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    The Man with the Pan Pipes: "And Other Stories"
    The Man with the Pan Pipes: "And Other Stories"
    The Man with the Pan Pipes: "And Other Stories"
    Ebook106 pages1 hour

    The Man with the Pan Pipes: "And Other Stories"

    By Mary Louisa Molesworth

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    Then I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there came to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in Germany.  
     
    She was almost grown-up—to me, a child of six or seven, she seemed quite grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl.  
     
    But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereKitap Projesi
    Release dateJan 31, 2016
    ISBN9786059285773
    The Man with the Pan Pipes: "And Other Stories"
    Author

    Mary Louisa Molesworth

    Mary Louisa Molesworth (1839–1921), also credited as Mrs. Molesworth, was born in the Netherlands but raised in England. She was best known for her work in children’s literature where she was often cited as "the Jane Austen of the nursery.” Some of her novels include The Cuckoo Clock (1877), A Christmas Child (1880) and The Carved Lions (1895). She would also write a series of supernatural and fantasy titles such as Four Ghost Stories (1888) and Uncanny Tales (1896).

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      Book preview

      The Man with the Pan Pipes - Mary Louisa Molesworth

      E.C.

      CHAPTER I.

      hen I was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there came to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in Germany. She was almost grown-up—to me, a child of six or seven, she seemed quite grown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies. I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I was quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly I was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read far too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it is possible to have too much. In those days, fortunately for me, there were not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I was often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. This was much better for me than always getting new tales and galloping through them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I think I lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me when other things forced me to become more, what is called, practical.

      My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she grew tired of always finding me buried in my books.

      It isn't good for you, Addie, she said. Such a dot as you are, to be always poking about in a corner reading.

      She was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it she agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and some new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about in the garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And very often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the arbour, or walk about—up and down a long gravel path there was—telling me stories.

      That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at telling stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knew what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them very interesting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as I was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in books—certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-up I have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new to most readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long, long ago.

      There were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strange adventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-sprites and dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression on me as one which Meta called The Man with the Pan-pipes, a story which, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poem called The Pied Piper of Hamelin. It was the very same story as to the facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in the poem is not described as playing on pan-pipes, but on some other kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quite different from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun, which were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangely dark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when she came to the second visit of the piper, and described how the children slowly and unwillingly followed him—how he used to turn round now and then with a glance in his grim face which made the squeal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in his music, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along by his power; "they just had to go," Meta would say. And when she came to the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same.

      Are they still there—shut up in the cave? I would ask.

      Meta supposed so.

      Will they never come out—never, never? I said.

      She shook her head.

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