddleia – it was like going back in time.  I got off at Stalybridge and ran to the other platform where the TransPennine Express was waiting – which brought me rapidly up to date – until I got to Huddersfield and climbed aboard another little old train that took me to Wakefield Westgate.

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So the train journey that I thought was going to be really boring was really interesting.  The scenery from the TransPennine Express was absolutely stunning, rolling hills interspersed with Yorkshire stone villages, old mills and brick chimneys, the railways often follow river valleys and travel alongside canals busy with barges wending their way through locks – so there’s lots to see.

We went under Yorkshire stone bridges, soot blackened from long forgotten steam trains; through cuttings with blasted rock faces, past towering walls, painstakingly built brick by brick, now pink and white with valerian and daisies.  History unfolded before my eyes – labourers laying the rails, stokers shovelling coal on steam engines, bricklayers, stonemasons, signalmen – their presence is still felt in the very fabric of the railways and their ghosts still haunt the train tracks – and the train to Denton station which is often called ‘The Ghost Train’ as it is the least used track in Britain.

New Zealand White Rabbits 3 weeks old

Eny’s latest litter are just 3 weeks old

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They will be ready for new homes by the end of October – there are 9 babies. They all survived which isn’t always the case with NZ Whites. They can be very sensitive to their surroundings, they don’t like changes, different people, strange noises – some breeders have a radio on all day so the rabbits get used to different sounds. I leave the shed door open all the while so the rabbits can see what’s going on outside and get used to different noises – so my rabbits are used to different things and the babies are too.

I’ve had problems with new does, sometimes it’s because they are new mums with their first litters and they really don’t seem to know what to do!  I have had stillborn and abandoned litters, and often the babies manage to get out of the nest box somehow so every morning and night I check properly that there are none getting cold away from the nest.

Many people have solved the problem with crossing NZ Whites with Californian rabbits.  They are also white but with black tips to their ears – they are a large breed but generally not quite as big as NZ Whites.  They are however far less sensitive and traumatised, they seem altogether a much hardier breed and if you are breeding meat rabbits would be an ideal solution.

Sunflowers

Sunflowers

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I always grow some sunflowers as the birds love the seeds.  I tried to get some ordinary size sunflower seeds but must have ended up with giant ones – either that or the rabbit manure has worked wonders as these sunflowers are over a foot across – and one of the plants is over 12 feet tall!  It’s a wonder it’s still standing – my time spent staking the plants in the spring has paid off.

I used to spend ages collecting the sunflower seeds but it takes ages scraping them all out and the earwigs seem to like hiding in them too – so now I just dry the whole heads in the barn then put them out for the birds in the winter – they don’t mind the earwigs!

The Height of Laziness – waiting for dinner – Lunar the Cat!

The height of laziness – waiting for dinner – Lunar the Cat!

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Reading this website, a friend in Birmingham, who adores cats, emailed me this morning:

“Yesterday was such a lovely day, our queen cat was basking in the sun and I noticed her watching the skies, I looked up to see seagulls high above, riding the thermals. It’s still strange to me that they have made the cities their home – but the city is a survivor’s success story for them.”

It’s buzzards that wheel in our Shropshire skies, keening and calling and being chased by crows.

She also asked for some pictures of our  cat – so here he is – he’s a Russian Blue and belongs to Dane, our eldest son.  Very good at catching mice, but usually doesn’t kill them, Betsy the dog does that – if Dane doesn’t get there first and rescues them by tip of the tail!

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Poppy Seed is it safe to eat?

Poppy Seed – is it safe to eat?

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The opium poppy, papaver somniferum, family Papaveracae, is the species of plant from which opium and poppy seeds are derived. The Latin botanical name somniferum means the “sleep-bringing poppy”, referring to its sedative properties.

I have always wondered if it’s safe to eat poppy seeds from the garden so I did some research. Evidently the seeds contain very low levels of opiates and the oil extracted from them contains even less. Poppyseed oil has many uses and poppy seeds are used as a food in many cultures. Poppy seeds are rich in oil, carbohydrates, calcium and protein.

The opiate drugs are extracted from opium. The latex oozes from incisions made on the green seed pods and is collected once dry. Tincture of opium or laudanum consisting of opium dissolved in alcohol or a mixture of alcohol and water, is one of many unapproved drugs. Laudanum was historically used to treat a variety of ailments but its principal use was as an analgesic and cough suppressant until the early 20th century.

Poppy seed is mentioned in ancient medical texts from many civilizations. The Minoans a Bronze Age civilization (around 2700 BC) on the island of Crete, cultivated poppies for their seed, and used a milk, opium and honey mixture to calm crying babies. Poppy seeds have long been used as a folk remedy to aid sleeping, promote fertility and wealth, and were even once believed to have magical powers of invisibility.

Morphine is the predominant alkaloid found in the cultivated varieties of opium poppy. In some countries it is illegal to grow poppies although generally poppy seeds as a food are allowed. In the UK there are no restrictions on growing poppies, only for extracting opium for medicinal products.

Ripe seed from both the opium poppy and corn poppy (papaver rhoeas) does not contain harmful substances and can be used as a spice in curries and sprinkled on bread and cakes.

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So now I feel reassured that I can safely collect poppy seed and sprinkle it on my home-made bread, sausage rolls and mince pies.

A Frosty February morning

A Frosty February morning

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Yesterday the frogs were gathering in the pond and Spring was in the air, today we wake to a winter frost.  I’ve had to thaw the water out in the bird bath this morning for the robin and the nuthatch has been patiently waiting for me to get up and put some more peanuts out.  It is a really beautiful morning though.

Better than all the rain we’ve had, although there is an old saying:

“If in February there be no rain, ’tis neither good for hay nor grain.”

which I found in a Country Wisdom & Folklore Diary www.talkingtreesbooks.co.uk

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