Suddenly the spirals commenced to lengthen downward instead of upward. To the amazement of the Meanest Trustee he discovered them shifting into human shapes: here was the form of a child, here a youth, here a lover and his lass, here a little old dame, and scores more; while into the corners of the room drifted others that turned into the drollest of droll pipers--with kilt and brata and cap. It made him feel as if he had been dropped into the center of a giant kaleidoscope, with thousands of pieces of gray smoke turning, at the twist of a hand, into form and color, motion and music. The pipers piped; the figures danced, whirling and whirling about him, and their laughter could be heard above the pipers' music. "Stop!" barked the Meanest Trustee at last; but they only danced the faster. "Stop!" And he shook his fist at the pipers, who played louder and merrier. "Stop!" And he pounded the arms of his chair with both hands. "I hate music! I hate children! I hate noise and confusion! Stop! I say." Still the pipers played and the figures danced on; and the Meanest Trustee was compelled to hear and see. To him it seemed an interminable time. He would have stopped his ears with his fingers and shut his eyes, only, strangely enough, he could not. But at last it all came to an end--the figures floated laughing away, and the pipers came and stood about him, their caps in their hands out-stretched before him. He eyed them suspiciously. "What's that for?" "It is time to pay the pipers," said one. "Let those who dance pay; that's according to the adage," and he smiled caustically at his own wit. "It's a false adage," said a second, "like many another that you follow in your world. It is not the ones who dance that should pay, but the ones who keep others from dancing--the ones who help to rob the world of some of its joy. And the ones who rob the most must pay the heaviest. Come!" And he shook his cap significantly. A sudden feeling of helplessness overpowered the Meanest Trustee. Muttering something about "pickpockets" and "hold-ups," he ferreted around in his pocket and brought out a single coin, which he dropped ungraciously into the insistent cap. "What's that?" asked the head piper, curiously. "It looks to me like money--good money--and I'm throwing it away on a parcel of rascals." "Come, come, my good man," and the piper tapped him gently on the shoulder, in the fashion of a professional philanthropist when he remonstrates with a professional vagrant; "don't you see you are not giving your soul any room to grow in? A great deal of joy might have reached the world across your open palm. Instead, you have crushed it in a hard, tight fist. You must pay now for all the souls you've kept from dancing. Come--fill all our caps."