(Disclaimer) The poem, the Piper, does not belong to me; it was written by L.M. Montgomery. I am using it here for story purposes only. All rights belong to L.M. Montgomery.


"Sweet and Long and Low Played He!"

Walter Blythe sat in the filthy, muddy trenches, illuminated by a tiny scrap of candle. The squelch, squelch of boots in the clinging mud indicated the passing of soldiers.
He sat there, deep in thought. He thought about home, as he had done many times since arriving at the front. Of Mother, dear brave Mother, of Dad, his wonderful hazel eyes full of humour, but of late, so full of pain and sadness. He thought of his brothers, Jem somewhere on the front, of Shirley, waiting at home. He thought of his sisters, of Nan and Di, but most of all, of Rilla. That dear sister who had grown so close to him in the months after the first terrible news of war had shattered their world.

Walter looked up at the dark night sky above the trenches. A young moon was hanging there, a pale, silver scrap of a moon. He smiled at it. He wondered if that moon was shining on all the places he'd loved most. Ingleside, Rainbow Valley, the entire town of Glen St. Mary. Thinking of Rainbow Valley brought back memories, so far past they seemed as if they had happened centuries ago. He remembered that night, it was Jem's last night in Rainbow Valley, that was the night he had first seen the Piper.

They were all there, he could see them, Jem and Nan and Di and Shirley. The Meredith children were there too, those wonderful playmates of his youth, Jerry was there, Faith and Una and Carl. Mary Vance was there. That ragamuffin orphan who was such a friend. Walter could see them clearly, these ghosts of the golden past. They were all so young, happy and carefree, untouched yet by the horror that would sweep the world, battering at it until everything which was familiar had been broken down and destroyed.

Walter remembered his vision that day. It was so long ago. Yet it had come true. Finally. The Piper had come, he had piped to the world, and the world must follow. Words sprang unbidden to his mind. Walter reached into his pack and brought forth a battered notebook and pen. Something seemed to be controlling his hand, writing for him these words. He had never felt anything like this before. All his life he had written poems, but nothing like this had happened. Walter sat back and surveyed what he had written. It was a short, poignant poem, yet Walter read it with pride, it was undoubtedly one of his finest. Once more he read it, out loud this time.

One day the Piper came down the Glen

Sweet and long and low played he!

The children followed from door to door,

No matter how those who loved might implore

So wiling was the song of his melody,

As the song of a woodland rill.

One day the Piper will come again

To pipe to the sons of the maple tree!

You and I will follow from door to door,

Many of us will come back no more

What matter that if Freedom still

Be the crown of each native hill?

Walter smiled and penned a name, "The Piper, by Walter Blythe"


(Note by the Author) I hope you like my first short story. As it is my first, I would appreciate if you would drop a review with constructive criticism. If I have gone wrong anywhere, I would really appreciate it if you would point it out. Thank you.