dead, or if he may 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 dream-like 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 learnt 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
