Rats, Rats, Rats

"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 perished --

Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,

Swam across and lived to carry

To Ratland home his commentary."

Thus wrote Robert Browning in his famous "Pied Piper of Hamelin."

There is a real town in Germany called Hamlin, and it is said that a strange man once charmed all its rats away, in the summer of the year 1284. But the legend also says he charmed the children away because the Mayor and townsmen did not keep their promise to pay him. This old, old story was put into verse by the great poet Robert Browning. No finer children's poem was ever written.

Alfred P. White, of Parksley, is the Pied Piper of the Eastern Shore. You may set your traps, you may use your poison, but give me this Pied Piper for getting rats, rats, rats. If he and his partners, eight dogs and four ferrets do not get your rats, nothing else will. Oh, pardon me, I forgot brother White's right hand colored boy; whose employer calls him "the overseer." That man White is a character, a type. Witty, good-natured, full of life and energy, he goes about his peculiar task with all the earnestness of a man who loves his job. If preachers were as hot after troublesome church members as the Pied Piper is after rats, our churches would constitute a veritable Heaven on earth. The difference is that church members have a way of "getting away" with it and the poor rats are caught and sent to the rat Heaven or the other place.

It was a great quartette that found its way to the large hen house of the Accomac Duck Farm across the creek from Onancock. There was first of all a ventriloquist from Chicago, who was to perform in an Onancock Theatre that night. Number two was the owner of the Duck Farm, Mr. W. R. Morey. Number three was the Pied Piper who was eager to get into the fray as a race horse is to run. Number four was, well you know him, if you attend the People's Popular Happy Hour at the Ivy Covered Church On The Stone Road. Outside was the colored boy whose dusky features formed a strange contrast with the snow-white rat terrier held in his arms. You see, "the colored overseer" was to release his terrier when a rat should escape on the outside. The ventriloquist was too much interested to spring any of his jokes on us and Mr. Morey was too eager to have his flock protected from the poisonous rodents to utter any of his broad New England humor. And the preacher was not sermonizing either, for, believe me, a coon hunt is not half as exciting as a rat hunt.

The man who has exterminated nearly 40,000 rats in four years, 37,700 to be exact (by this time the 40,000 mark is probably reached) started to work. Did not the pesky creatures kill three hundred little chickens in one night last year on this same duck farm? And did he not know that the owner of the farm has recently certified all of his fancy flock by the blood test? Well then, every rat killed means the saving of life and of money. We are off.

The ferrets are in a barrel, scratching the sides, wild with excitement. They want to get out, they want blood, rat blood. The seven dogs working on the inside scratch as if their life depends on it. A high shrill bark comes from the corner. One of the Indiana terriers on one side of a "lead" and another one on the other side scratch until the dirt flies to all quarters. The ventriloquist exclaims: "He's got one." It takes only a second. The dogs grab the rat by the throat and would devour the rodent. But the Pied Piper is on the job. His stern command "Drop it," is not in vain, for these dogs are as well trained as Circus dogs. The rat is dropped and put in a secure place where the dogs cannot reach it. For remember Mr. White counts his rats with as much zeal as an evangelist counts converts. Only the rats are not converted. They are dead. Those rat terriers break the rat's back so quickly that only by the keenest observation one may see the act of killing. The rats do not suffer. They die instantly.

Now listen to brother White. He talks to his dogs like a father to his children, for a true rat-catcher loves his dogs. "Bess, Bill, stop scratching, do you hear me, my hands are down there." Again: "You ain't big enough to fuss, scratch down there, I tell you, scratch." A little after the Pied Piper discovers a bed: "Hugh, here is a bed big enough to bury a young horse." Scratch, scratch, scratch. The dirt flies. The colored boy on the outside is as alert as a cat looking for a mouse: "Mr. White, Bill's got one and another one, he's got three."

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Deeper and deeper they dig. At last a fine "lead" is discovered. Putting his hand in the barrel, the rat-catcher pulls out a pretty yellow ferret. Look at it for a while. It is built for this particular work. Did the creator create ferrets to catch rats and rabbits and prairie dogs? The little pink eyes shine. The long lean body about fourteen inches long will slide through a hole so small that two or three fingers would fill it. Native to Africa, this carnivorous animal of the weasel family, knows his owner and knows his job. Mr. White puts her in the "lead" and she scratches for dear life. Deeper and deeper the slender body crawls into the hole. You can still see the tip of her yellow bushy tail. That too disappears. She is gone! The rats smell her and run. But at the end of the lead stands a dog. "Watch that hole there, Bess, watch that hole, I tell you." No need for this admonition. She is watching, for she smells rats. Out they come, one two, three, four. Bess gets the first one. The other dogs get the other three. The Piper puts them on the pile with the rest of them, for they must be counted when the job is done.

Hush, another lead. Out comes another ferret. "Go get him sweetheart," says the master. Sweetheart: I would not put my hand in that barrel for anything, for a ferret can bite. Those little teeth are sharp as a needle. But they are the master's pets and no wonder, for they know his voice and they help him to earn his bread and butter.

And so it goes. The Pied Piper helps the dogs with spade and pitchfork, the dogs help the Piper, the ferrets help the dogs and here you have team work of the finest sort. The pile gets larger and larger and few are the rats that escape. Run for their lives? Not on your life. Any rats that come out in the open are caught by the swift-footed terriers.

Say, are you troubled with rats? Send for Mr. White, of Parksley. He will get them as sure as night follows day. But don't use poison before he turns his high-bred dogs out. Two years ago, this rat-catcher lost all of his fine dogs from poison and dogs cost money and money is scarce and dogs cannot be trained in a day and so forth. Thank you, Mr. White, for this new thrill. I want to go again.