Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates

Hans and Gretel

On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad children were

kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in Holland.

The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was parted near the

horizon, and its edges shone crimson with the coming day. Most of the

good Hollanders were enjoying a placid morning nap. Even Mynheer

von Stoppelnoze, that worthy old Dutchman, was still slumbering “in

beautiful repose”.

Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well-filled basket upon her

head, came skimming over the glassy surface of the canal; or a lusty

boy, skating to his day’s work in the town, cast a good-natured grimace

toward the shivering pair as he flew along.

Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the brother and sister,

for such they were, seemed to be fastening something to their feet--not

skates, certainly, but clumsy pieces of wood narrowed and smoothed at

their lower edge, and pierced with holes, through which were threaded

strings of rawhide.

These queer-looking affairs had been made by the boy Hans. His mother

was a poor peasant woman, too poor even to think of such a thing

as buying skates for her little ones. Rough as these were, they had

afforded the children many a happy hour upon the ice. And now, as with

cold, red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the strings--their

solemn faces bending closely over their knees--no vision of impossible

iron runners came to dull the satisfaction glowing within.

In a moment the boy arose and, with a pompous swing of the arms and a

careless “Come on, Gretel,” glided easily across the canal.

“Ah, Hans,” called his sister plaintively, “this foot is not well yet.

The strings hurt me on last market day, and now I cannot bear them tied

in the same place.”

“Tie them higher up, then,” answered Hans, as without looking at her he

performed a wonderful cat’s cradle step on the ice.

“How can I? The string is too short.”

Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which was

that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered toward her.

“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a stout

leather pair. Your klompen *{Wooden shoes.} would be better than these.”

“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful new shoes in

the fire. Before I knew what he had done, they were all curled up in the

midst o the burning peat. I can skate with these, but not with my wooden

ones. Be careful now--”

Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as he knelt

beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel’s skate with all the force of

his strong young arm.

“Oh! oh!” she cried in real pain.

With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would have cast it on

the ground in true big-brother style, had he not just then spied a tear

trickling down his sister’s cheek.

“I’ll fix it--never fear,” he said with sudden tenderness, “but we must

be quick. The mother will need us soon.”

Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the ground, next at

some bare willow branches above his head, and finally at the sky, now

gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson, and gold.

Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his need, his eye

suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellow who knew what he was

about, he took off his cap and, removing the tattered lining, adjusted

it in a smooth pad over the top of Gretel’s worn-out shoe.

“Now,” he cried triumphantly, at the same time arranging the strings

as briskly as his benumbed fingers would allow, “can you bear some

pulling?”

Gretel drew up her lips as if to say, “Hurt away,” but made no further

response.

In another moment they were all laughing together, as hand in hand they

flew along the canal, never thinking whether the ice would bear them or

not, for in Holland ice is generally an all-winter affair. It settles

itself upon the water in a determined kind of way, and so far from

growing thin and uncertain every time the sun is a little severe upon

it, it gathers its forces day by day and flashes defiance to every beam.

Presently, squeak! squeak! sounded something beneath Hans’ feet. Next

his strokes grew shorter, ending oftimes with a jerk, and finally,

he lay sprawling upon the ice, kicking against the air with many a

fantastic flourish.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Gretel. “That was a fine tumble!” But a tender heart

was beating under her coarse blue jacket, and even as she laughed, she

came, with a graceful sweep, close to her prostrate brother.

“Are you hurt, Hans? Oh, you are laughing! Catch me now!” And she darted

away, shivering no longer, but with cheeks all aglow and eyes sparkling

with fun.

Hans sprang to his feet and started in brisk pursuit, but it was no easy

thing to catch Gretel. Before she had traveled very far, her skates,

too, began to squeak.

Believing that discretion was the better part of valor, she turned

suddenly and skated into her pursuer’s arms.

“Ha! ha! I’ve caught you!” cried Hans.

“Ha! ha! I caught YOU,” she retorted, struggling to free herself.

Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling, “Hans! Gretel!”

“It’s the mother,” said Hans, looking solemn in an instant.

By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure morning air

was very delightful, and skaters were gradually increasing in numbers.

It was hard to obey the summons. But Gretel and Hans were good children;

without a thought of yielding to the temptation to linger, they pulled

off their skates, leaving half the knots still tied. Hans, with his

great square shoulders and bushy yellow hair, towered high above his

blue-eyed little sister as they trudged homeward. He was fifteen years

old and Gretel was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy, with

honest eyes and a brow that seemed to bear a sign GOODNESS WITHIN just

as the little Dutch zomerhuis *{Summer house} wears a motto over its

portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; her eyes had a dancing light in

them, and while you looked at her cheek the color paled and deepened

just as it does upon a bed of pink and white blossoms when the wind is

blowing.

As soon as the children turned from the canal, they could see their

parents’ cottage. Their mother’s tall form, arrayed in jacket and

petticoat and close-fitting cap, stood, like a picture, in the crooked

frame of the doorway. Had the cottage been a mile away, it would still

have seemed near. In that flat country every object stands out plainly

in the distance; the chickens show as distinctly as the windmills.

Indeed, were it not for the dikes and the high banks of the canals, one

could stand almost anywhere in middle Holland without seeing a mound or

a ridge between the eye and the “jumping-off place.”

None had better cause to know the nature of these same dikes than Dame

Brinker and the panting youngsters now running at her call. But before

stating WHY, let me ask you to take a rocking-chair trip with me to that

far country where you may see, perhaps for the first time, some curious

things that Hans and Gretel saw every day.

Holland

Holland is one of the queerest countries under the sun. It should

be called Odd-land or Contrary-land, for in nearly everything it is

different from the other parts of the world. In the first place, a large

portion of the country is lower than the level of the sea. Great dikes,

or bulwarks, have been erected at a heavy cost of money and labor

to keep the ocean where it belongs. On certain parts of the coast it

sometimes leans with all its weight against the land, and it is as much

as the poor country can do to stand the pressure. Sometimes the dikes

give way or spring a leak, and the most disastrous results ensue.

They are high and wide, and the tops of some of them are covered with

buildings and trees. They have even fine public roads on them, from

which horses may look down upon wayside cottages. Often the keels of

floating ships are higher than the roofs of the dwellings. The stork

clattering to her young on the house peak may feel that her nest is

lifted far out of danger, but the croaking frog in neighboring bulrushes

is nearer the stars than she. Water bugs dart backward and forward above

the heads of the chimney swallows, and willow trees seem drooping with

shame, because they cannot reach as high as the reeds nearby.

Ditches, canals, ponds, rivers, and lakes are everywhere to be seen.

High, but not dry, they shine in the sunlight, catching nearly all

the bustle and the business, quite scorning the tame fields stretching

damply beside them. One is tempted to ask, “Which is Holland--the shores

or the water?” The very verdure that should be confined to the land

has made a mistake and settled upon the fish ponds. In fact, the entire

country is a kind of saturated sponge or, as the English poet, Butler,

called it,

A land that rides at anchor, and is moor’d,

In which they do not live, but go aboard.

Persons are born, live, and die, and even have their gardens on

canal-boats. Farmhouses, with roofs like great slouched hats pulled over

their eyes, stand on wooden legs with a tucked-up sort of air, as if

to say, “We intend to keep dry if we can.” Even the horses wear a wide

stool on each hoof as if to lift them out of the mire. In short, the

landscape everywhere suggests a paradise for ducks. It is a glorious

country in summer for barefoot girls and boys. Such wading! Such mimic

ship sailing! Such rowing, fishing, and swimming! Only think of a chain

of puddles where one can launch chip boats all day long and never make

a return trip! But enough. A full recital would set all young America

rushing in a body toward the Zuider Zee.

Dutch cities seem at first sight to be a bewildering jungle of houses,

bridges, churches, and ships, sprouting into masts, steeples, and

trees. In some cities vessels are hitched like horses to their owners’

doorposts and receive their freight from the upper windows. Mothers

scream to Lodewyk and Kassy not to swing on the garden gate for fear

they may be drowned! Water roads are more frequent there than common

roads and railways; water fences in the form of lazy green ditches

enclose pleasure-ground, farm, and garden.

Sometimes fine green hedges are seen, but wooden fences such as we

have in America are rarely met with in Holland. As for stone fences, a

Dutchman would lift his hands with astonishment at the very idea. There

is no stone there, except for those great masses of rock that have been

brought from other lands to strengthen and protect the coast. All the

small stones or pebbles, if there ever were any, seem to be imprisoned

in pavements or quite melted away. Boys with strong, quick arms may

grow from pinafores to full beards without ever finding one to start the

water rings or set the rabbits flying. The water roads are nothing less

than canals intersecting the country in every direction. These are of

all sizes, from the great North Holland Ship Canal, which is the wonder

of the world, to those which a boy can leap. Water omnibuses, called

trekschuiten, *{Canal boats. Some of the first named are over thirty

feet long. They look like green houses lodged on barges and are drawn by

horses walking along the bank of the canal. The trekschuiten are divided

into two compartments, first and second class, and when not too crowded,

the passengers make themselves quite at home in them; the men smoke, the

women knit or sew, while children play upon the small outer deck. Many

of the canal boats have white, yellow, or chocolate-colored sails.

This last color is caused by a tanning preparation which is put on

to preserve them.} constantly ply up and down these roads for the

conveyance of passengers; and water drays, called pakschuyten, are used

for carrying fuel and merchandise. Instead of green country lanes,

green canals stretch from field to barn and from barn to garden; and

the farms, or polders, as they are termed, are merely great lakes pumped

dry. Some of the busiest streets are water, while many of the country

roads are paved with brick. The city boats with their rounded sterns,

gilded prows, and gaily painted sides, are unlike any others under the

sun; and a Dutch wagon, with its funny little crooked pole, is a perfect

mystery of mysteries.

“One thing is clear,” cries Master Brightside, “the inhabitants

need never be thirsty.” But no, Odd-land is true to itself still.

Notwithstanding the sea pushing to get in, and the lakes struggling

to get out, and the overflowing canals, rivers, and ditches, in many

districts there is no water fit to swallow; our poor Hollanders must go

dry or drink wine and beer or send far into the inland to Utrecht and

other favored localities for that precious fluid older than Adam yet

younger than the morning dew. Sometimes, indeed, the inhabitants can

swallow a shower when they are provided with any means of catching it;

but generally they are like the albatross-haunted sailors in Coleridge’s

famous poem “The Ancient Mariner.” They see

Water, Water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink!

Great flapping windmills all over the country make it look as if flocks

of huge sea birds were just settling upon it. Everywhere one sees

the funniest trees, bobbed into fantastical shapes, with their trunks

painted a dazzling white, yellow, or red. Horses are often yoked three

abreast. Men, women, and children go clattering about in wooden shoes

with loose heels; peasant girls who cannot get beaux for love, hire them

for money to escort them to the kermis, *{Fair.} and husbands and wives

lovingly harness themselves side by side on the bank of the canal and

drag their pakschuyts to market.

Another peculiar feature of Holland is the dune, or sand hill. These are

numerous along certain portions of the coast. Before they were sown with

coarse reed grass and other plants, to hold them down, they used to send

great storms of sand over the inland. So, to add to the oddities, the

farmers sometimes dig down under the surface to find their soil, and on

windy days DRY SHOWERS (of sand) often fall upon fields that have grown

wet under a week of sunshine.

In short, almost the only familiar thing we Yankees can meet with

in Holland is a harvest song which is quite popular there, though no

linguist could translate it. Even then we must shut our eyes and listen

only to the tune, which I leave you to guess.

Yanker didee dudel down

Didee dudel lawnter;

Yankee viver, voover, vown,

Botermelk and Tawnter!

On the other hand, many of the oddities of Holland serve only to prove

the thrift and perseverance of the people. There is not a richer or more

carefully tilled garden spot in the whole world than this leaky, springy

little country. There is not a braver, more heroic race than its quite,

passive-looking inhabitants. Few nations have equalled it in important

discoveries and inventions; none has excelled it in commerce,

navigation, learning, and science--or set as noble examples in the

promotion of education and public charities; and none in proportion to

its extent has expended more money or labor upon public works.

Holland has its shining annals of noble and illustrious men and women;

its grand, historic records of patience, resistance, and victory; its

religious freedom; its enlightened enterprise; its art, music, and

literature. It has truly been called “the battlefield of Europe”; as

truly may we consider it the asylum of the world, for the oppressed

of every nation have there found shelter and encouragement. If we

Americans, who after all are homeopathic preparations of Holland stock,

can laugh at the Dutch, and call them human beavers and hint that their

country may float off any day at high tide, we can also feel proud, and

say they have proved themselves heroes and that their country will not

float off while there is a Dutchman left to grapple it.

There are said to be at least ninety-nine hundred large windmills in

Holland, with sails ranging from eighty to one hundred and twenty feet

long. They are employed in sawing timber, beating hemp, grinding, and

many other kinds of work; but their principal use is for pumping water

from the lowlands into the canals, and for guarding against the inland

freshets that so often deluge the country. Their yearly cost is said to

be nearly ten million dollars. The large ones are of great power.

The huge circular tower, rising sometimes from the midst of factory

buildings, is surmounted with a smaller one tapering into a caplike

roof. This upper tower is encircled at its base with a balcony, high

above which juts the axis turned by its four prodigious ladder-back

sails.

Many of the windmills are primitive affairs, seeming sadly in need of

Yankee “improvements,” but some of the new ones are admirable. They are

constructed so that by some ingenious contrivance they present their

fans, or wings, to the wind in precisely the right direction to work

with the requisite power. In other words, the miller may take a nap and

feel quite sure that his mill will study the wind and make the most of

it, until he wakens. Should there be but a slight current of air, every

sail will spread itself to catch the faintest breath, but if a heavy

“blow” should come, they will shrink at its touch, like great mimosa

leaves, and only give it half a chance to move them.

One of the old prisons of Amsterdam, called the Rasphouse, because the

thieves and vagrants who were confined there were employed in rasping

logwood, had a cell for the punishment of lazy prisoners. In one corner

of this cell was a pump, and in another, an opening through which a

steady stream of water was admitted. The prisoner could take his choice,

either to stand still and be drowned or to work for dear life at the

pump and keep the flood down until his jailer chose to relieve him.

Now it seems to me that, throughout Holland, nature has introduced this

little diversion on a grand scale. The Dutch have always been forced to

pump for their very existence and probably must continue to do so to the

end of time.

Every year millions of dollars are spent in repairing dikes and

regulating water levels. If these important duties were neglected, the

country would be uninhabitable. Already dreadful consequences, as I have

said, have followed the bursting of these dikes. Hundreds of villages

and towns have from time to time been buried beneath the rush of waters,

and nearly a million persons have been destroyed. One of the most

fearful inundations ever known occurred in the autumn of the year 1570.

Twenty-eight terrible floods had before that time overwhelmed portions

of Holland, but this was the most terrible of all. The unhappy country

had long been suffering under Spanish tyranny; now, it seemed, the

crowning point was given to its troubles. When we read Motley’s history

of the rise of the Dutch republic, we learn to revere the brave people

who have endured, suffered, and dared so much.

Mr. Motley, in his thrilling account of the great inundation, tells us

how a long-continued and violent gale had been sweeping the Atlantic

waters into the North Sea, piling them against the coasts of the Dutch

provinces; how the dikes, taxed beyond their strength, burst in all

directions; how even the Hand-bos, a bulwark formed of oaken piles,

braced with iron, moored with heavy anchors, and secured by gravel and

granite, was snapped to pieces like thread; how fishing boats and bulky

vessels floating up into the country became entangled among the trees

or beat in the roofs and walls of dwellings, and how, at last, all

Friesland was converted into an angry sea. “Multitudes of men, women,

children, of horses, oxen, sheep, and every domestic animal, were

struggling in the waves in every direction. Every boat and every article

which could serve as a boat was eagerly seized upon. Every house was

inundated; even the graveyards gave up their dead. The living infant

in his cradle and the long-buried corpse in his coffin floated side by

side. The ancient flood seemed about to be renewed. Everywhere, upon

the tops of trees, upon the steeples of churches, human beings were

clustered, praying to God for mercy and to their fellow men for

assistance. As the storm at last was subsiding, boats began to ply in

every direction, saving those who were struggling in the water, picking

fugitives from roofs and treetops, and collecting the bodies of those

already drowned.” No less than one hundred thousand human beings had

perished in a few hours. Thousands upon thousands of dumb creatures lay

dead upon the waters, and the damage to property was beyond calculation.

Robles, the Spanish governor, was foremost in noble efforts to save life

and lessen the horrors of the catastrophe. He had previously been hated

by the Dutch because of his Spanish or Portuguese blood, but by his

goodness and activity in their hour of disaster, he won all hearts to

gratitude. He soon introduced an improved method of constructing the

dikes and passed a law that they should in future be kept up by the

owners of the soil. There were fewer heavy floods from this time, though

within less than three hundred years, six fearful inundations swept over

the land.

In the spring there is always great danger of inland freshets,

especially in times of thaw, because the rivers, choked with blocks of

ice, overflow before they can discharge their rapidly rising waters into

the ocean. Adding to this that the sea chafes and presses against the

dikes, it is no wonder that Holland is often in a state of alarm. The

greatest care is taken to prevent accidents. Engineers and workmen are

stationed all along in threatened places, and a close watch is kept up

night and day. When a general signal of danger is given, the inhabitants

all rush to the rescue, eager to combine against their common foe. As,

everywhere else, straw is supposed to be of all things the most helpless

in the water, of course, in Holland, it must be rendered the mainstay

against a rushing tide. Huge straw mats are pressed against the

embankments, fortified with clay and heavy stone, and once adjusted, the

ocean dashes against them in vain.

Raff Brinker, the father of Gretel and Hans, had for years been employed

upon the dikes. It was at the time of a threatened inundation, when

in the midst of a terrible storm, in darkness and sleet, the men were

laboring at a weak spot near the Veermyk sluice, that he fell from the

scaffolding and became insensible. From that hour he never worked again;

though he lived on, mind and memory were gone.

Gretel could not remember him otherwise than as the strange, silent man

whose eyes followed her vacantly whichever way she turned, but Hans had

recollections of a hearty, cheerful-voiced father who was never tired

of bearing him upon his shoulder and whose careless song still seemed

echoing near when he lay awake at night and listened.

The Silver Skates

Dame Brinker earned a scant support for her family by raising

vegetables, spinning, and knitting. Once she had worked on board the

barges plying up and down the canal and had occasionally been harnessed

with other women to the towing rope of a pakschuyt plying between Broek

and Amsterdam. But when Hans had grown strong and large, he had insisted

on doing all such drudgery in her place. Besides, her husband had become

so very helpless of late that he required her constant care. Although

not having as much intelligence as a little child, he was yet strong

of arm and very hearty, and Dame Brinker had sometimes great trouble in

controlling him.

“Ah! children, he was so good and steady,” she would sometimes say,

“and as wise as a lawyer. Even the burgomaster would stop to ask him a

question, and now, alack! he doesn’t know his wife and little ones. You

remember the father, Hans, when he was himself--a great brave man--don’t

you?”

“Yes, indeed, Mother, he knew everything and could do anything under the

sun--and how he would sing! Why, you used to laugh and say it was enough

to set the windmills dancing.”

“So I did. Bless me! how the boy remembers! Gretel, child, take that

knitting needle from your father, quick; he’ll get it in his eyes maybe;

and put the shoe on him. His poor feet are like ice half the time, but

I can’t keep ‘em covered, all I can do--” And then, half wailing, half

humming, Dame Brinker would sit down and fill the low cottage with the

whirr of her spinning wheel.

Nearly all the outdoor work, as well as the household labor, was

performed by Hans and Gretel. At certain seasons of the year the

children went out day after day to gather peat, which they would

stow away in square, bricklike pieces, for fuel. At other times, when

homework permitted, Hans rode the towing-horses on the canals, earning

a few stivers *{A stiver is worth about two cents of our money.} a day,

and Gretel tended geese for the neighboring farmers.

Hans was clever at carving in wood, and both he and Gretel were good

gardeners. Gretel could sing and sew and run on great, high homemade

stilts better than any other girl for miles around. She could learn a

ballad in five minutes and find, in its season, any weed or flower

you could name; but she dreaded books, and often the very sight of the

figuring board in the old schoolhouse would set her eyes swimming. Hans,

on the contrary, was slow and steady. The harder the task, whether in

study or daily labor, the better he liked it. Boys who sneered at him

out of school, on account of his patched clothes and scant leather

breeches, were forced to yield him the post of honor in nearly every

class. It was not long before he was the only youngster in the school

who had not stood at least ONCE in the corner of horrors, where hung a

dreaded whip, and over it this motto: “Leer, leer! jou luigaart, of dit

endje touw zal je leeren!” *{Learn! learn! you idler, or this rope’s end

shall teach you.}

It was only in winter that Gretel and Hans could be spared to attend

school, and for the past month they had been kept at home because their

mother needed their services. Raff Brinker required constant attention,

and there was black bread to be made, and the house to be kept

clean, and stockings and other things to be knitted and sold in the

marketplace.

While they were busily assisting their mother on this cold December

morning, a merry troop of girls and boys came skimming down the canal.

There were fine skaters among them, and as the bright medley of costumes

flitted by, it looked from a distance as though the ice had suddenly

thawed and some gay tulip bed were floating along on the current.

There was the rich burgomaster’s daughter Hilda van Gleck, with her

costly furs and loose-fitting velvet sack; and, nearby, a pretty peasant

girl, Annie Bouman, jauntily attired in a coarse scarlet jacket and

a blue skirt just short enough to display the gray homespun hose to

advantage. Then there was the proud Rychie Korbes, whose father, Mynheer

van Korbes, was one of the leading men of Amsterdam; and, flocking

closely around her, Carl Schummel, Peter and Ludwig van Holp, Jacob

Poot, and a very small boy rejoicing in the tremendous name of

Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck. There were nearly twenty other boys

and girls in the party, and one and all seemed full of excitement and

frolic.

Up and down the canal within the space of a half mile they skated,

exerting their racing powers to the utmost. Often the swiftest among

them was seen to dodge from under the very nose of some pompous lawgiver

or doctor who, with folded arms, was skating leisurely toward the town;

or a chain of girls would suddenly break at the approach of a fat old

burgomaster who, with gold-headed cane poised in air, was puffing his

way to Amsterdam. Equipped in skates wonderful to behold, with their

superb strappings and dazzling runners curving over the instep and

topped with gilt balls, he would open his fat eyes a little if one of

the maidens chanced to drop him a curtsy but would not dare to bow in

return for fear of losing his balance.

Not only pleasure seekers and stately men of note were upon the canal.

There were workpeople, with weary eyes, hastening to their shops and

factories; market women with loads upon their heads; peddlers bending

with their packs; bargemen with shaggy hair and bleared faces, jostling

roughly on their way; kind-eyed clergymen speeding perhaps to the

bedsides of the dying; and, after a while, groups of children with

satchels slung over their shoulders, whizzing past, toward the distant

school. One and all wore skates except, indeed, a muffled-up farmer

whose queer cart bumped along on the margin of the canal.

Before long our merry boys and girls were almost lost in the confusion

of bright colors, the ceaseless motion, and the gleaming of skates

flashing back the sunlight. We might have known no more of them had not

the whole party suddenly come to a standstill and, grouping themselves

out of the way of the passersby, all talked at once to a pretty little

maiden, whom they had drawn from the tide of people flowing toward the

town.

“Oh, Katrinka!” they cried in one breath, “have you heard of it? The

race--we want you to join!”

“What race?” asked Katrinka, laughing. “Don’t all talk at once, please,

I can’t understand.”

Everyone panted and looked at Rychie Korbes, who was their acknowledged

spokeswoman.

“Why,” said Rychie, “we are to have a grand skating match on the

twentieth, on Mevrouw van Gleck’s birthday. It’s all Hilda’s work. They

are going to give a splendid prize to the best skater.”

“Yes,” chimed in half a dozen voices, “a beautiful pair of silver

skates--perfectly magnificent--with, oh! such straps and silver bells

and buckles!”

“WHO said they had bells?” put in a small voice of the boy with the big

name.

“I say so, Master Voost,” replied Rychie.

“So they have”; “No, I’m sure they haven’t”; “OH, how can you say

so?”; “It’s an arrow”; “And Mynheer van Korbes told MY mother they

had bells”--came from the excited group, but Mynheer Voostenwalbert

Schimmelpenninck essayed to settle the matter with a decisive “Well, you

don’t any of you know a single thing about it; they haven’t a sign of a

bell on them, they--”

“Oh! oh!” and the chorus of conflicting opinions broke forth again.

“The girls’ pair is to have bells,” interposed Hilda quietly, “but

there is to be another pair for the boys with an arrow engraved upon the

sides.”

“THERE! I told you so!” cried nearly all the youngsters in one breath.

Katrinka looked at them with bewildered eyes.

“Who is to try?” she asked.

“All of us,” answered Rychie. “It will be such fun! And you must, too,

Katrinka. But it’s schooltime now, we will talk it all over at noon. Oh!

you will join, of course.”

Katrinka, without replying, made a graceful pirouette and laughing out a

coquettish, “Don’t you hear the last bell? Catch me!” darted off toward

the schoolhouse standing half a mile away on the canal.

All started, pell-mell, at this challenge, but they tried in vain to

catch the bright-eyed, laughing creature who, with golden hair streaming

in the sunlight, cast back many a sparkling glance of triumph as she

floated onward.

Beautiful Katrinka! Flushed with youth and health, all life and mirth

and motion, what wonder thine image, ever floating in advance, sped

through one boy’s dreams that night! What wonder that it seemed his

darkest hour when, years afterward, thy presence floated away from him

forever.

Hans and Gretel Find a Friend

At noon our young friends poured forth from the schoolhouse, intent upon

having an hour’s practice upon the canal.

They had skated but a few moments when Carl Schummel said mockingly

to Hilda, “There’s a pretty pair just coming upon the ice! The little

ragpickers! Their skates must have been a present from the king direct.”

“They are patient creatures,” said Hilda gently. “It must have been hard

to learn to skate upon such queer affairs. They are very poor peasants,

you see. The boy has probably made the skates himself.”

Carl was somewhat abashed.

“Patient they may be, but as for skating, they start off pretty well,

only to finish with a jerk. They could move well to your new staccato

piece, I think.”

Hilda laughed pleasantly and left him. After joining a small detachment

of the racers and sailing past every one of them, she halted beside

Gretel, who, with eager eyes, had been watching the sport.

“What is your name, little girl?”

“Gretel, my lady,” answered the child, somewhat awed by Hilda’s rank,

though they were nearly of the same age, “and my brother is called

Hans.”

“Hans is a stout fellow,” said Hilda cheerily, “and seems to have a

warm stove somewhere within him, but YOU look cold. You should wear more

clothing, little one.”

Gretel, who had nothing else to wear, tried to laugh as she answered, “I

am not so very little. I am past twelve years old.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. You see, I am nearly fourteen, and so large for

my age that other girls seem small to me, but that is nothing. Perhaps

you will shoot up far above me yet, but not unless you dress more

warmly, though. Shivering girls never grow.”

Hans flushed as he saw tears rising in Gretel’s eyes.

“My sister has not complained of the cold, but this is bitter weather,

they all say.” And he looked sadly upon Gretel.

“It is nothing,” said Gretel. “I am often warm--too warm when I

am skating. You are good, jufvrouw, *{Miss; young lady (pronounced

yuffrow). In studied or polite address it would be jongvrowe (pronounced

youngfrow).} to think of it.”

“No, no,” answered Hilda, quite angry at herself. “I am careless, cruel,

but I meant no harm. I wanted to ask you--I mean, if--” And here Hilda,

coming to the point of her errand, faltered before the poorly clad but

noble-looking children she wished to serve.

“What is it, young lady?” exclaimed Hans eagerly. “If there is any

service I can do, any--”

“Oh, no, no,” laughed Hilda, shaking off her embarrassment. “I only

wished to speak to you about the grand race. Why do you not join it? You

both can skate well, and the ranks are free. Anyone may enter for the

prize.”

Gretel looked wistfully at Hans, who, tugging at his cap, answered

respectfully.

“Ah, jufvrouw, even if we could enter, we could skate only a few strokes

with the rest. Our skates are hard wood, you see”--holding up the sole

of his foot--“but they soon become damp, and then they stick and trip

us.”

Gretel’s eyes twinkled with fun as she thought of Hans’s mishap in the

morning, but she blushed as she faltered out timidly, “Oh, no, we can’t

join, but may we be there, my lady, on the great day to look on?”

“Certainly,” answered Hilda, looking kindly into the two earnest faces

and wishing from her heart that she had not spent so much of her monthly

allowance for lace and finery. She had but eight kwartjes *{A kwartje

is a small silver coin worth one-quarter of a guilder, or ten cents in

American currency.} left, and they would buy but one pair of skates, at

the furthest.

Looking down with a sigh at the two pairs of feet so very different in

size, she asked:

“Which of you is the better skater?”

“Gretel,” replied Hans promptly.

“Hans,” answered Gretel in the same breath.

Hilda smiled.

“I cannot buy you each a pair of skates, or even one good pair, but here

are eight kwartjes. Decide between you which stands the best chance of

winning the race, and buy the skates accordingly. I wish I had enough

to buy better ones. Good-bye!” And, with a nod and a smile, Hilda, after

handing the money to the electrified Hans, glided swiftly away to rejoin

her companions.

“Jufvrouw! Jufvrouw van Gleck!” called Hans in a loud tone, stumbling

after her as well as he could, for one of his skate strings was untied.

Hilda turned and, with one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun,

seemed to him to be floating through the air, nearer and nearer.

“We cannot take this money,” panted Hans, “though we know your goodness

in giving it.”

“Why not, indeed?” asked Hilda, flushing.

“Because,” replied Hans, bowing like a clown but looking with the eye of

a prince at the queenly girl, “we have not earned it.”

Hilda was quick-witted. She had noticed a pretty wooden chain upon

Gretel’s neck.

“Carve me a chain, Hans, like the one your sister wears.”

“That I will, lady, with all my heart. We have whitewood in the house,

fine as ivory; you shall have one tomorrow.” And Hans hastily tried to

return the money.

“No, no,” said Hilda decidedly. “That sum will be but a poor price

for the chain.” And off she darted outstripping the fleetest among the

skaters.

Hans sent a long, bewildered gaze after her; it was useless, he felt, to

make any further resistance.

“It is right,” he muttered, half to himself, half to his faithful

shadow, Gretel. “I must work hard every minute, and sit up half the

night if the mother will let me burn a candle, but the chain shall be

finished. We may keep the money, Gretel.”

“What a good little lady!” cried Gretel, clapping her hands with

delight. “Oh! Hans, was it for nothing the stork settled on our roof

last summer? Do you remember how the mother said it would bring us luck

and how she cried when Janzoon Kolp shot him? And she set it would bring

him trouble. But the luck has come to us at last! Now, Hans, if

the mother sends us to town tomorrow, you can buy the skates in the

marketplace.”

Hans shook his head. “The young lady would have given us the money to

buy skates, but if I EARN it, Gretel, it shall be spent for wool. You

must have a warm jacket.”

“Oh!” cried Gretel in real dismay, “not buy the skates? Why, I am not

often cold! Mother says the blood runs up and down in poor children’s

veins, humming, ‘I must keep ‘em warm! I must keep ‘em warm.’

“Oh, Hans,” she continued with something like a sob, “don’t say you

won’t buy the skates. It makes me feel just like crying. Besides, I want

to be cold. I mean, I’m real, awful warm--so now!”

Hans looked up hurriedly. He had a true Dutch horror or tears, or

emotion of any kind, and most of all, he dreaded to see his sisters’

blue eyes overflowing.

“Now, mind,” cried Gretel, seeing her advantage, “I’ll feel awful if you

give up the skates. I don’t want them. I’m not so stingy as that; but

I want YOU to have them, and then when I get bigger, they’ll do for

me--oh--count the pieces, Hans. Did you ever see so many!”

Hans turned the money thoughtfully in his palm. Never in all his life

had he longed so intensely for a pair of skates, for he had known of the

race and had fairly ached for a chance to test his powers with the other

children. He felt confident that with a good pair of steel runners he

could readily outdistance most of the boys on the canal. Then, too,

Gretel’s argument was plausible. On the other hand, he knew that she,

with her strong but lithe little frame, needed but a week’s practice

on good runners to make her a better skater than Rychie Korbes or even

Katrinka Flack. As soon as this last thought flashed upon him, his

resolve was made. If Gretel would not have the jacket, she should have

the skates.

“No, Gretel,” he answered at last, “I can wait. Someday I may have money

enough saved to buy a fine pair. You shall have these.”

Gretel’s eyes sparkled, but in another instant she insisted, rather

faintly, “The young lady gave the money to YOU, Hans. I’d be real bad to

take it.”

Hans shook his head resolutely as he trudged on, causing his sister to

half skip and half walk in her effort to keep beside him. By this time

they had taken off their wooden “rockers” and were hastening home to

tell their mother the good news.

“Oh! I know!” cried Gretel in a sprightly tone. “You can do this. You

can get a pair a little too small for you, and too big for me, and we

can take turns and use them. Won’t that be fine?” Gretel clapped her

hands again.

Poor Hans! This was a strong temptation, but he pushed it away from him,

brave-hearted fellow that he was.

“Nonsense, Gretel. You could never get on with a big pair. You stumbled

about with these, like a blind chicken, before I curved off the ends.

No, you must have a pair to fit exactly, and you must practice every

chance you can get, until the twentieth comes. My little Gretel shall

win the silver skates.”

Gretel could not help laughing with delight at the very idea.

“Hans! Gretel!” called out a familiar voice.

“Coming, Mother!”

They hastened toward the cottage, Hans still shaking the pieces of

silver in his hand.

On the following day there was not a prouder nor a happier boy in

all Holland than Hans Brinker as he watched his sister, with many a

dexterous sweep, flying in and out among the skaters who at sundown

thronged the canal. A warm jacket had been given her by the kind-hearted

Hilda, and the burst-out shoes had been cobbled into decency by Dame

Brinker. As the little creature darted backward and forward, flushed

with enjoyment and quite unconscious of the many wondering glances

bent upon her, she felt that the shining runners beneath her feet had

suddenly turned earth into fairyland while “Hans, dear, good Hans!”

echoed itself over and over again in her grateful heart.

“By den donder!” exclaimed Peter van Holp to Carl Schummel, “but that

little one in the red jacket and patched petticoat skates well. Gunst!

She has toes on her heels and eyes in the back of her head! See her! It

will be a joke if she gets in the race and beats Katrinka Flack, after

all.”

“Hush! not so loud!” returned Carl, rather sneeringly. “That little lady

in rags is the special pet of Hilda van Gleck. Those shining skates are

her gift, if I make no mistake.”

“So! so!” exclaimed Peter with a radiant smile, for Hilda was his best

friend. “She has been at her good work there too!” And Mynheer van Holp,

after cutting a double figure eight on the ice, to say nothing of a huge

P, then a jump and an H, glided onward until he found himself beside

Hilda.

Hand in hand, they skated together, laughingly at first, then staidly

talking in a low tone.

Strange to say, Peter van Holp soon arrived at a sudden conviction that

his little sister needed a wooden chain just like Hilda’s.

Two days afterwards, on Saint Nicholas’s Eve, Hans, having burned three

candle ends and cut his thumb into the bargain, stood in the marketplace

at Amsterdam, buying another pair of skates.

Shadows in the Home

Good Dame Brinker! As soon as the scanty dinner had been cleared away

that noon, she had arrayed herself in her holiday attire in honor of

Saint Nicholas. It will brighten the children, she thought to herself,

and she was not mistaken. This festival dress had been worn very seldom

during the past ten years; before that time it had done good service and

had flourished at many a dance and kermis, when she was known, far

and wide, as the pretty Meitje Klenck. The children had sometimes been

granted rare glimpses of it as it lay in state in the old oaken chest.

Faded and threadbare as it was, it was gorgeous in their eyes, with

its white linen tucker, now gathered to her plump throat and vanishing

beneath the trim bodice of blue homespun, and its reddish-brown skirt

bordered with black. The knitted woolen mitts and the dainty cap showing

her hair, which generally was hidden, made her seem almost like a

princess to Gretel, while Master Hans grew staid and well-behaved as he

gazed.

Soon the little maid, while braiding her own golden tresses, fairly

danced around her mother in an ecstasy of admiration.

“Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother, how pretty you are! Look, Hans! Isn’t it

just like a picture?”

“Just like a picture,” assented Hans cheerfully. “JUST like a

picture--only I don’t like those stocking things on the hands.”

“Not like the mitts, brother Hans! Why, they’re very important. See,

they cover up all the red. Oh, Mother, how white your arm is where the

mitt leaves off, whiter than mine, oh, ever so much whiter. I declare,

Mother, the bodice is tight for you. You’re growing! You’re surely

growing!”

Dame Brinker laughed.

“This was made long ago, lovey, when I wasn’t much thicker about the

waist than a churn dasher. And how do you like the cap?” she asked,

turning her head from side to side.

“Oh, EVER so much, Mother. It’s b-e-a-u-tiful! See, the father is

looking!”

Was the father looking? Alas! only with a dull stare. His vrouw turned

toward him with a start, something like a blush rising to her cheeks, a

questioning sparkle in her eye. The bright look died away in an instant.

“No, no.” She sighed. “He sees nothing. Come, Hans”--and the smile

crept faintly back again--“don’t stand gaping at me all day, and the new

skates waiting for you at Amsterdam.”

“Ah, Mother,” he answered, “you need so many things. Why should I buy

skates?”

“Nonsense, child. The money was given to you on purpose, or the work

was--it’s all the same thing. Go while the sun is high.”

“Yes, and hurry back, Hans!” laughed Gretel. “We’ll race on the canal

tonight, if the mother lets us.”

At the very threshold he turned to say, “Your spinning wheel wants a new

treadle, Mother.”

“You can make it, Hans.”

“So I can. That will take no money. But you need feathers and wool and

meal, and--”

“There, there! That will do. Your silver cannot buy everything. Ah!

Hans, if our stolen money would but come back on this bright Saint

Nicholas’s Eve, how glad we would be! Only last night I prayed to the

good saint--”

“Mother!” interrupted Hans in dismay.

“Why not, Hans? Shame on you to reproach me for that! I’m as true a

Protestant, in sooth, as any fine lady that walks into church, but

it’s no wrong to turn sometimes to the good Saint Nicholas. Tut! It’s a

likely story if one can’t do that, without one’s children flaring up at

it--and he the boys’ and girls’ own saint. Hoot! Mayhap the colt is a

steadier horse than the mare?”

Hans knew his mother too well to offer a word in opposition when her

voice quickened and sharpened as it did now (it was often sharp and

quick when she spoke of the missing money), so he said gently, “And what

did you ask of good Saint Nicholas, Mother?”

“Why, never to give the thieves a wink of sleep till they brought it

back, to be sure, if he has the power to do such things, or else to

brighten our wits that we might find it ourselves. Not a sight have I

had of it since the day before the dear father was hurt--as you well

know, Hans.”

“That I do, Mother,” he answered sadly, “though you have almost pulled

down the cottage in searching.”

“Aye, but it was of no use,” moaned the dame. “‘HIDERS make best

finders.’”

Hans started. “Do you think the father could tell aught?”

“Aye, indeed,” said Dame Brinker, nodding her head. “I think so, but

that is no sign. I never hold the same belief in the matter two days.

Mayhap the father paid it off for the great silver watch we have been

guarding since that day. But, no--I’ll never believe it.”

“The watch was not worth a quarter of the money, Mother.”

“No, indeed, and your father was a shrewd man up to the last moment. He

was too steady and thrifty for silly doings.”

“Where did the watch come from, I wonder,” muttered Hans, half to

himself.

Dame Brinker shook her head and looked sadly toward her husband, who sat

staring blankly at the floor. Gretel stood near him, knitting.

“That we shall never know, Hans. I have shown it to the father many

a time, but he does not know it from a potato. When he came in that

dreadful night to supper, he handed the watch to me and told me to take

good care of it until he asked for it again. Just as he opened his lips

to say more, Broom Klatterboost came flying in with word that the dike

was in danger. Ah! The waters were terrible that Pinxter-week! My man,

alack, caught up his tools and ran out. That was the last I ever saw of

him in his right mind. He was brought in again by midnight, nearly dead,

with his poor head all bruised and cut. The fever passed off in time,

but never the dullness--THAT grew worse every day. We shall never know.”

Hans had heard all this before. More than once he had seen his mother,

in hours of sore need, take the watch from its hiding place, half

resolved to sell it, but she had always conquered the temptation.

“No, Hans,” she would say, “we must be nearer starvation than this

before we turn faithless to the father!”

A memory of some such scene crossed her son’s mind now, for, after

giving a heavy sigh, and flipping a crumb of wax at Gretel across the

table, he said, “Aye, Mother, you have done bravely to keep it--many a

one would have tossed it off for gold long ago.”

“And more shame for them!” exclaimed the dame indignantly. “I would not

do it. Besides, the gentry are so hard on us poor folks that if they saw

such a thing in our hands, even if we told all, they might suspect the

father of--”

Hans flushed angrily.

“They would not DARE to say such a thing, Mother! If they did, I’d...”

He clenched his fist and seemed to think that the rest of his sentence

was too terrible to utter in her presence.

Dame Brinker smiled proudly through her tears at this interruption.

“Ah, Hans, thou’rt a true, brave lad. We will never part company with

the watch. In his dying hour the dear father might wake and ask for it.”

“Might WAKE, Mother!” echoed Hans. “Wake--and know us?”

“Aye, child,” almost whispered his mother, “such things have been.”

By this time Hans had nearly forgotten his proposed errand to Amsterdam.

His mother had seldom spoken so familiarly to him. He felt himself now

to be not only her son, but her friend, her adviser:

“You are right, Mother. We must never give up the watch. For the

father’s sake we will guard it always. The money, though, may come to

light when we least expect it.”

“Never!” cried Dame Brinker, taking the last stitch from her needle with

a jerk and laying the unfinished knitting heavily upon her lap. “There

is no chance! One thousand guilders--and all gone in a day! One thousand

guilders. Oh, what ever DID become of them? If they went in an evil way,

the thief would have confessed it on his dying bed. He would not dare to

die with such guilt on his soul!”

“He may not be dead yet,” said Hans soothingly. “Any day we may hear of

him.”

“Ah, child,” she said in a changed tone, “what thief would ever have

come HERE? It was always neat and clean, thank God, but not fine, for

the father and I saved and saved that we might have something laid

by. ‘Little and often soon fills the pouch.’ We found it so, in truth.

Besides, the father had a goodly sum already, for service done to the

Heernocht lands, at the time of the great inundation. Every week we had

a guilder left over, sometimes more; for the father worked extra hours

and could get high pay for his labor. Every Saturday night we put

something by, except the time when you had the fever, Hans, and when

Gretel came. At last the pouch grew so full that I mended an old

stocking and commenced again. Now that I look back, it seems that the

money was up to the heel in a few sunny weeks. There was great pay in

those days if a man was quick at engineer work. The stocking went on

filling with copper and silver--aye, and gold. You may well open your

eyes, Gretel. I used to laugh and tell the father it was not for poverty

I wore my old gown. And the stocking went on filling, so full that

sometimes when I woke at night, I’d get up, soft and quiet, and go feel

it in the moonlight. Then, on my knees, I would thank our Lord that my

little ones could in time get good learning, and that the father might

rest from labor in his old age. Sometimes, at supper, the father and I

would talk about a new chimney and a good winter room for the cow, but

my man had finer plans even than that. ‘A big sail,’ says he, ‘catches

the wind--we can do what we will soon,’ and then we would sing together

as I washed my dishes. Ah, ‘a smooth wind makes an easy rudder.’ Not a

thing vexed me from morning till night. Every week the father would take

out the stocking and drop in the money and laugh and kiss me as we tied

it up together. Up with you, Hans! There you sit gaping, and the day

a-wasting!” added Dame Brinker tartly, blushing to find that she had

been speaking too freely to her boy. “It’s high time you were on your

way.”

Hans had seated himself and was looking earnestly into her face. He

arose and, in almost a whisper, asked, “Have you ever tried, Mother?”

She understood him.

“Yes, child, often. But the father only laughs, or he stares at me so

strange that I am glad to ask no more. When you and Gretel had the fever

last winter, and our bread was nearly gone, and I could earn nothing,

for fear you would die while my face was turned, oh! I tried then!

I smoothed his hair and whispered to him soft as a kitten, about the

money--where it was, who had it? Alack! He would pick at my sleeve and

whisper gibberish till my blood ran cold. At last, while Gretel lay

whiter than snow, and you were raving on the bed, I screamed to him--it

seemed as if he MUST hear me--‘Raff, where is our money? Do you know

aught of the money, Raff? The money in the pouch and the stocking, in

the big chest?’ But I might as well have talked to a stone. I might

as--”

The mother’s voice sounded so strange, and her eye was so bright, that

Hans, with a new anxiety, laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“Come, Mother,” he said, “let us try to forget this money. I am big

and strong. Gretel, too, is very quick and willing. Soon all will be

prosperous with us again. Why, Mother, Gretel and I would rather see

thee bright and happy than to have all the silver in the world, wouldn’t

we, Gretel?”

“The mother knows it,” said Gretel, sobbing.

Sunbeams

Dame Brinker was startled at her children’s emotion; glad, too, for it

proved how loving and true they were.

Beautiful ladies in princely homes often smile suddenly and sweetly,

gladdening the very air around them, but I doubt if their smile be more

welcome in God’s sight than that which sprang forth to cheer the roughly

clad boy and girl in the humble cottage. Dame Brinker felt that she had

been selfish. Blushing and brightening, she hastily wiped her eyes and

looked upon them as only a mother can.

“Hoity! Toity! Pretty talk we’re having, and Saint Nicholas’s Eve almost

here! What wonder the yarn pricks my fingers! Come, Gretel, take this

cent, *{The Dutch cent is worth less than half of an American cent.}

and while Hans is trading for the skates you can buy a waffle in the

marketplace.”

“Let me stay home with you, Mother,” said Gretel, looking up with eyes

that sparkled through their tears. “Hans will buy me the cake.”

“As you will, child, and Hans--wait a moment. Three turns of this needle

will finish this toe, and then you may have as good a pair of hose as

ever were knitted (owning the yarn is a grain too sharp) to sell to the

hosier on the Harengracht. *{A street in Amsterdam.} That will give us

three quarter-guilders if you make good trade; and as it’s right

hungry weather, you may buy four waffles. We’ll keep the Feast of Saint

Nicholas after all.”

Gretel clapped her hands. “That will be fine! Annie Bouman told me what

grand times they will have in the big houses tonight. But we will be

merry too. Hans will have beautiful new skates--and then there’ll be the

waffles! Oh! Don’t break them, brother Hans. Wrap them well, and button

them under your jacket very carefully.”

“Certainly,” replied Hans, quite gruff with pleasure and importance.

“Oh! Mother!” cried Gretel in high glee, “soon you will be busied with

the father, and now you are only knitting. Do tell us all about Saint

Nicholas!”

Dame Brinker laughed to see Hans hang up his hat and prepare to listen.

“Nonsense, children,” she said. “I have told it to you often.”

“Tell us again! Oh, DO tell us again!” cried Gretel, throwing herself

upon the wonderful wooden bench that her brother had made on the

mother’s last birthday. Hans, not wishing to appear childish, and yet

quite willing to hear the story, stood carelessly swinging his skates

against the fireplace.

“Well, children, you shall hear it, but we must never waste the daylight

again in this way. Pick up your ball, Gretel, and let your sock grow as

I talk. Opening your ears needn’t shut your fingers. Saint Nicholas, you

must know, is a wonderful saint. He keeps his eye open for the good of

sailors, but he cares most of all for boys and girls. Well, once upon a

time, when he was living on the earth, a merchant of Asia sent his three

sons to a great city, called Athens, to get learning.”

“Is Athens in Holland, Mother?” asked Gretel.

“I don’t know, child. Probably it is.”

“Oh, no, Mother,” said Hans respectfully. “I had that in my geography

lessons long ago. Athens is in Greece.”

“Well,” resumed the mother, “what matter? Greece may belong to the king,

for aught we know. Anyhow, this rich merchant sent his sons to Athens.

While they were on their way, they stopped one night at a shabby inn,

meaning to take up their journey in the morning. Well, they had very

fine clothes--velvet and silk, it may be, such as rich folks’ children

all over the world think nothing of wearing--and their belts, likewise,

were full of money. What did the wicked landlord do but contrive a

plan to kill the children and take their money and all their beautiful

clothes himself. So that night, when all the world was asleep, he got up

and killed the three young gentlemen.”

Gretel clasped her hands and shuddered, but Hans tried to look as if

killing and murder were everyday matters to him.

“That was not the worst of it,” continued Dame Brinker, knitting slowly

and trying to keep count of her stitches as she talked. “That was not

near the worst of it. The dreadful landlord went and cut up the young

gentlemen’s bodies into little pieces and threw them into a great tub of

brine, intending to sell them for pickled pork!”

“Oh!” cried Gretel, horror-stricken, though she had often heard the

story before. Hans was still unmoved and seemed to think that pickling

was the best that could be done under the circumstances.

“Yes, he pickled them, and one might think that would have been the

last of the young gentlemen. But no. That night Saint Nicholas had

a wonderful vision, and in it he saw the landlord cutting up the

merchant’s children. There was no need of his hurrying, you know, for

he was a saint, but in the morning he went to the inn and charged

the landlord with murder. Then the wicked landlord confessed it from

beginning to end and fell down on his knees, begging forgiveness. He

felt so sorry for what he had done that he asked the saint to bring the

young masters to life.”

“And did the saint do it?” asked Gretel, delighted, well knowing what

the answer would be.

“Of course he did. The pickled pieces flew together in an instant, and

out jumped the young gentlemen from the brine tub. They cast themselves

at the feet of Saint Nicholas, and he gave them his blessing, and--oh!

mercy on us, Hans, it will be dark before you get back if you don’t

start this minute!”

By this time Dame Brinker was almost out of breath and quite out of

commas. She could not remember when she had seen the children idle away

an hour of daylight in this manner, and the thought of such luxury quite

appalled her. By way of compensation she now flew about the room in

extreme haste. Tossing a block of peat upon the fire, blowing invisible

fire from the table, and handing the finished hose to Hans, all in an

instant...

“Comes, Hans,” she said as her boy lingered by the door. “What keeps

thee?”

Hans kissed his mother’s plump cheek, rosy and fresh yet, in spite of

all her troubles.

“My mother is the best in the world, and I would be right glad to have

a pair of skates, but”--and as he buttoned his jacket he looked, in a

troubled way, toward a strange figure crouching by the hearthstone--“if

my money would bring a meester *{Doctor (dokter in Dutch), called

meester by the lower class.} from Amsterdam to see the father, something

might yet be done.”

“A meester would not come, Hans, for twice that money, and it would do

no good if he did. Ah, how many guilders I once spent for that, but the

dear, good father would not waken. It is God’s will. Go, Hans, and buy

the skates.”

Hans started with a heavy heart, but since the heart was young and in a

boy’s bosom, it set him whistling in less than five minutes. His mother

had said “thee” to him, and that was quite enough to make even a

dark day sunny. Hollanders do not address each other, in affectionate

intercourse, as the French and Germans do. But Dame Brinker had

embroidered for a Heidelberg family in her girlhood, and she had carried

its thee and thou into her rude home, to be used in moments of extreme

love and tenderness.

Therefore, “What keeps thee, Hans?” sang an echo song beneath the boy’s

whistling and made him feel that his errand was blest.

Hans Has His Way

Broek, with its quiet, spotless streets, its frozen rivulets, its yellow

brick pavements and bright wooden houses, was nearby. It was a village

where neatness and show were in full blossom, but the inhabitants seemed

to be either asleep or dead.

Not a footprint marred the sanded paths where pebbles and seashells lay

in fanciful designs. Every window shutter was tightly closed as though

air and sunshine were poison, and the massive front doors were never

opened except on the occasion of a wedding, a christening, or a funeral.

Serene clouds of tobacco smoke were floating through hidden corners, and

children, who otherwise might have awakened the place, were studying

in out-of-the-way corners or skating upon the neighboring canal. A few

peacocks and wolves stood in the gardens, but they had never enjoyed

the luxury of flesh and blood. They were made out of boxwood hedges and

seemed to be guarding the grounds with a sort of green ferocity. Certain

lively automata, ducks, women, and sportsmen, were stowed away in summer

houses, waiting for the spring-time when they could be wound up and

rival their owners in animation; and the shining tiled roofs, mosaic

courtyards, and polished house trimmings flashed up a silent homage to

the sky, where never a speck of dust could dwell.

Hans glanced toward the village, as he shook his silver kwartjes and

wondered whether it were really true, as he had often heard, that some

of the people of Broek were so rich that they used kitchen utensils of

solid gold.

He had seen Mevrouw van Stoop’s sweet cheeses in market, and he knew

that the lofty dame earned many a bright silver guilder in selling them.

But did she set the cream to rise in golden pans? Did she use a golden

skimmer? When her cows were in winter quarters, were their tails really

tied up with ribbons?

These thoughts ran through his mind as he turned his face toward

Amsterdam, not five miles away, on the other side of the frozen Y.

*{Pronounced eye, an arm of the Zuider Zee.} The ice upon the canal was

perfect, but his wooden runners, so soon to be cast aside, squeaked a

dismal farewell as he scraped and skimmed along.

When crossing the Y, whom should he see skating toward him but the great

Dr. Boekman, the most famous physician and surgeon in Holland. Hans had

never met him before, but he had seen his engraved likeness in many

of the shop windows in Amsterdam. It was a face that one could never

forget. Thin and lank, though a born Dutchman, with stern blue eyes,

and queer compressed lips that seemed to say “No smiling permitted,” he

certainly was not a very jolly or sociable-looking personage, nor one

that a well-trained boy would care to accost unbidden.

But Hans WAS bidden, and that, too, by a voice he seldom

disregarded--his own conscience.

“Here comes the greatest doctor in the world,” whispered the voice. “God

has sent him. You have no right to buy skates when you might, with the

same money, purchase such aid for your father!”

The wooden runners gave an exultant squeak. Hundreds of beautiful skates

were gleaming and vanishing in the air above him. He felt the money

tingle in his fingers. The old doctor looked fearfully grim and

forbidding. Hans’s heart was in his throat, but he found voice enough to

cry out, just as he was passing, “Mynheer Boekman!”

The great man halted and, sticking out his thin underlip, looked

scowling about him.

Hans was in for it now.

“Mynheer,” he panted, drawing close to the fierce-looking doctor, “I

knew you could be none other than the famous Boekman. I have to ask a

great favor--”

“Hump!” muttered the doctor, preparing to skate past the intruder. “Get

out of the way. I’ve no money--never give to beggars.”

“I am no beggar, mynheer,” retorted Hans proudly, at the same time

producing his mite of silver with a grand air. “I wish to consult you

about my father. He is a living man but sits like one dead. He cannot

think. His words mean nothing, but he is not sick. He fell on the

dikes.”

“Hey? What?” cried the doctor, beginning to listen.

Hans told the whole story in an incoherent way, dashing off a tear once

or twice as he talked, and finally ending with an earnest “Oh, do see

him, mynheer. His body is well--it is only his mind. I know that this

money is not enough, but take it, mynheer. I will earn more, I know

I will. Oh! I will toil for you all my life, if you will but cure my

father!”

What was the matter with the old doctor? A brightness like sunlight

beamed from his face. His eyes were kind and moist; the hand that had

lately clutched his cane, as if preparing to strike, was laid gently

upon Hans’s shoulder.

“Put up your money, boy, I do not want it. We will see your father. It’s

hopeless, I fear. How long did you say?”

“Ten years, mynheer,” sobbed Hans, radiant with sudden hope.

“Ah! a bad case, but I shall see him. Let me think. Today I start for

Leyden, to return in a week, then you may expect me. Where is it?”

“A mile south of Broek, mynheer, near the canal. It is only a poor,

broken-down hut. Any of the children thereabout can point it out to your

honor,” added Hans with a heavy sigh. “They are all half afraid of the

place; they call it the idiot’s cottage.”

“That will do,” said the doctor, hurrying on with a bright backward nod

at Hans. “I shall be there. A hopeless case,” he muttered to himself,

“but the boy pleases me. His eye is like my poor Laurens’s. Confound it,

shall I never forget that young scoundrel!” And, scowling more darkly

than ever, the doctor pursued his silent way.

Again Hans was skating toward Amsterdam on the squeaking wooden runners;

again his fingers tingled against the money in his pocket; again the

boyish whistle rose unconsciously to his lips.

Shall I hurry home, he was thinking, to tell the good news, or shall I

get the waffles and the new skates first? Whew! I think I’ll go on!

And so Hans bought the skates.

Introducing Jacob Poot and His Cousin

Hans and Gretel had a fine frolic early on that Saint Nicholas’s Eve.

There was a bright moon, and their mother, though she believed herself

to be without any hope of her husband’s improvement, had been made so

happy at the prospect of the meester’s visit, that she yielded to the

children’s entreaties for an hour’s skating before bedtime.

Hans was delighted with his new skates and, in his eagerness to show

Gretel how perfectly they “worked,” did many things upon the ice that

caused the little maid to clasp her hands in solemn admiration. They

were not alone, though they seemed quite unheeded by the various groups

assembled upon the canal.

The two Van Holps and Carl Schummel were there, testing their fleetness

to the utmost. Out of four trials Peter van Holp had won three times.

Consequently Carl, never very amiable, was in anything but a good humor.

He had relieved himself by taunting young Schimmelpenninck, who, being

smaller than the others, kept meekly near them without feeling exactly

like one of the party, but now a new thought seized Carl, or rather he

seized the new thought and made an onset upon his friends.

“I say, boys, let’s put a stop to those young ragpickers from the

idiot’s cottage joining the race. Hilda must be crazy to think of it.

Katrinka Flack and Rychie Korbes are furious at the very idea of racing

with the girl; and for my part, I don’t blame them. As for the boy, if

we’ve a spark of manhood in us, we will scorn the very idea of--”

“Certainly we will!” interposed Peter van Holp, purposely mistaking

Carl’s meaning. “Who doubts it? No fellow with a spark of manhood in him

would refuse to let in two good skaters just because they were poor!”

Carl wheeled about savagely. “Not so fast, master! And I’d thank you

not to put words in other people’s mouths. You’d best not try it again.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed little Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck, delighted at

the prospect of a fight, and sure that, if it should come to blows, his

favorite Peter could beat a dozen excitable fellows like Carl.

Something in Peter’s eye made Carl glad to turn to a weaker offender. He

wheeled furiously upon Voost.

“What are you shrieking about, you little weasel? You skinny herring

you, you little monkey with a long name for a tail!”

Half a dozen bystanders and byskaters set up an applauding shout at this

brave witticism; and Carl, feeling that he had fairly vanquished

his foes, was restored to partial good humor. He, however, prudently

resolved to defer plotting against Hans and Gretel until some time when

Peter should not be present.

Just then, his friend, Jacob Poot, was seen approaching. They could not

distinguish his features at first, but as he was the stoutest boy in the

neighborhood, there could be no mistaking his form.

“Hello! Here comes Fatty!” exclaimed Carl. “And there’s someone with

him, a slender fellow, a stranger.”

“Ha! ha! That’s like good bacon,” cried Ludwig. “A streak of lean and a

streak of fat.”

“That’s Jacob’s English cousin,” put in Master Voost, delighted at being

able to give the information. “That’s his English cousin, and, oh, he’s

got such a funny little name--Ben Dobbs. He’s going to stay with him

until after the grand race.”

All this time the boys had been spinning, turning, rolling, and doing

other feats upon their skates, in a quiet way, as they talked, but now

they stood still, bracing themselves against the frosty air as Jacob

Poot and his friend drew near.

“This is my cousin, boys,” said Jacob, rather out of breath. “Benjamin

Dobbs. He’s a John Bull and he’s going to be in the race.”

All crowded, boy-fashion, about the newcomers. Benjamin soon made up his

mind that the Hollanders, notwithstanding their queer gibberish, were a

fine set of fellows.

If the truth must be told, Jacob had announced his cousin as Penchamin

Dopps, and called his a Shon Pull, but as I translate every word of the

conversation of our young friends, it is no more than fair to mend their

little attempts at English. Master Dobbs felt at first decidedly awkward

among his cousin’s friends. Though most of them had studied English and

French, they were shy about attempting to speak either, and he made very

funny blunders when he tried to converse in Dutch. He had learned that

vrouw meant wife; and ja, yes; and spoorweg, railway; kanaals, canals;

stoomboot, steamboat; ophaalbruggen, drawbridges; buiten plasten,

country seats; mynheer, mister; tweegevegt, duel or “two fights”; koper,

copper; zadel, saddle; but he could not make a sentence out of

these, nor use the long list of phrases he had learned in his “Dutch

dialogues.” The topics of the latter were fine, but were never alluded

to by the boys. Like the poor fellow who had learned in Ollendorf to ask

in faultless German, “Have you seen my grandmother’s red cow?” and, when

he reached Germany, discovered that he had no occasion to inquire after

that interesting animal, Ben found that his book-Dutch did not avail him

as much as he had hoped. He acquired a hearty contempt for Jan van Gorp,

a Hollander who wrote a book in Latin to prove that Adam and Eve spoke

Dutch, and he smiled a knowing smile when his uncle Poot assured him

that Dutch “had great likeness mit Zinglish but it vash much petter

languish, much petter.”

However, the fun of skating glides over all barriers of speech. Through

this, Ben soon felt that he knew the boys well, and when Jacob (with

a sprinkling of French and English for Ben’s benefit) told of a grand

project they had planned, his cousin could now and then put in a ja, or

a nod, in quite a familiar way.

The project WAS a grand one, and there was to be a fine opportunity for

carrying it out; for, besides the allotted holiday of the Festival

of Saint Nicholas, four extra days were to be allowed for a general

cleaning of the schoolhouse.

Jacob and Ben had obtained permission to go on a long skating

journey--no less a one than from Broek to The Hague, the capital of

Holland, a distance of nearly fifty miles! *{Throughout this narrative

distances are given according to our standard, the English statute mile

of 5,280 feet. The Dutch mile is more than four times as long as ours.}

“And now, boys,” added Jacob, when he had told the plan, “who will go

with us?”

“I will! I will!” cried the boys eagerly.

“And so will I,” ventured little Voostenwalbert.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Jacob, holding his fat sides and shaking his puffy

cheeks. “YOU go? Such a little fellow as you? Why, youngster, you

haven’t left off your pads yet!”

Now, in Holland very young children wear a thin, padded cushion around

their heads, surmounted with a framework of whalebone and ribbon, to

protect them in case of a fall; and it is the dividing line between

babyhood and childhood when they leave it off. Voost had arrived at this

dignity several years before; consequently Jacob’s insult was rather to

great for endurance.

“Look out what you say!” he squeaked. “Lucky for you when you can leave

off YOUR pads--you’re padded all over!”

“Ha! ha!” roared all the boys except Master Dobbs, who could not

understand. “Ha! ha!”--and the good-natured Jacob laughed more than any.

“It ish my fat--yaw--he say I bees pad mit fat!” he explained to Ben.

So a vote was passed unanimously in favor of allowing the now popular

Voost to join the party, if his parents would consent.

“Good night!” sang out the happy youngster, skating homeward with all

his might.

“Good night!”

“We can stop at Haarlem, Jacob, and show your cousin the big organ,”

said Peter van Holp eagerly, “and at Leyden, too, where there’s no end

to the sights; and spend a day and night at the Hague, for my married

sister, who lives there, will be delighted to see us; and the next

morning we can start for home.”

“All right!” responded Jacob, who was not much of a talker.

Ludwig had been regarding his brother with enthusiastic admiration.

“Hurrah for you, Pete! It takes you to make plans! Mother’ll be as full

of it as we are when we tell her we can take her love direct to sister

Van Gend. My, but it’s cold,” he added. “Cold enough to take a fellow’s

head off his shoulders. We’d better go home.”

“What if it is cold, old Tender-skin?” cried Carl, who was busily

practicing a step he called the “double edge.” “Great skating we should

have by this time, if it was as warm as it was last December. Don’t you

know that if it wasn’t an extra cold winter, and an early one into the

bargain, we couldn’t go?”

“I know it’s an extra cold night anyhow,” said Ludwig. “Whew! I’m going

home!”

Peter van Holp took out a bulgy gold watch and, holding it toward the

moonlight as well as his benumbed fingers would permit, called out,

“Halloo! It’s nearly eight o’clock! Saint Nicholas is about by this

time, and I, for one, want to see the little ones stare. Good night!”

“Good night!” cried one and all, and off they started, shouting,

singing, and laughing as they flew along.

Where were Gretel and Hans?

Ah, how suddenly joy sometimes comes to an end!

They had skated about an hour, keeping aloof from the others, quite

contented with each other, and Gretel had exclaimed, “Ah, Hans, how

beautiful! How fine! To think that we both have skates! I tell you, the

stork brought us good luck!”--when they heard something!

It was a scream--a very faint scream! No one else upon the canal

observed it, but Hans knew its meaning too well. Gretel saw him turn

white in the moonlight as he busily tore off his skates.

“The father!” he cried. “He has frightened our mother!” And Gretel ran

after him toward the house as rapidly as she could.

The Festival of Saint Nicholas

We all know how, before the Christmas tree began to flourish in the home

life of our country, a certain “right jolly old elf,” with “eight tiny

reindeer,” used to drive his sleigh-load of toys up to our housetops,

and then bounded down the chimney to fill the stockings so hopefully

hung by the fireplace. His friends called his Santa Claus, and those

who were most intimate ventured to say “Old Nick.” It was said that

he originally came from Holland. Doubtless he did, but, if so, he

certainly, like many other foreigners, changed his ways very much after

landing upon our shores. In Holland, Saint Nicholas is a veritable

saint and often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes,

glittering with gems and gold, his miter, his crosier, and his jeweled

gloves. Here Santa Claus comes rollicking along, on the twenty-fifth of

December, our holy Christmas morn. But in Holland, Saint Nicholas visits

earth on the fifth, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the

morning of the sixth, he distributes his candies, toys, and treasures,

then vanishes for a year.

Christmas Day is devoted by the Hollanders to church rites and pleasant

family visiting. It is on Saint Nicholas’s Eve that their young people

become half wild with joy and expectation. To some of them it is a sorry

time, for the saint is very candid, and if any of them have been bad

during the past year, he is quite sure to tell them so. Sometimes he

gives a birch rod under his arm and advises the parents to give them

scoldings in place of confections, and floggings instead of toys.

It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright

winter evening, for in less than an hour afterward, the saint made his

appearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the king’s palace

and in the selfsame moment appeared in Annie Bouman’s comfortable home.

Probably one of our silver half-dollars would have purchased all that

his saintship left at the peasant Bouman’s; but a half-dollar’s worth

will sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to

do for the rich; it makes them happy and grateful, fills them with new

peace and love.

Hilda van Gleck’s little brothers and sisters were in a high state of

excitement that night. They had been admitted into the grand parlor;

they were dressed in their best and had been given two cakes apiece at

supper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? Saint Nicholas would never

cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was tall and

looked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he would probably exert

himself to do honor to such an august-looking damsel. Who could tell? So

she sported and laughed and danced as gaily as the youngest and was

the soul of all their merry games. Her father, mother, and grandmother

looked on approvingly; so did her grandfather, before he spread his

large red handkerchief over his face, leaving only the top of his

skullcap visible. This kerchief was his ensign of sleep.

Earlier in the evening all had joined in the fun. In the general

hilarity there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between

grandfather and the baby. Indeed, a shade of solemn expectation, now

and then flitting across the faces of the younger members, had made them

seem rather more thoughtful than their elders.

Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced and

capered in the polished grate. A pair of prim candles that had been

staring at the astral lamp began to wink at other candles far away in

the mirrors. There was a long bell rope suspended from the ceiling in

the corner, made of glass beads netted over a cord nearly as thick as

your wrist. It is generally hung in the shadow and made no sign, but

tonight it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of crimson glass sent

reckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning its dainty blue

stripes into purple. Passersby halted to catch the merry laughter

floating, through curtain and sash, into the street, then skipped on

their way with a startled consciousness that the village was wide-awake.

At last matters grew so uproarious that the grandsire’s red kerchief

came down from his face with a jerk. What decent old gentleman could

sleep in such a racket! Mynheer van Gleck regarded his children with

astonishment. The baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high

time to attend to business. Madame suggested that if they wished to see

the good Saint Nicholas, they should sing the same loving invitation

that had brought him the year before.

The baby stared and thrust his fist into his mouth as mynheer put him

down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect and looked with a sweet scowl at

the company. With his lace and embroideries and his crown of blue ribbon

and whalebone (for he was not quite past the tumbling age), he looked

like the king of the babies.

The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed a ring

at once, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting their eyes,

for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves was yet in

mysterious quarters.

Madame commenced playing softly upon the piano. Soon the voices

rose--gentle, youthful voices--rendered all the sweeter for their

tremor:

“Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome!

Bring no rod for us tonight!

While our voices bid thee welcome,

Every heart with joy is light!

Tell us every fault and failing,

We will bear thy keenest railing,

So we sing--so we sing--

Thou shalt tell us everything!

Welcome, friend! Saint Nicholas, welcome!

Welcome to this merry band!

Happy children greet thee, welcome!

Thou art glad’ning all the land!

Fill each empty hand and basket,

‘Tis thy little ones who ask it,

So we sing--so we sing--

Thou wilt bring us everything!”

During the chorus sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in dread, had

been cast toward the polished folding doors. Now a loud knocking was

heard. The circle was broken in an instant. Some of the little ones,

with a strange mixture of fear and delight, pressed against their

mother’s knee. Grandfather bent forward with his chin resting upon his

hand; Grandmother lifted her spectacles; Mynheer van Gleck, seated by

the fireplace, slowly drew his meerschaum from his mouth while Hilda and

the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant group.

The knocking was heard again.

“Come in,” said madame softly.

The door slowly opened, and Saint Nicholas, in full array, stood before

them.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Soon he spoke. What a mysterious majesty in his voice! What kindliness

in his tones!

“Karel van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honored vrouw

Kathrine, and thy son and his good vrouw Annie!

“Children, I greet ye all! Hendrick, Hilda, Broom, Katy, Huygens,

and Lucretia! And thy cousins, Wolfert, Diedrich, Mayken, Voost, and

Katrina! Good children ye have been, in the main, since I last accosted

ye. Diedrich was rude at the Haarlem fair last fall, but he has tried

to atone for it since. Mayken has failed of late in her lessons, and too

many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and too few stivers to

her charity box. Diedrich, I trust, will be a polite, manly boy for

the future, and Mayken will endeavor to shine as a student. Let her

remember, too, that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of

a worthy and generous life. Little Katy has been cruel to the cat more

than once. Saint Nicholas can hear the cat cry when its tail is pulled.

I will forgive her if she will remember from this hour that the smallest

dumb creatures have feelings and must not be abused.”

As Katy burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously remained

silent until she was soothed.

“Master Broom,” he resumed, “I warn thee that the boys who are in the

habit of putting snuff upon the foot stove of the schoolmistress may one

day be discovered and receive a flogging--”

Master Broom colored and stared in great astonishment.

“But thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no further

reproof.”

“Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match last

spring, and hit the Doel *{Bull’s-eye.} though the bird was swung before

it to unsteady thine eye. I give thee credit for excelling in manly

sport and exercise, though I must not unduly countenance thy boat

racing, since it leaves thee little time for thy proper studies.

“Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep tonight. The

consciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and

cheerful, hearty obedience to household rule will render them happy.

“With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, industry,

benevolence, and thrift have prevailed in your midst. Therefore, my

blessing upon you--and may the new year find all treading the paths of

obedience, wisdom, and love. Tomorrow you shall find more substantial

proofs that I have been in your midst. Farewell!”

With these words came a great shower of sugarplums, upon a linen sheet

spread out in front of the doors. A general scramble followed. The

children fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their

baskets. Madame cautiously held the baby down in their midst, till the

chubby little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters

sprang up and burst open the closed doors. In vain they peered into the

mysterious apartment. Saint Nicholas was nowhere to be seen.

Soon there was a general rush to another room, where stood a table,

covered with the finest and whitest of linen damask. Each child, in a

flutter of excitement, laid a shoe upon it. The door was then carefully

locked, and its key hidden in the mother’s bedroom. Next followed

goodnight kisses, a grand family procession to the upper floor, merry

farewells at bedroom doors, and silence, at last, reigned in the Van

Gleck mansion.

Early the next morning the door was solemnly unlocked and opened in the

presence of the assembled household, when lo! a sight appeared, proving

Saint Nicholas to be a saint of his word!

Every shoe was filled to overflowing, and beside each stood many a

colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of presents--candies,

toys, trinkets, books, and other articles. Everyone had gifts, from the

grandfather down to the baby.

Little Katy clapped her hands with glee and vowed inwardly that the cat

should never know another moment’s grief.

Hendrick capered about the room, flourishing a superb bow and arrows

over his head. Hilda laughed with delight as she opened a crimson box

and drew forth its glittering contents. The rest chuckled and said “Oh!”

and “Ah!” over their treasures, very much as we did here in America on

last Christmas Day.

With her glittering necklace in her hands, and a pile of books in her

arms, Hilda stole towards her parents and held up her beaming face for a

kiss. There was such an earnest, tender look in her bright eyes that her

mother breathed a blessing as she leaned over her.

“I am delighted with this book. Thank you, Father,” she said, touching

the top one with her chin. “I shall read it all day long.”

“Aye, sweetheart,” said mynheer, “you cannot do better. There is no one

like Father Cats. If my daughter learns his ‘Moral Emblems’ by heart,

the mother and I may keep silent. The work you have there is the

Emblems--his best work. You will find it enriched with rare engravings

from Van de Venne.”

Considering that the back of the book was turned away, mynheer certainly

showed a surprising familiarity with an unopened volume, presented by

Saint Nicholas. It was strange, too, that the saint should have found

certain things made by the elder children and had actually placed them

upon the table, labeled with parents’ and grandparents’ names. But all

were too much absorbed in happiness to notice slight inconsistencies.

Hilda saw, on her father’s face, the rapt expression he always wore when

he spoke of Jakob Cats, so he put her armful of books upon the table and

resigned herself to listen.

“Old Father Cats, my child, was a great poet, not a writer of plays like

the Englishman, Shakespeare, who lived in his time. I have read them in

the German and very good they are--very, very good--but not like Father

Cats. Cats sees no daggers in the air; he has no white women falling in

love with dusky Moors; no young fools sighing to be a lady’s glove; no

crazy princes mistaking respectable old gentlemen for rats. No, no. He

writes only sense. It is great wisdom in little bundles, a bundle for

every day of your life. You can guide a state with Cats’s poems, and you

can put a little baby to sleep with his pretty songs. He was one of the

greatest men of Holland. When I take you to The Hague, I will show you

the Kloosterkerk where he lies buried. THERE was a man for you to study,

my sons! He was good through and through. What did he say?

“O Lord, let me obtain this from Thee

To live with patience, and to die with pleasure!

*{O Heere! laat my daat van uwen hand verwerven,

Te leven met gedult, en met vermaak te sterven.}

“Did patience mean folding his hands? No, he was a lawyer, statesman,

ambassador, farmer, philosopher, historian, and poet. He was keeper of

the Great Seal of Holland! He was a--Bah! there is too much noise here,

I cannot talk.” And mynheer, looking with great astonishment into the

bowl of his meerschaum, for it had gone out, nodded to his vrouw and

left the apartment in great haste.

The fact is, his discourse had been accompanied throughout with a

subdued chorus of barking dogs, squeaking cats, and bleating lambs, to

say nothing of a noisy ivory cricket that the baby was whirling with

infinite delight. At the last, little Huygens, taking advantage of the

increasing loudness of mynheer’s tones, had ventured a blast on his new

trumpet, and Wolfert had hastily attempted an accompaniment on the drum.

This had brought matters to a crisis, and it was good for the little

creatures that it had. The saint had left no ticket for them to attend

a lecture on Jakob Cats. It was not an appointed part of the ceremonies.

Therefore when the youngsters saw that the mother looked neither

frightened nor offended, they gathered new courage. The grand chorus

rose triumphant, and frolic and joy reigned supreme.

Good Saint Nicholas! For the sake of the young Hollanders, I, for

one, am willing to acknowledge him and defend his reality against all

unbelievers.

Carl Schummel was quite busy during that day, assuring little children,

confidentially, that not Saint Nicholas but their own fathers and

mothers had produced the oracle and loaded the tables. But WE know

better than that.

And yet if this were a saint, why did he not visit the Brinker cottage

that night? Why was that one home, so dark and sorrowful, passed by?

What the Boys Saw and Did in Amsterdam

“Are we all here?” cried Peter, in high glee, as the party assembled

upon the canal early the next morning, equipped for their skating

journey. “Let me see. As Jacob has made me captain, I must call the

roll. Carl Schummel, you here?”

“Ya!”

“Jacob Poot!”

“Ya!”

“Benjamin Dobbs!”

“Ya-a!”

“Lambert van Mounen!”

“Ya!”

“That’s lucky! Couldn’t get on without YOU, as you’re the only one who

can speak English. Ludwig van Holp!”

“Ya!”

“Voostenwalbert Schimmelpenninck!”

No answer.

“Ah, the little rogue has been kept at home! Now, boys, it’s just eight

o’clock--glorious weather, and the Y is as firm as a rock. We’ll be at

Amsterdam in thirty minutes. One, two, three START!”

True enough, in less than half an hour they had crossed a dike of

solid masonry and were in the very heart of the great metropolis of the

Netherlands--a walled city of ninety-five islands and nearly two hundred

bridges. Although Ben had been there twice since his arrival in Holland,

he saw much to excite wonder, but his Dutch comrades, having lived

nearby all their lives, considered it the most matter-of-course place in

the world. Everything interested Ben: the tall houses with their forked

chimneys and gable ends facing the street; the merchants’ ware rooms,

perched high up under the roofs of their dwellings, with long, armlike

cranes hoisting and lowering goods past the household windows; the grand

public buildings erected upon wooden piles driven deep into the marshy

ground; the narrow streets; the canals crossing the city everywhere; the

bridges; the locks; the various costumes; and, strangest of all, shops

and dwellings crouching close to the fronts of the churches, sending

their long, disproportionate chimneys far upward along the sacred walls.

If he looked up, he saw tall, leaning houses, seeming to pierce the sky

with their shining roofs. If he looked down, there was the queer street,

without crossing or curb--nothing to separate the cobblestone pavement

from the footpath of brick--and if he rested his eyes halfway, he saw

complicated little mirrors (spionnen) fastened upon the outside of

nearly every window, so arranged that the inmates of the houses could

observe all that was going on in the street or inspect whoever might be

knocking at the door, without being seen themselves.

Sometimes a dogcart, heaped with wooden ware, passed him; then a donkey

bearing a pair of panniers filled with crockery or glass; then a sled

driven over the bare cobblestones (the runners kept greased with a

dripping oil rag so that it might run easily); and then, perhaps, a

showy but clumsy family carriage, drawn by the brownest of Flanders

horses, swinging the whitest of snowy tails.

The city was in full festival array. Every shop was gorgeous in honor of

Saint Nicholas. Captain Peter was forced, more than once, to order his

men away from the tempting show windows, where everything that is, has

been, or can be, thought of in the way of toys was displayed. Holland is

famous for this branch of manufacture. Every possible thing is copied in

miniature for the benefit of the little ones; the intricate mechanical

toys that a Dutch youngster tumbles about in stolid unconcern would

create a stir in our patent office. Ben laughed outright at some of the

mimic fishing boats. They were so heavy and stumpy, so like the queer

craft that he had seen about Rotterdam. The tiny trekschuiten, however,

only a foot or two long, and fitted out, complete, made his heart ache.

He so longed to buy one at once for his little brother in England.

He had no money to spare, for with true Dutch prudence, the party had

agreed to take with them merely the sum required for each boy’s expenses

and to consign the purse to Peter for safekeeping. Consequently Master

Ben concluded to devote all his energies to sight-seeing and to think as

seldom as possible of little Robby.

He made a hasty call at the Marine school and envied the sailor students

their full-rigged brig and their sleeping berths swung over their trunks

or lockers; he peeped into the Jews’ Quarter of the city, where the rich

diamond cutters and squalid old-clothesmen dwell, and wisely resolved to

keep away from it; he also enjoyed hasty glimpses of the four principal

avenues of Amsterdam--the Prinsengracht, Keizersgracht, Herengracht, and

Singel. These are semicircular in form, and the first three average more

than two miles in length. A canal runs through the center of each, with

a well-paved road on either side, lined with stately buildings. Rows

of naked elms, bordering the canal, cast a network of shadows over its

frozen surface, and everything was so clean and bright that Ben told

Lambert it seemed to him like petrified neatness.

Fortunately the weather was cold enough to put a stop to the usual

street flooding and window-washing, or our young excursionists might

have been drenched more than once. Sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing form

a passion with Dutch housewives, and to soil their spotless mansions is

considered scarcely less than a crime. Everywhere a hearty contempt is

felt for those who neglect to rub the soles of their shoes to a polish

before crossing the doorsill; and in certain places visitors are

expected to remove their heavy shoes before entering.

Sir William Temple, in his memoirs of “What Passed in Christendom from

1672 to 1679,” tells a story of a pompous magistrate going to visit a

lady of Amsterdam. A stout Holland lass opened the door, and told him

in a breath that the lady was at home and that his shoes were not very

clean. Without another word she took the astonished man up by both arms,

threw him across her back, carried him through two rooms, set him down

at the bottom of the stairs, seized a pair of slippers that stood there,

and put them upon his feet. Then, and not until then, she spoke, telling

him that his mistress was on the floor above, and that he might go up.

While Ben was skating with his friends upon the crowded canals of the

city, he found it difficult to believe that the sleepy Dutchmen he saw

around him, smoking their pipes so leisurely and looking as though

their hats might be knocked off their heads without their making any

resistance, were capable of those outbreaks that had taken place in

Holland--that they were really fellow countrymen of the brave, devoted

heroes of whom he had read in Dutch history.

As his party skimmed lightly along he told Van Mounen of a burial

riot which in 1696 had occurred in that very city, where the women

and children turned out, as well as the men, and formed mock funeral

processions through the town, to show the burgomasters that certain

new regulations, with regard to burying the dead would not be acceded

to--how at last they grew so unmanageable and threatened so much damage

to the city that the burgomasters were glad to recall the offensive law.

“There’s the corner,” said Jacob, pointing to some large buildings,

where, about fifteen years ago, the great corn houses sank down in the

mud. They were strong affairs and set up on good piles, but they had

over seven million pounds of corn in them, and that was too much.”

It was a long story for Jacob to tell, and he stopped to rest.

“How do you know there were seven million pounds in them?” asked Carl

sharply. “You were in your swaddling clothes then.”

“My father knows all about it” was Jacob’s suggestive reply. Rousing

himself with an effort, he continued, “Ben likes pictures. Show him

some.”

“All right,” said the captain.

“If we had time, Benjamin,” said Lambert van Mounen in English, “I

should like to take you to the City Hall, or Stadhuis. There are

building piles for you! It is built on nearly fourteen thousand of them,

driven seventy feet into the ground. But what I wish you to see there is

the big picture of Van Speyk blowing up his ship--great picture.”

“Van WHO?” asked Ben.

“Van Speyk. Don’t you remember? He was in the height of an engagement

with the Belgians, and when he found that they had the better of him

and would capture his ship, he blew it up, and himself, too, rather than

yield to the enemy.”

“Wasn’t that Van Tromp?”

“Oh, no. Van Tromp was another brave fellow. They’ve a monument to

him down at Delftshaven--the place where the Pilgrims took ship for

America.”

“Well, what about Van Tromp? He was a great Dutch admiral, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was in more than thirty sea fights. He beat the Spanish fleet

and an English one, and then fastened a broom to his masthead to show

that he had swept the English from the sea. Takes the Dutch to beat, my

boy!”

“Hold up!” cried Ben. “Broom or no broom, the English conquered him at

last. I remember all about it now. He was killed somewhere on the Dutch

coast in an engagement in which the English fleet was victorious. Too

bad,” he added maliciously, “wasn’t it?”

“Ahem! Where are we?” exclaimed Lambert, changing the subject. “Halloo!

The others are way ahead of us--all but Jacob. Whew! How fat he is!

He’ll break down before we’re halfway.”

Ben, of course, enjoyed skating beside Lambert, who, though a staunch

Hollander, had been educated near London and could speak English as

fluently as Dutch, but he was not sorry when Captain van Holp called

out, “Skates off! There’s the museum!”

It was open, and there was no charge on that day for admission. In they

went, shuffling, as boys will when they have a chance, just to hear the

sound of their shoes on the polished floor.

This museum is in fact a picture gallery where some of the finest

works of the Dutch masters are to be seen, besides nearly two hundred

portfolios of rare engravings.

Ben noticed, at once, that some of the pictures were hung on panels

fastened to the wall with hinges. These could be swung forward like a

window shutter, thus enabling the subject to be seen in the best light.

The plan served them well in viewing a small group by Gerard Douw,

called the “Evening School,” enabling them to observe its exquisite

finish and the wonderful way in which the picture seemed to be lit

through its own windows. Peter pointed out the beauties of another

picture by Douw, called “The Hermit,” and he also told them some

interesting anecdotes of the artist, who was born at Leyden in 1613.

“Three days painting a broom handle!” echoed Carl in astonishment, while

the captain was giving some instances of Douw’s extreme slowness of

execution.

“Yes, sir, three days. And it is said that he spent five in finishing

one hand in a lady’s portrait. You see how very bright and minute

everything is in this picture. His unfinished works were kept carefully

covered and his painting materials were put away in airtight boxes

as soon as he had finished using them for the day. According to all

accounts, the studio itself must have been as close as a bandbox. The

artist always entered it on tiptoe, besides sitting still, before

he commenced work, until the slight dust caused by his entrance had

settled. I have read somewhere that his paintings are improved by being

viewed through a magnifying glass. He strained his eyes so badly with

the extra finishing, that he was forced to wear spectacles before he was

thirty. At forty he could scarcely see to paint, and he couldn’t find a

pair of glasses anywhere that would help his sight. At last, a poor old

German woman asked him to try hers. They suited him exactly, and enabled

him to go on painting as well as ever.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Ludwig indignantly. “That was high! What did SHE do

without them, I wonder?”

“Oh,” said Peter, laughing, “likely she had another pair. At any rate

she insisted upon his taking them. He was so grateful that he painted

a picture of the spectacles for her, case and all, and she sold it to

a burgomaster for a yearly allowance that made her comfortable for the

rest of her days.”

“Boys!” called Lambert in a loud whisper, “come look at this ‘Bear

Hunt.’”

It was a fine painting by Paul Potter, a Dutch artist of the seventeenth

century, who produced excellent works before he was sixteen years

old. The boys admired it because the subject pleased them. They passed

carelessly by the masterpieces of Rembrandt and Van der Helst, and went

into raptures over an ugly picture by Van der Venne, representing a sea

fight between the Dutch and English. They also stood spellbound before

a painting of two little urchins, one of whom was taking soup and the

other eating an egg. The principal merit in this work was that the

young egg-eater had kindly slobbered his face with the yolk for their

entertainment.

An excellent representation of the “Feast of Saint Nicholas” next had

the honor of attracting them.

“Look, Van Mounen,” said Ben to Lambert. “Could anything be better than

this youngster’s face? He looks as if he KNOWS he deserves a whipping,

but hopes Saint Nicholas may not have found him out. That’s the kind of

painting I like; something that tells a story.”

“Come, boys!” cried the captain. “Ten o’clock, time we were off!”

They hastened to the canal.

“Skates on! Are you ready? One, two--halloo! Where’s Poot?”

Sure enough, where WAS Poot?

A square opening had just been cut in the ice not ten yards off. Peter

observed it and, without a word, skated rapidly toward it.

All the others followed, of course.

Peter looked in. They all looked in; then stared anxiously at each

other.

“Poot!” screamed Peter, peering into the hole again. All was still. The

black water gave no sign; it was already glazing on top.

Van Mounen turned mysteriously to Ben. “DIDN’T HE HAVE A FIT ONCE?”

“My goodness! yes!” answered Ben in a great fright.

“Then, depend upon it, he’s been taken with one in the museum!”

The boys caught his meaning. Every skate was off in a twinkling. Peter

had the presence of mind to scoop up a capful of water from the hole,

and off they scampered to the rescue.

Alas! They did indeed find poor Jacob in a fit, but it was a fit of

sleepiness. There he lay in a recess of the gallery, snoring like a

trooper! The chorus of laughter that followed this discovery brought an

angry official to the spot.

“What now! None of this racket! Here, you beer barrel, wake up!” And

Master Jacob received a very unceremonious shaking.

As soon as Peter saw that Jacob’s condition was not serious, he hastened

to the street to empty his unfortunate cap. While he was stuffing in his

handkerchief to prevent the already frozen crown from touching his head,

the rest of the boys came down, dragging the bewildered and indignant

Jacob in their midst.

“The order to start was again given. Master Poot was wide-awake at last.

The ice was a little rough and broken just there, but every boy was in

high spirits.

“Shall we go on by the canal or the river?” asked Peter.

“Oh, the river, by all means,” said Carl. “It will be such fun; they say

it is perfect skating all the way, but it’s much farther.”

Jacob Poot instantly became interested.

“I vote for the canal!” he cried.

“Well, the canal it shall be,” responded the captain, “if all are

agreed.”

“Agreed!” they echoed, in rather a disappointed tone, and Captain Peter

led the way.

“All right, come on. We can reach Haarlem in an hour!”

Big Manias and Little Oddities

While skating along at full speed, they heard the cars from Amsterdam

coming close behind them.

“Halloo!” cried Ludwig, glancing toward the rail track, “who can’t beat

a locomotive? Let’s give it a race!”

The whistle screamed at the very idea--so did the boys--and at it they

went.

For an instant the boys were ahead, hurrahing with all their might--only

for an instant, but even THAT was something.

This excitement over, they began to travel more leisurely and indulge in

conversation and frolic. Sometimes they stopped to exchange a word with

the guards who were stationed at certain distances along the canal.

These men, in winter, attend to keeping the surface free from

obstruction and garbage. After a snowstorm they are expected to sweep

the feathery covering away before it hardens into a marble pretty to

look at but very unwelcome to skaters. Now and then the boys so far

forgot their dignity as to clamber among the icebound canal boats

crowded together in a widened harbor off the canal, but the watchful

guards would soon spy them out and order them down with a growl.

Nothing could be straighter than the canal upon which our party were

skating, and nothing straighter than the long rows of willow trees that

stood, bare and wispy, along the bank. On the opposite side, lifted high

above the surrounding country, lay the carriage road on top of the great

dike built to keep the Haarlem Lake within bounds; stretching out far in

the distance, until it became lost in a point, was the glassy canal with

its many skaters, its brown-winged iceboats, its push-chairs, and its

queer little sleds, light as cork, flying over the ice by means of

iron-pronged sticks in the hands of the riders. Ben was in ecstasy with

the scene.

Ludwig van Holp had been thinking how strange it was that the English

boy should know so much of Holland. According to Lambert’s account, he

knew more about it than the Dutch did. This did not quite please our

young Hollander. Suddenly he thought of something that he believed

would make the “Shon Pull” open his eyes; he drew near Lambert with a

triumphant “Tell him about the tulips!”

Ben caught the word tulpen.

“Oh, yes!” said he eagerly, in English, “the Tulip Mania--are you

speaking of that? I have often heard it mentioned but know very little

about it. It reached its height in Amsterdam, didn’t it?”

Ludwig moaned; the words were hard to understand, but there was no

mistaking the enlightened expression on Ben’s face. Lambert, happily,

was quite unconscious of his young countryman’s distress as he replied,

“Yes, here and in Haarlem, principally; but the excitement ran high all

over Holland, and in England too for that matter.”

“Hardly in England, I think,” said Ben, “but I am not sure, as I was

not thereat the time.”

*{Although the Tulip Mania did not prevail in England as in

Holland, the flower soon became an object of speculation and

brought very large prices. In 1636, tulips were publicly

sold on the Exchange of London. Even as late as 1800 a

common price was fifteen guineas for one bulb. Ben did not

know that in his own day a single tulip plant, called the

“Fanny Kemble”, had been sold in London for more than

seventy guineas.

Mr Mackay, in his “Memoirs of Popular Delusions,” tells a

funny story of an English botanist who happened to see a

tulip bulb lying in the conservatory of a wealthy Dutchman.

Ignorant if its value, he took out his penknife and, cutting

the bulb in two, became very much interested in his

investigations. Suddenly the owner appeared and, pouncing

furiously upon him, asked if he knew what he was doing.

“Peeling a most extraordinary onion,” replied the

philosopher. “Hundert tousant tuyvel!” shouted the Dutchman,

“it’s an Admiral Van der Eyk!” “Thank you,” replied the

traveler, immediately writing the name in his notebook.

“Pray, are these very common in your country?” “Death and

the tuyvel!” screamed the Dutchman, “come before the Syndic

and you shall see!” In spite of his struggles the poor

investigator, followed by an indignant mob, was taken

through the streets to a magistrate. Soon he learned to his

dismay that he had destroyed a bulb worth 4,000 florins

($1,600). He was lodged in prison until securities could be

procured for the payment of the sum.}

“Ha! ha! that’s true, unless you are over two hundred years old. Well,

I tell you, sir, there never was anything like it before nor since. Why,

persons were so crazy after tulip bulbs in those days that they paid

their weight in gold for them.”

“What, the weight of a man!” cried Ben, showing such astonishment in his

eyes that Ludwig fairly capered.

“No, no, the weight of a BULB. The first tulip was sent here from

Constantinople about the year 1560. It was so much admired that the rich

people of Amsterdam sent to Turkey for more. From that time they grew to

be the rage, and it lasted for years. Single roots brought from one

to four thousand florins; and one bulb, the Semper Augustus, brought

fifty-five hundred.”

“That’s more than four hundred guineas of our money,” interposed Ben.

“Yes, and I know I’m right, for I read it in a translation from Beckman,

only day before yesterday. Well, sir, it was great. Everyone speculated

in tulips, even bargemen and rag women and chimney sweeps. The richest

merchants were not ashamed to share the excitement. People bought bulbs

and sold them again at a tremendous profit without ever seeing them. It

grew into a kind of gambling. Some became rich by it in a few days, and

some lost everything they had. Land, houses, cattle, and even clothing

went for tulips when people had no ready money. Ladies sold their jewels

and finery to enable them to join in the fun. Nothing else was thought

of. At last the States-General interfered. People began to see what

dunces they were making of themselves, and down went the price of

tulips. Old tulip debts couldn’t be collected. Creditors went to law,

and the law turned its back upon them; debts made in gambling were not

binding, it said. Then there was a time! Thousands of rich speculators

were reduced to beggary in an hour. As old Beckman says, ‘The bubble was

burst at last.’”

“Yes, and a big bubble it was,” said Ben, who had listened with great

interest. “By the way, did you know that the name tulip came from a

Turkish word, signifying turban?”

“I had forgotten that,” answered Lambert, “but it’s a capital idea. Just

fancy a party of Turks in full headgear squatted upon a lawn--perfect

tulip bed! Ha! ha! Capital idea!”

“There,” groaned Ludwig to himself, “he’s been telling Lambert something

wonderful about tulips--I knew it!”

“The fact is,” continued Lambert, “you can conjure up quite a human

picture of a tulip bed in bloom, especially when it is nodding and

bobbing in the wind. Did you ever notice it?”

“Not I. It strikes me, Van Mounen, that you Hollanders are prodigiously

fond of the flower to this day.”

“Certainly. You can’t have a garden without them; prettiest flower that

grows, I think. My uncle has a magnificent bed of the finest varieties

at his summer house on the other side of Amsterdam.”

“I thought your uncle lived in the city?”

“So he does; but his summer house, or pavilion, is a few miles off.

He has another one built out over the river. We passed near it when we

entered the city. Everybody in Amsterdam has a pavilion somewhere, if he

can.”

“Do they ever live there?” asked Ben.

“Bless you, no! They are small affairs, suitable only to spend a few

hours in on summer afternoons. There are some beautiful ones on the

southern end of the Haarlem Lake--now that they’ve commenced to drain

it into polders, it will spoil THAT fun. By the way, we’ve passed some

red-roofed ones since we left home. You noticed them, I suppose, with

their little bridges and ponds and gardens, and their mottoes over the

doorway.”

Ben nodded.

“They make but little show, now,” continued Lambert, “but in warm

weather they are delightful. After the willows sprout, uncle goes to his

summer house every afternoon. He dozes and smokes; aunt knits, with her

feet perched upon a foot stove, never mind how hot the day; my cousin

Rika and the other girls fish in the lake from the windows or chat with

their friends rowing by; and the youngsters tumble about or hang upon

the little bridges over the ditch. Then they have coffee and cakes,

beside a great bunch of water lilies on the table. It’s very fine, I

can tell you; only (between ourselves), though I was born here, I shall

never fancy the odor of stagnant water that hangs about most of the

summer houses. Nearly every one you see is built over a ditch. Probably

I feel it more, from having lived so long in England.”

“Perhaps I shall notice it too,” said Ben, “if a thaw comes. The early

winter has covered up the fragrant waters for my benefit--much obliged

to it. Holland without this glorious skating wouldn’t be the same thing

at all.”

“How very different you are from the Poots!” exclaimed Lambert, who had

been listening in a sort of brown study. “And yet you are cousins--I

cannot understand it.”

“We ARE cousins, or rather we have always considered ourselves such, but

the relationship is not very close. Our grandmothers were half-sisters.

MY side of the family is entirely English, while he is entirely Dutch.

Old Great-grandfather Poot married twice, you see, and I am a descendant

of his English wife. I like Jacob, though, better than half of my

English cousins put together. He is the truest-hearted, best-natured boy

I ever knew. Strange as you may think it, my father became accidentally

acquainted with Jacob’s father while on a business visit to Rotterdam.

They soon talked over their relationship--in French, by the way--and

they have corresponded in the language ever since. Queer things come

about in this world. My sister Jenny would open her eyes at some of Aunt

Poot’s ways. Aunt is a thorough lady, but so different from mother--and

the house, too, and furniture, and way of living, everything is

different.”

“Of course,” assented Lambert, complacently, as if to say You could

scarcely expect such general perfection anywhere else than in Holland.

“But you will have all the more to tell Jenny when you go back.”

“Yes, indeed. I can say one thing--if cleanliness is, as they claim,

next to godliness, Broek is safe. It is the cleanest place I ever saw

in my life. Why, my Aunt Poot, rich as she is, scrubs half the time,

and her house looks as if it were varnished all over. I wrote to mother

yesterday that I could see my double always with me, feet to feet, in

the polished floor of the dining room.”

“Your DOUBLE! That word puzzles me; what do you mean?”

“Oh, my reflection, my apparition. Ben Dobbs number two.”

“Ah, I see,” exclaimed Van Mounen. “Have you ever been in your Aunt

Poot’s grand parlor?”

Ben laughed. “Only once, and that was on the day of my arrival. Jacob

says I shall have no chance of entering it again until the time of his

sister Kanau’s wedding, the week after Christmas. Father has consented

that I shall remain to witness the great event. Every Saturday Aunt Poot

and her fat Kate go into that parlor and sweep and polish and scrub;

then it is darkened and closed until Saturday comes again; not a soul

enters it in the meantime; but the schoonmaken, as she calls it, must be

done just the same.”

“That is nothing. Every parlor in Broek meets with the same treatment,”

said Lambert. “What do you think of those moving figures in her

neighbor’s garden?”

“Oh, they’re well enough; the swans must seem really alive gliding about

the pond in summer; but that nodding mandarin in the corner, under the

chestnut trees, is ridiculous, only fit for children to laugh at. And

then the stiff garden patches, and the trees all trimmed and painted.

Excuse me, Van Mounen, but I shall never learn to admire Dutch taste.”

“It will take time,” answered Lambert condescendingly, “but you are sure

to agree with it at last. I saw much to admire in England, and I hope

I shall be sent back with you to study at Oxford, but, take everything

together, I like Holland best.”

“Of course you do,” said Ben in a tone of hearty approval. “You wouldn’t

be a good Hollander if you didn’t. Nothing like loving one’s country. It

is strange, though, to have such a warm feeling for such a cold place.

If we were not exercising all the time, we should freeze outright.”

Lambert laughed.

“That’s your English blood, Benjamin. I’M not cold. And look at the

skaters here on the canal--they’re red as roses and happy as lords.

Halloo, good Captain van Holp,” called out Lambert in Dutch, “what say

you to stopping at yonder farmhouse and warming our toes?”

“Who is cold?” asked Peter, turning around.

“Benjamin Dobbs.”

“Benjamin Dobbs shall be warmed,” and the party was brought to a halt.

On the Way to Haarlem

On approaching the door of the farmhouse the boys suddenly found

themselves in the midst of a lively domestic scene. A burly Dutchman

came rushing out, closely followed by his dear vrouw, and she was

beating him smartly with her long-handled warming pan. The expression on

her face gave our boys so little promise of a kind reception that they

prudently resolved to carry their toes elsewhere to be warmed.

The next cottage proved to be more inviting. Its low roof of bright

red tiles extended over the cow stable that, clean as could be, nestled

close to the main building. A neat, peaceful-looking old woman sat

at one window, knitting. At the other could be discerned part of the

profile of a fat figure that, pipe in mouth, sat behind the shining

little panes and snowy curtain. In answer to Peter’s subdued knock, a

fair-haired, rosy-cheeked lass in holiday attire opened the upper half

of the green door (which was divided across the middle) and inquired

their errand.

“May we enter and warm ourselves, jufvrouw?” asked the captain

respectfully.

“Yes, and welcome” was the reply as the lower half of the door swung

softly toward its mate. Every boy, before entering, rubbed long and

faithfully upon the rough mat, and each made his best bow to the old

lady and gentleman at the window. Ben was half inclined to think that

these personages were automata like the moving figures in the garden at

Broek; for they both nodded their heads slowly, in precisely the same

way, and both went on with their employment as steadily and stiffly as

though they worked by machinery. The old man puffed, puffed, and his

vrouw clicked her knitting needles, as if regulated by internal cog

wheels. Even the real smoke issuing from the motionless pipe gave no

convincing proof that they were human.

But the rosy-cheeked maiden. Ah, how she bustled about. How she gave

the boys polished high-backed chairs to sit upon, how she made the fire

blaze as if it were inspired, how she made Jacob Poot almost weep for

joy by bringing forth a great square of gingerbread and a stone jug of

sour wine! How she laughed and nodded as the boys ate like wild animals

on good behavior, and how blank she looked when Ben politely but firmly

refused to take any black bread and sauerkraut! How she pulled off

Jacob’s mitten, which was torn at the thumb, and mended it before his

eyes, biting off the thread with her whit teeth, and saying “Now it will

be warmer” as she bit; and finally, how she shook hands with every boy

in turn and, throwing a deprecating glance at the female automaton,

insisted upon filling their pockets with gingerbread!

All this time the knitting needles clicked on, and the pipe never missed

a puff.

When the boys were fairly on their way again, they came in sight of the

Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front, and its gateway towers,

each surmounted with a sculptured swan.

“Halfweg, *{Halfway.} boys,” said Peter, “off with your skates.”

“You see,” explained Lambert to his companions, “the Y and the Haarlem

Lake meeting here make it rather troublesome. The river is five feet

higher than the land, so we must have everything strong in the way of

dikes and sluice gates, or there would be wet work at once. The sluice

arrangements are supposed to be something extra. We will walk over them

and you shall see enough to make you open your eyes. The spring water

of the lake, they say, has the most wonderful bleaching powers of any

in the world; all the great Haarlem bleacheries use it. I can’t say

much upon that subject, but I can tell you ONE thing from personal

experience.”

“What is that?”

“Why, the lake is full of the biggest eels you ever saw. I’ve caught

them here, often--perfectly prodigious! I tell you they’re sometimes a

match for a fellow; they’d almost wriggle your arm from the socket

if you were not on your guard. But you’re not interested in eels, I

perceive. The castle’s a big affair, isn’t it?”

“Yes. What do those swans mean? Anything?” asked Ben, looking up at the

stone gate towers.

“The swan is held almost in reverence by us Hollanders. These give the

building its name--Zwanenburg, swan castle. That is all I know. This is

a very important spot; for it is here that the wise ones hold council

with regard to dike matters. The castle was once the residence of the

celebrated Christian Brunings.”

“What about HIM?” asked Ben.

“Peter could answer you better than I,” said Lambert, “if you could

only understand each other, or were not such cowards about leaving your

mother tongues. But I have often heard my grandfather speak of Brunings.

He is never tired of telling us of the great engineer--how good he was

and how learned and how, when he died, the whole country seemed to mourn

as for a friend. He belonged to a great many learned societies and was

at the head of the State Department intrusted with the care of the dikes

and other defences against the sea. There’s no counting the improvements

he made in dikes and sluices and water mills and all that kind of thing.

We Hollanders, you know, consider our great engineers as the highest of

public benefactors. Brunings died years ago; they’ve a monument to his

memory in the cathedral of Haarlem. I have seen his portrait, and I

tell you, Ben, he was right noble-looking. No wonder the castle looks so

stiff and proud. It is something to have given shelter to such a man!”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ben. “I wonder, Van Mounen, whether you or I will

ever give any old building a right to feel so proud. Heigh-ho! There’s

a great deal to be done yet in this world and some of us, who are

boys now, will have to do it. Look to your shoe latchet, Van. It’s

unfastened.”

A Catastrophe

It was nearly one o’clock when Captain van Holp and his command entered

the grand old city of Haarlem. They had skated nearly seventeen miles

since morning and were still as fresh as young eagles. From the youngest

(Ludwig van Holp, who was just fourteen) to the eldest, no less a

personage than the captain himself, a veteran of seventeen, there was

but one opinion--that this was the greatest frolic of their lives. To be

sure, Jacob Poot had become rather short of breath during the last mile

of two, and perhaps he felt ready for another nap, but there was enough

jollity in him yet for a dozen. Even Carl Schummel, who had become very

intimate with Ludwig during the excursion, forgot to be ill-natured. As

for Peter, he was the happiest of the happy and had sung and whistled

so joyously while skating that the staidest passersby had smiled as they

listened.

“Come, boys! It’s nearly tiffin hour,” he said as they neared a

coffeehouse on the main street. “We must have something more solid than

the pretty maiden’s gingerbread”--and the captain plunged his hands into

his pockets as if to say, “There’s money enough here to feed an army!”

“Halloo!” cried Lambert. “What ails the man?”

Peter, pale and staring, was clapping his hands upon his breast and

sides. He looked like one suddenly becoming deranged.

“He’s sick!” cried Ben.

“No, he’s lost something,” said Carl.

Peter could only gasp, “The pocketbook with all our money in it--it’s

gone!”

For an instant all were too much startled to speak.

Carl at last came out with a gruff, “No sense in letting one fellow have

all the money. I said so from the first. Look in your other pocket.”

“I did. It isn’t there.”

“Open your underjacket.”

Peter obeyed mechanically. He even took off his hat and looked into it,

then thrust his hand desperately into every pocket.

“It’s gone, boys,” he said at last in a hopeless tone. “No tiffin for

us, nor dinner, either. What is to be done? We can’t get on without

money. If we were in Amsterdam, I could get as much as we want, but

there is not a man in Haarlem from whom I can borrow a stiver. Doesn’t

one of you know anyone here who would lend us a few guilders?”

Each boy looked into five blank faces. Then something like a smile

passed around the circle, but it got sadly knotted up when it reached

Carl.

“That wouldn’t do,” he said crossly. “I know some people here, rich

ones, too, but father would flog me soundly if I borrowed a cent from

anyone. He has ‘An honest man need not borrow’ written over the gateway

of his summer house.”

“Humph!” responded Peter, not particularly admiring the sentiment just

at that moment.

The boys grew desperately hungry at once.

“It wash my fault,” said Jacob, in a penitent tone, to Ben. “I say

first, petter all de boys put zair pursh into Van Holp’s monish.”

“Nonsense, Jacob. You did it all for the best.”

Ben said this in such a sprightly tone that the two Van Holps and Carl

felt sure that he had proposed a plan that would relieve the party at

once.

“What? what? Tell us, Van Mounen,” they cried.

“He says it is not Jacob’s fault that the money is lost--that he did it

for the best when he proposed that Van Holp should put all of our money

into his purse.”

“Is that all?” said Ludwig dismally. “He need not have made such a fuss

in just saying THAT. How much money have we lost?”

“Don’t you remember?” said Peter. “We each put in exactly ten guilders.

The purse had sixty guilders in it. I am the stupidest fellow in the

world; little Schimmelpenninck would have made you a better captain. I

could pommel myself for bringing such a disappointment upon you.”

“Do it, then,” growled Carl. “Pooh,” he added, “we all know that it

was an accident, but that doesn’t help matters. We must have money, Van

Holp--even if you have to sell your wonderful watch.”

“Sell my mother’s birthday present! Never! I will sell my coat, my hat,

anything but my watch.”

“Come, come,” said Jacob pleasantly, “we are making too much of this

affair. We can go home and start again in a day or two.”

“YOU may be able to get another ten-guilder piece,” said Carl, “but the

rest of us will not find it so easy. If we go home, we stay home, you

may depend.”

Our captain, whose good nature had not yet forsaken him for a moment,

grew indignant.

“Do you think that I will let you suffer for my carelessness?” he

exclaimed. “I have three times sixty guilders in my strong box at home!”

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Carl hastily, adding in a surlier tone,

“Well, I see no better way than to go back hungry.”

“I see a better plan than that,” said the captain.

“What is it?” cried all the boys.

“Why, to make the best of a bad business and go back pleasantly and like

men,” said Peter, looking so gallant and handsome as he turned his frank

face and clear blue eyes upon them that they caught his spirit.

“Ho for the captain!” they shouted.

“Now, boys, we may as well make up our minds, there’s no place like

Broek, after all--and that we mean to be there in two hours. Is that

agreed to?”

“Agreed!” cried all as they ran to the canal.

“On with your skates! Are you ready? Here, Jacob, let me help you.”

“Now. One, two, three, start!”

And the boyish faces that left Haarlem at that signal were nearly as

bright as those that had entered it with Captain Peter half an hour

before.

Hans

“Donder and Blixin!” cried Carl angrily, before the party had skated

twenty yards from the city gates, “if here isn’t that wooden-skate

ragamuffin in the patched leather breeches. That fellow is everywhere,

confound him! We’ll be lucky,” he added, in as sneering a tone as he

dared to assume, “if our captain doesn’t order us to halt and shake

hands with him.”

“Your captain is a terrible fellow,” said Peter pleasantly, “but this

is a false alarm, Carl. I cannot spy your bugbear anywhere among the

skaters. Ah, there he is! Why, what is the matter with the lad?”

Poor Hans! His face was pale, his lips compressed. He skated like one

under the effects of a fearful dream. Just as he was passing, Peter

hailed him:

“Good day, Hans Brinker!”

Hans’s countenance brightened at once. “Ah, mynheer, is that you? It is

well we meet!”

“Just like his impertinence,” hissed Carl Schummel, darting scornfully

past his companions, who seemed inclined to linger with their captain.

“I am glad to see you, Hans,” responded Peter cheerfully, “but you look

troubled. Can I serve you?”

“I have a trouble, mynheer,” answered Hans, casting down his eyes. Then,

lifting them again with almost a happy expression, he added, “But it is

Hans who can help Mynheer van Holp THIS time.”

“How?” asked Peter, making, in his blunt Dutch way, no attempt to

conceal his surprise.

“By giving you THIS, mynheer.” And Hans held forth the missing purse.

“Hurrah!” shouted the boys, taking their cold hands from their pockets

to wave them joyfully in the air. But Peter said “Thank you, Hans

Brinker” in a tone that made Hans feel as if the king had knelt to him.

The shout of the delighted boys had reached the muffled ears of the fine

young gentleman who, under a full pressure of pent-up wrath, was skating

toward Amsterdam. A Yankee boy would have wheeled about at once and

hastened to satisfy his curiosity. But Carl only halted, and, with his

back toward his party, wondered what on earth had happened. There he

stood, immovable, until, feeling sure that nothing but the prospect of

something to eat could have made them hurrah so heartily, he turned and

skated slowly toward his excited comrades.

In the meantime Peter had drawn Hans aside from the rest.

“How did you know it was my purse?” he asked.

“You paid me three guilders yesterday, mynheer, for making the whitewood

chain, telling me that I must buy skates.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I saw your purse then. It was of yellow leather.”

“And where did you find it today?”

“I left my home this morning, mynheer, in great trouble, and as I

skated, I took no heed until I stumbled against some lumber, and while I

was rubbing my knee I saw your purse nearly hidden under a log.”

“That place! Ah, I remember now. Just as we were passing it I pulled

my tippet from my pocket and probably flipped out the purse at the same

time. It would have been gone but for you, Hans. Here”--pouring out

the contents--“you must give us the pleasure of dividing the money with

you.”

“No, mynheer,” answered Hans. He spoke quietly, without pretence or any

grace of manner, but Peter, somehow, felt rebuked, and put the silver

back without a word.

I like that boy, rich or poor, he thought to himself, then added aloud,

“May I ask about this trouble of yours, Hans?”

“Ah, mynheer, it is a sad case, but I have waited here too long. I am

going to Leyden to see the great Dr. Boekman.”

“Dr. Boekman!” exclaimed Peter in astonishment.

“Yes, mynheer, and I have not a moment to lose. Good day!”

“Stay, I am going that way. Come, my lads! Shall we return to Haarlem!”

“Yes,” cried the boys, eagerly--and off they started.

“Now,” said Peter, drawing near Hans, both skimming the ice so easily

and lightly as they skated on together that they seemed scarcely

conscious of moving. “We are going to stop at Leyden, and if you are

going there only with a message to Dr. Boekman, cannot I do the errand

for you? The boys may be too tired to skate so far today, but I will

promise to see him early tomorrow if he is to be found in the city.”

“Ah, mynheer, that would be serving me indeed; it is not the distance I

dread but leaving my mother so long.”

“Is she ill?”

“No, mynheer. It is the father. You may have heard it, how he has been

without wit for many a year--ever since the great Schlossen Mill was

built; but his body has been well and strong. Last night the mother

knelt upon the hearth to blow the peat (it is his only delight to sit

and watch the live embers, and she will blow them into a blaze every

hour of the day to please him). Before she could stir, he sprang upon

her like a giant and held her close to the fire, all the time laughing

and shaking his head. I was on the canal, but I heard the mother scream

and ran to her. The father had never loosened his hold, and her gown was

smoking. I tried to deaden the fire, but with one hand he pushed me off.

There was no water in the cottage or I could have done better, and all

that time he laughed--such a terrible laugh, mynheer, hardly a sound,

but all in his face. I tried to pull her away, but that only made it

worse. Then--it was dreadful, but could I see the mother burn? I beat

him--beat him with a stool. He tossed me away. The gown was on fire.! I

WOULD put it out. I can’t remember well after that. I found myself upon

the floor, and the mother was praying. It seemed to me that she was in

a blaze, and all the while I could hear that laugh. Gretel flew to the

closet and filled a porringer with the food he liked and put it upon the

floor. Then, mynheer, he left the mother and crawled to it like a little

child. She was not burned, only a part of her clothing. Ah, how kind

she was to him all night, watching and tending him. He slept in a high

fever, with his hands pressed to his head. The mother says he has done

that so much of late, as though he felt pain there. Ah, mynheer, I did

not mean to tell you. If the father was himself, he would not harm even

a kitten.”

For a moment the two boys moved on in silence.

“It is terrible,” said Peter at last. “How is he today?”

“Very sick, mynheer.”

“Why go for Dr. Boekman, Hans? There are others in Amsterdam who

could help him, perhaps. Boekman is a famous man, sought only by the

wealthiest, and they often wait upon him in vain.”

“He PROMISED, mynheer, he promised me yesterday to come to the father in

a week. But now that the change has come, we cannot wait. We think the

poor father is dying. Oh, mynheer, you can plead with him to come quick.

He will not wait a whole week and our father dying, the good meester is

so kind.”

“SO KIND!” echoed Peter in astonishment. “Why, he is known as the

crossest man in Holland!”

“He looks so because he has no fat and his head is busy, but his heart

is kind, I know. Tell the meester what I have told you, mynheer, and he

will come.”

“I hope so, Hans, with all my heart. You are in haste to turn homeward,

I see. Promise me that should you need a friend, you will go to my

mother in Broek. Tell her I bade you see her. And, Hans Brinker, not as

a reward, but as a gift, take a few of these guilders.”

Hans shook his head resolutely.

“No, no, mynheer. I cannot take it. If I could find work in Broek or

at the South Mill, I would be glad, but it is the same story

everywhere--‘Wait until spring’”.

“It is well you speak of it,” said Peter eagerly, “for my father needs

help at once. Your pretty chain pleased him much. He said, ‘That boy

has a clean cut; he would be good at carving.’ There is to be a carved

portal to our new summer house, and father will pay well for the job.”

“God is good!” cried Hans in sudden delight. “Oh, mynheer, that would

be too much joy. I have never tried big work, but I can do it. I know I

can.”

“Well, tell my father you are the Hans Brinker of whom I spoke. He will

be glad to serve you.”

Hans stared in honest surprise.

“Thank you, mynheer.”

“Now, captain,” shouted Carl, anxious to appear as good humored as

possible, by way of atonement, “here we are in the midst of Haarlem,

and no word from you yet. We await your orders, and we’re as hungry as

wolves.”

Peter made a cheerful answer, and turned hurriedly to Hans.

“Come, get something to eat, and I will detain you no longer.”

What a quick, wistful look Hans threw upon him! Peter wondered that he

had not noticed before that the poor boy was hungry.

“Ah, mynheer, even now the mother may need me, the father may be

worse--I must not wait. May God care for you.” And, nodding hastily,

Hans turned his face homeward and was gone.

“Come, boys,” sighed Peter, “now for our tiffin!”

Homes

It must not be supposed that our young Dutchmen had already forgotten

the great skating race which was to take place on the twentieth. On the

contrary, they had thought and spoken of it very often during the day.

Even Ben, though he had felt more like a traveler than the rest, had

never once, through all the sight-seeing, lost a certain vision of

silver skates which, for a week past, had haunted him night and day.

Like a true “John Bull,” as Jacob had called him, he never doubted that

his English fleetness, English strength, English everything, could at

any time enable him, on the ice, to put all Holland to shame, and the

rest of the world too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb

skater. He had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing that

had fallen to his new comrades but he had improved his share to the

utmost and was, besides, so strong of frame, so supple of limb, in

short, such a tight, trim, quick, graceful fellow in every way that he

had taken to skating as naturally as a chamois to leaping or an eagle to

soaring.

Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of the silver skates

failed to appear during that starry winter night and the brighter sunlit

day.

Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat beside her

mother through those hours of weary watching--not as prizes to be won,

but as treasures passing hopelessly beyond her reach.

Rychie, Hilda, and Katrinka--why, they had scarcely known any other

thought than “The race, the race. It will come off on the twentieth!”

These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the same age, talent,

and station, they were as different as girls could be.

Hilda van Gleck, as you already know, was a warm-hearted, noble girl of

fourteen. Rychie Korbes was beautiful to look upon, far more sparkling

and pretty than Hilda but not half so bright and sunny within. Clouds

of pride, of discontent, and envy had already gathered in her heart

and were growing bigger and darker every day. Of course, these often

relieved themselves very much after the manner of other clouds. But who

saw the storms and the weeping? Only her maid or her father, mother, and

little brother--those who loved her better than all. Like other clouds,

too, hers often took queer shapes, and what was really but mist and

vapory fancy assumed the appearance of monster wrongs and mountains of

difficulty. To her mind, the poor peasant girl Gretel was not a human

being, a God-created creature like herself--she was only something that

meant poverty, rags, and dirt. Such as Gretel had no right to feel,

to hope; above all, they should never cross the paths of their

betters--that is, not in a disagreeable way. They could toil and labor

for them at a respectful distance, even admire them, if they would do it

humbly, but nothing more. If they rebel, put them down; if they suffer,

“Don’t trouble me about it” was Rychie’s secret motto. And yet how witty

she was, how tastefully she dressed, how charmingly she sang; how much

feeling she displayed (for pet kittens and rabbits), and how completely

she could bewitch sensible, honest-minded lads like Lambert van Mounen

and Ludwig van Holp!

Carl was too much like her, within, to be an earnest admirer, and

perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being deep and surly and always

uncomfortably in earnest, of course preferred the lively Katrinka, whose

nature was made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was a coquette in her

infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a coquette in her school

days. Without a thought of harm she coquetted with her studies, her

duties, even her little troubles. She coquetted with her mother, her

pet lamb, her baby brother, even with her own golden curls--tossing them

back as if she despised them. Everyone liked her, but who could love

her? She was never in earnest. A pleasant face, a pleasant heart, a

pleasant manner--these satisfy for an hour. Poor happy Katrinka! She

tinkled, tinkled so merrily through their early days, but life is so apt

to coquette with them in turn, to put all their sweet bells out of tune

or to silence them one by one!

How different were the homes of these three girls from the tumbling

old cottage where Gretel dwelt. Rychie lived in a beautiful house near

Amsterdam, where the carved sideboards were laden with services of

silver and gold and where silken tapestries hung in folds from ceiling

to floor.

Hilda’s father owned the largest mansion in Broek. Its glittering roof

of polished tiles and its boarded front, painted in half a dozen various

colors, were the admiration of the neighborhood.

Katrinka’s home, not a mile distant, was the finest of Dutch country

seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in little paths and patches

that the birds might have mistaken it for a great Chinese puzzle with

all the pieces spread out ready for use. But in summer it was beautiful;

the flowers made the best of their stiff quarters, and, when the

gardener was not watching, glowed and bent about each other in the

prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip bed! Why, the queen of the

fairies would never care for a grander city in which to hold her court!

But Katrinka preferred the bed of pink and white hyacinths. She loved

their freshness and fragrance and the lighthearted way in which their

bell-shaped blossoms swung in the breeze.

Carl was both right and wrong when he said that Katrinka and Rychie were

furious at the very idea of the peasant Gretel joining in the race. He

had heard Rychie declare that it was “Disgraceful, shameful, too bad!”

which in Dutch, as in English, is generally the strongest expression an

indignant girl can use; and he had seen Katrinka nod her pretty head and

heard her sweetly echo, “Shameful, too bad!” as nearly like Rychie as

tinkling bells can be like the voice of real anger. This had satisfied

him. He never suspected that had Hilda, not Rychie, first talked with

Katrinka upon the subject, the bells would have jingled as willing an

echo. She would have said, “Certainly, let her join us,” and would

have skipped off thinking no more about it. But now Katrinka with sweet

emphasis pronounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little

creature like Gretel, should be allowed to spoil the race.

Rychie Korbes, being rich and powerful (in a schoolgirl way), had

other followers besides Katrinka who were induced to share her opinions

because they were either too careless or too cowardly to think for

themselves.

Poor little Gretel! Her home was sad and dark enough now. Raff Brinker

lay moaning upon his rough bed, and his vrouw, forgetting and forgiving

everything, bathed his forehead, his lips, weeping and praying that he

might not die. Hans, as we know, had started in desperation for Leyden

to search for Dr. Boekman and induce him, if possible, to come to their

father at once. Gretel, filled with a strange dread, had done the work

as well as she could, wiped the rough brick floor, brought peat to

build up the slow fire, and melted ice for her mother’s use. This

accomplished, she seated herself upon a low stool near the bed and

begged her mother to try to sleep awhile.

“You are so tired,” she whispered. “Not once have you closed your eyes

since that dreadful hour last night. See, I have straightened the willow

bed in the corner, and spread everything soft upon it I could find, so

that the mother might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. Take off that

pretty dress. I’ll fold it away very carefully and put it in the big

chest before you go to sleep.”

Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes from her husband’s

face.

“I can watch, mother,” urged Gretel, “and I’ll wake you every time the

father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red! Oh, mother,

DO!”

The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her post.

Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it were very

wicked to care more for one parent than for the other, and sure--yes,

quite sure--that she dreaded her father while she clung to her mother

with a love that was almost idolatry.

Hans loves the father so well, she thought, why cannot I? Yet I could

not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last month, when he

snatched the knife--and now, when he moans, how I ache, ache all over.

Perhaps I love him, after all, and God will see that I am not such a

bad, wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father--almost as

Hans does--not quite, for Hans is stronger and does not fear him. Oh,

will that moaning go on forever and ever! Poor mother, how patient

she is; SHE never pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so

strangely. If he only could, for one instant, open his eyes and look at

us, as Hans does, and tell us where mother’s guilders went, I would not

care for the rest. Yes, I would care; I don’t want the poor father to

die, to be all blue and cold like Annie Bouman’s little sister. I KNOW I

don’t. Dear God, I don’t want Father to die.

Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended the poor child scarcely

knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse of light at the

side of the fire, beating faintly but steadily, showing that somewhere

in the dark pile there was warmth and light that would overspread it

at last. A large earthen cup filled with burning peat stood near the

bedside; Gretel had placed it there to “stop the father’s shivering,”

she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around the mother’s form,

tipping her faded skirt with light and shedding a sort of newness over

the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see the lines in

that weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently across it.

Next she counted the windowpanes, broken and patched as they were, and

finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, fixed her gaze

upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel

could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible with brass clasps, a

wedding present to Dame Brinker from the family at Heidelberg.

Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here, he could turn the father some

way so the moans would stop. Dear, dear! If this sickness lasts,

we shall never skate anymore. I must send my new skates back to the

beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race. And Gretel’s eyes,

that had been dry before, grew full of tears.

“Never cry, child,” said her mother soothingly. “This sickness may not

be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before.”

Gretel sobbed now.

“Oh, mother, it is not that alone--you do not know all. I am very, very

bad and wicked!”

“YOU, Gretel! you so patient and good!” and a bright, puzzled look

beamed for an instant upon the child. “Hush, lovey, you’ll wake him.”

Gretel hid her face in her mother’s lap and tried not to cry.

Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her

mother’s, creased with many a hard day’s work. Rychie would have

shuddered to touch either, yet they pressed warmly upon each other.

Soon Gretel looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor

children in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice,

“The father tried to burn you--he did--I saw him, and he was LAUGHING!”

“Hush, child!”

The mother’s words came so suddenly and sharply that Raff Brinker, dead

as he was to all that was passing around him, twitched slightly upon the

bed.

Gretel said no more but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a hole

in her mother’s holiday gown. It had been burned there. Well for Dame

Brinker that the gown was woolen.

Haarlem--The Boys Hear Voices

Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffeehouse just

as the big clock in the square, after the manner of certain Holland

timekeepers, was striking two with its half-hour bell for half-past two.

The captain was absorbed in thought, at first, for Hans Brinker’s sad

story still echoed in his ears. Not until Ludwig rebuked him with a

laughing “Wake up, grandfather!” did he reassume his position as gallant

boy-leader of his band.

“Ahem! this way, young gentlemen!”

They were walking through the city, not on a curbed sidewalk, for such

a thing is rarely to be found in Holland, but on the brick pavement that

lay on the borders of the cobblestone carriage-way without breaking its

level expanse.

Haarlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual, in honor of Saint

Nicholas.

A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small man dressed in

black, with a short cloak. He wore a wig and a cocked hat from which a

long crepe streamer was flying.

“Who comes here?” cried Ben. “What a queer-looking object.”

“That’s the aanspreeker,” said Lambert. “Someone is dead.”

“Is that the way men dress in mourning in this country?”

“Oh, no! The aanspreeker attends funerals, and it is his business, when

anyone dies, to notify all the friends and relatives.”

“What a strange custom.”

“Well,” said Lambert, “we needn’t feel very badly about this particular

death, for I see another man has lately been born to the world to fill

up the vacant place.”

Ben stared. “How do you know that?”

“Don’t you see that pretty red pincushion hanging on yonder door?” asked

Lambert in return.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s a boy.”

“A boy! What do you mean?”

“I mean that here in Haarlem, whenever a boy is born, the parents have a

red pincushion put out at the door. If our young friend had been a girl

instead of a boy, the cushion would have been white. In some places they

have much more fanciful affairs, all trimmed with lace, and even among

the very poorest houses you will see a bit of ribbon or even a string

tied on the door latch--”

“Look!” screamed Ben. “There IS a white cushion at the door of that

double-joined house with the funny roof.”

“I don’t see any house with a funny roof.”

“Oh, of course not,” said Ben. “I forgot you’re a native, but all the

roofs are queer to me, for that matter. I mean the house next to that

green building.”

“True enough, there’s a girl! I tell you what, captain,” called out

Lambert, slipping easily into Dutch, “we must get out of this street

as soon as possible. It’s full of babies! They’ll set up a squall in a

moment.”

The captain laughed. “I shall take you to hear better music than that,”

he said. “We are just in time to hear the organ of Saint Bavon. The

church is open today.”

“What, the great Haarlem organ?” asked Ben. “That will be a treat

indeed. I have often read of it, with its tremendous pipes, and its vox

humana *{An organ stop which produces an effect resembling the human

voice.} that sounds like a giant singing.”

“The same,” answered Lambert van Mounen.

Peter was right. The church was open, though not for religious services.

Someone was playing upon the organ. As the boys entered, a swell of

sound rushed forth to meet them. It seemed to bear them, one by one,

into the shadows of the building.

Louder and louder it grew until it became like the din and roar of some

mighty tempest, or like the ocean surging upon the shore. In the midst

of the tumult a tinkling bell was heard; another answered, then another,

and the storm paused as if to listen. The bells grew bolder; they rang

out loud and clear. Other deep-toned bells joined in; they were tolling

in solemn concert--ding, dong! ding, dong! The storm broke forth with

redoubled fury, gathering its distant thunder. The boys looked at each

other but did not speak. It was growing serious. What was that? WHO

screamed? WHAT screamed--that terrible, musical scream? Was it man or

demon? Or was it some monster shut up behind that carved brass frame,

behind those great silver columns--some despairing monster begging,

screaming for freedom! it was the vox humana!

At last an answer came--soft, tender, loving, like a mother’s song. The

storm grew silent; hidden birds sprang forth filling the air with glad,

ecstatic music, rising higher and higher until the last faint note was

lost in the distance.

The vox humana was stilled, but in the glorious hymn of thanksgiving

that now arose, one could almost hear the throbbing of a human heart.

What did it mean? That man’s imploring cry should in time be met with a

deep content? That gratitude would give us freedom? To Peter and Ben

it seemed that the angels were singing. Their eyes grew dim, and their

souls dizzy with a strange joy. At last, as if borne upward by invisible

hands, they were floating away on the music, all fatigue forgotten, and

with no wish but to hear forever those beautiful sounds, when suddenly

Van Holp’s sleeve was pulled impatiently and a gruff voice beside him

asked, “How long are you going to stay here, captain, blinking at the

ceiling like a sick rabbit? It’s high time we started.”

“Hush!” whispered Peter, only half aroused.

“Come, man! Let’s go,” said Carl, giving the sleeve a second pull.

Peter turned reluctantly. He would not detain the boys against their

will. All but Ben were casting rather reproachful glances upon him.

“Well, boys,” he whispered, “we will go. Softly now.”

“That’s the greatest thing I’ve seen or heard since I’ve bee in

Holland!” cried Ben enthusiastically, as soon as they reached the open

air. “It’s glorious!”

Ludwig and Carl laughed slyly at the English boy’s wartaal, or

gibberish. Jacob yawned, and Peter gave Ben a look that made him

instantly feel that he and Peter were not so very different after all,

though one hailed from Holland and the other from England. And Lambert,

the interpreter, responded with a brisk “You may well say so. I believe

there are one or two organs nowadays that are said to be as fine; but

for years and years this organ of Saint Bavon was the grandest in the

world.”

“Do you know how large it is?” asked Ben. “I noticed that the church

itself was prodigiously high and that the organ filled the end of the

great aisle almost from floor to roof.”

“That’s true,” said Lambert, “and how superb the pipes looked--just like

grand columns of silver. They’re only for show, you know. The REAL pipes

are behind them, some big enough for a man to crawl through, and some

smaller than a baby’s whistle. Well, sir, for size, the church is higher

than Westminster Abbey, to begin with, and, as you say, the organ makes

a tremendous show even then. Father told me last night that it is one

hundred and eight feet high, fifty feet wide, and has over five thousand

pipes. It has sixty-four stops--if you know what they are, I don’t--and

three keyboards.”

“Good for you!” said Ben. “You have a fine memory. MY head is a perfect

colander for figures. They slip through as fast as they’re poured

in. But other facts and historical events stay behind--that’s some

consolation.”

“There we differ,” returned Van Mounen. “I’m great on names and figures,

but history, take it altogether, seems to me to be the most hopeless

kind of jumble.”

Meantime Carl and Ludwig were having a discussion concerning some square

wooden monuments they had observed in the interior of the church. Ludwig

declared that each bore the name of the person buried beneath, and

Carl insisted that they had no names but only the heraldic arms of the

deceased painted on a black ground, with the date of the death in gilt

letters.

“I ought to know,” said Carl, “for I walked across to the east side, to

look for the cannonball Mother told me was embedded there. It was fired

into the church, in the year fifteen hundred and something, by those

rascally Spaniards, while the services were going on. There it was

in the wall, sure enough, and while I was walking back, I noticed the

monuments. I tell you, they haven’t the sign of a name on them.”

“Ask Peter,” said Ludwig, only half convinced.

“Carl is right,” replied Peter, who, though conversing with Jacob, had

overheard their dispute. “Well, Jacob, as I was saying, Handel, the

great composer, chanced to visit Haarlem and, of course, he at once

hunted up this famous organ. He gained admittance and was playing upon

it with all his might when the regular organist chanced to enter the

building. The man stood awestruck. He was a good player himself, but he

had never heard such music before. ‘Who is there?’ he cried. ‘If it is

not an angel or the devil, it must be Handel!’ When he discovered that

it WAS the great musician, he was still more mystified! ‘But how is

this?’ he said. ‘You have done impossible things--no ten fingers on

earth can play the passages you have given. Human fingers couldn’t

control all the keys and stops!’ ‘I know it,’ said Handel coolly, ‘and

for that reason, I was forced to strike some notes with the end of my

nose.’ Donder! just think how the old organist must have stared!”

“Hey! What?” exclaimed Jacob, startled when Peter’s animated voice

suddenly became silent.

“Haven’t you heard me, you rascal?” was the indignant rejoinder.

“Oh, yes--no. The fact is, I heard you at first. I’m awake now, but I do

believe I’ve been walking beside you half asleep,” stammered Jacob, with

such a doleful, bewildered look on his face that Peter could not help

laughing.

The Man With Four Heads

After leaving the church, the boys stopped nearby in the open

marketplace, to look at the bronze statue of Laurens Janszoon Coster,

who is believed by the Dutch to have been the inventor of printing. This

is disputed by those who award the same honor to Johannes Gutenberg of

Mayence; while many maintain that Faustus, a servant of Coster, stole

his master’s wooden types on a Christmas eve, when the latter was at

church, and fled with his booty and his secret, to Mayence. Coster was

a native of Haarlem, and the Hollanders are naturally anxious to secure

the credit of the invention for their illustrious townsman. Certain it

is that the first book he printed is kept by the city in a silver case

wrapped in silk and is shown with great caution as a precious relic. It

is said that he first conceived the idea of printing from cutting his

name upon the bark of a tree and afterward pressing a piece of paper

upon the characters.

Of course, Lambert and his English friend fully discussed this subject.

They also had a rather warm argument concerning another invention.

Lambert declared that the honor of giving both the telescope and the

microscope to the world lay between Metius and Jansen, both Hollanders,

while Ben as stoutly insisted that Roger Bacon, an English monk of

the thirteenth century, “wrote out the whole thing, sir, perfect

descriptions of microscopes and telescopes, too, long before either of

those other fellows was born.”

On one subject, however, they both agreed: that the art of curing and

pickling herrings was discovered by William Beukles of Holland, and

that the country did perfectly right in honoring him as a national

benefactor, for its wealth and importance had been in a great measure

due to its herring trade.

“It is astonishing,” said Ben, “in what prodigious quantities those fish

are found. I don’t know how it is here, but on the coast of England, off

Yarmouth, the herring shoals have been known to be six and seven feet

deep with fish.”

“That is prodigious, indeed,” said Lambert, “but you know your herring

is derived from the German heer, an army, on account of a way the fish

have of coming in large numbers.”

Soon afterward, while passing a cobbler’s shop, Ben exclaimed, “Halloo!

Lambert, here is the name of one of your greatest men over a cobbler’s

stall! Boerhaave. If it were only Herman Boerhaave instead of Hendrick,

it would be complete.”

Lambert knit his brows reflectively, as he replied, “Boerhaave,

Boerhaave! The name is perfectly familiar; I remember, too, that he was

born in 1668, but the rest is all gone, as usual. There have been so

many famous Hollanders, you see, that it is impossible for a fellow to

know them all. What was he? Did he have two heads? Or was he one of your

great, natural swimmers like Marco Polo?”

“He had FOUR heads,” answered Ben, laughing, “for he was a great

physician, naturalist, botanist, and chemist. I am full of him just now,

for I read his life a few weeks ago.”

“Pour out a little, then,” said Lambert, “only walk faster or we shall

lose sight of the other boys.”

“Well,” resumed Ben, quickening his pace and looking with great interest

at everything going on in the crowded street, “this Dr. Boerhaave was a

great anspewker.”

“A great WHAT?” roared Lambert.

“Oh, I beg pardon. I was thinking of that man over there with the cocked

hat. He’s an anspewker, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s an aanspreeker, if that is what you mean to say. But what

about your friend with the four heads?”

“Well, as I was going to say, the doctor was left a penniless orphan at

sixteen without education or friends--”

“Jolly beginning!” interposed Lambert.

“Now, don’t interrupt. He was a poor friendless orphan at sixteen, but

he was so persevering and industrious, so determined to gain knowledge,

that he made his way, and in time became one of the most learned men of

Europe. All the--what is that?”

“Where? What do you mean?”

“Why, that paper on the door opposite. Don’t you see? Two or three

persons are reading it. I have noticed several of these papers since

I’ve been here.”

“Oh, that’s only a health bulletin. Somebody in the house is ill, and

to prevent a steady knocking at the door, the family write an account of

the patient’s condition on a placard and hang it outside the door, for

the benefit of inquiring friends--a very sensible custom, I’m sure.

Nothing strange about it that I can see. Go on, please. You said, ‘All

the’--and there you left me hanging.”

“I was going to say,” resumed Ben, “that all the--all the--how comically

persons do dress here, to be sure! Just look at those men and women with

their sugarloaf hats. And see this woman ahead of us with a straw bonnet

like a scoop shovel tapering to a point in the back. Did ever you see

anything so funny? And those tremendous wooden shoes, too--I declare,

she’s a beauty?”

“Oh, they are only back-country folk,” said Lambert, rather impatiently.

“You might as well let old Boerhaave drop or else shut your eyes.”

“Ha! ha! Well, I was GOING to say, all the big men of his day sought out

this great professor. Even Peter the Great, when he came over to Holland

from Russia to learn shipbuilding, attended his lectures regularly. By

that time Boerhaave was professor of medicine and chemistry and botany

in the University at Leyden. He had grown to be very wealthy as a

practicing physician, but he used to say that the poor were his best

patients because God would be their paymaster. All Europe learned

to love and honor him. In short, he became so famous that a certain

mandarin of China addressed a letter to ‘the illustrious Boerhaave,

physician in Europe,’ and the letter found its way to him without any

difficulty.”

“My goodness! That is what I call being a public character. The boys

have stopped. How now, Captain van Holp, where next?”

“We propose to move on,” said Van Holp. “There is nothing to see at this

season in the Bosch. The Bosch is a noble wood, Benjamin, a grand

park where they have most magnificent trees, protected by law. Do you

understand?”

“Ya!” nodded Ben as the captain proceeded.

“Unless you all desire to visit the Museum of Natural History, we may

go on the grand canal again. If we had more time it would be pleasant to

take Benjamin up the Blue Stairs.”

“What are the Blue Stairs, Lambert?” asked Ben.

“They are the highest point of the Dunes. You have a grand view of the

ocean from there, besides a fine chance to see how wonderful these dunes

are. One can hardly believe that the wind could ever heap up sand in so

remarkable a way. But we have to go through Bloemendal to get there, not

a very pretty village, and some distance from here. What do you say?”

“Oh, I am ready for anything. For my part, I would rather steer direct

for Leyden, but we’ll do as the captain says--hey, Jacob?”

“Ya, dat ish goot,” said Jacob, who felt decidedly more like taking a

nap than ascending the Blue Stairs.

The captain was in favor of going to Leyden.

“It’s four long miles from here. Full sixteen of your English miles,

Benjamin. We have no time to lose if you wish to reach there before

midnight. Decide quickly, boys--Blue Stairs or Leyden?”

“Leyden,” they answered, and were out of Haarlem in a twinkling,

admiring the lofty, towerlike windmills and pretty country seats as they

left the city behind them.

“If you really wish to see Haarlem,” said Lambert to Ben, after they

had skated awhile in silence, “you should visit it in summer. It is the

greatest place in the world for beautiful flowers. The walks around the

city are superb; and the ‘wood’ with its miles of noble elms, all in

full feather, is something to remember. You need not smile, old fellow,

at my saying ‘full feather.’ I was thinking of waving plumes and got

my words mixed up a little. But a Dutch elm beats everything; it is the

noblest tree on earth, Ben--if you except the English oak.”

“Aye,” said Ben solemnly, “IF you except the English oak.” And for some

moments he could scarcely see the canal because Robby and Jenny kept

bobbing in the air before his eyes.

Friends in Need

In the meantime, the other boys were listening to Peter’s account of an

incident which had occurred long ago *{Sir Thomas Carr’s tour through

Holland.} in a part of the city where stood an ancient castle, whose

lord had tyrannized over the burghers of the town to such an extent

that they surrounded his castle and laid siege to it. Just at the last

extremity, when the haughty lord felt that he could hold out no longer

and was prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible, his lady

appeared on the ramparts and offered to surrender everything, provided

she was permitted to bring out, and retain, as much of her most precious

household goods as she could carry upon her back. The promise was given,

and the lady came forth from the gateway, bearing her husband upon

her shoulders. The burghers’ pledge preserved him from the fury of the

troops but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle.

“Do you BELIEVE that story, Captain Peter?” asked Carl in an incredulous

tone.

“Of course, I do. It is historical. Why should I doubt it?”

“Simply because no woman could do it--and if she could, she wouldn’t.

That is my opinion.”

“And I believe that there are many who WOULD. That is, to save those

they really cared for,” said Ludwig.

Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness was of rather a

sentimental turn, had listened with deep interest.

“That is right, little fellow,” he said, nodding his head approvingly.

“I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman who would not

be glad to do as much for ME.”

“Heaven help her!” cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker. “Why,

Poot, three MEN couldn’t do it!”

“Perhaps not,” said Jacob quietly, feeling that he had asked rather too

much of the future Mrs. Poot. “But she must be WILLING, that is all.”

“Aye,” responded Peter’s cheery voice, “willing heart makes nimble

foot--and who knows, but it may make strong arms also.”

“Pete,” asked Ludwig, changing the subject, “did you tell me last night

that the painter Wouwerman was born in Haarlem?”

“Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem too. I like Berghem because he

was always good-natured. They say he always sang while he painted, and

though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still

afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had

a wife as cross as Xantippe.”

“They balanced each other finely,” said Ludwig. “He was kind and she

was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn’t that picture of Saint

Hubert and the horse painted by Wouwerman? You remember, Father showed

us an engraving from it last night.”

“Yes, indeed. There is a story connected with that picture.”

“Tell us!” cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skated

on.

“Wouwerman,” began the captain oratorically, “was born in 1620, just

four years before Berghem. He was a master of his art and especially

excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long

finding out his merits that, even after he had arrived at the height

of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry

prices. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and, worst of

all, was over head and ears in debt. One day he was talking over

his troubles with his father-confessor, who was one of the few

who recognized his genius. The priest determined to assist him and

accordingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same time

to demand a better price for his pictures. Wouwerman did so, and in the

meantime paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody

appreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew

rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude Wouwerman

sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor as

Saint Hubert kneeling before his horse--the very picture, Ludwig, of

which we were speaking last night.”

“So! so!” exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest. “I must take another

look at the engraving as soon as we get home.”

At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside the

Holland dike, Robby and Jenny stood in their pretty English schoolhouse,

ready to join in the duties of their reading class.

“Commence! Master Robert Dobbs,” said the teacher, “page 242. Now, sir,

mind every stop.”

And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at schoolroom pitch,

“Lesson 62. The Hero of Haarlem. Many years ago, there lived in Haarlem,

one of the principal cities of Holland, a sunny-haired boy of gentle

disposition. His father was a sluicer, that is, a man whose business it

was to open and close the sluices, or large oaken gates, that are placed

at regular distances across the entrances of the canals, to regulate the

amount of water that shall flow into them.

“The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity of

water required, and closes them carefully at night, in order to avoid

all possible danger of an oversupply running into the canal, or the

water would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As a

great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the waters

are kept from flooding the land only by means of strong dikes, or

barriers, and by means of these sluices, which are often strained to the

utmost by the pressure of the rising tides. Even the little children in

Holland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep the rivers

and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a moment’s neglect of

the sluicer’s duty may bring ruin and death to all.”

“Very good,” said the teacher. “Now, Susan.”

“One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about eight years old,

he obtained his parents’ consent to carry some cakes to a blind man

who lived out in the country, on the other side of the dike. The little

fellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having spent an

hour with his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and started on

his homeward walk.

“Trudging stoutly along the canal, he noticed how the autumn rains had

swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, childish song, he

thought of his father’s brave old gates and felt glad of their strength,

for, thought he, ‘If THEY gave way, where would Father and Mother be?

These pretty fields would all be covered with the angry waters--Father

always calls them the ANGRY waters. I suppose he thinks they are mad at

him for keeping them out so long.’ And with these thoughts just flitting

across his brain, the little fellow stooped to pick the pretty flowers

that grew along his way. Sometimes he stopped to throw some feathery

seed ball in the air and watch it as it floated away; sometimes he

listened to the stealthy rustling of a rabbit, speeding through the

grass, but oftener he smiled as he recalled the happy light he had seen

arise on the weary, listening face of his blind old friend.”

“Now, Henry,” said the teacher, nodding to the next little reader.

“Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He had not noticed that

the sun was setting. Now he saw that his long shadow on the grass had

vanished. It was growing dark, he was still some distance from home, and

in a lonely ravine, where even the blue flowers had turned to gray.

He quickened his footsteps and, with a beating heart recalled many

a nursery tale of children belated in dreary forests. Just as he was

bracing himself for a run, he was startled by the sound of trickling

water. Whence did it come? He looked up and saw a small hole in the

dike through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will

shudder at the thought of A LEAK IN THE DIKE! The boy understood the

danger at a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed to

trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation

would be the result.

“Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, the boy

clambered up the heights until he reached the hole. His chubby little

finger was thrust in, almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped!

Ah! he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, the angry waters must

stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while I am here!

“This was all very well at first, but the night was falling rapidly.

Chill vapors filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with cold

and dread. He shouted loudly; he screamed, ‘Come here! come here!’ but

no one came. The cold grew more intense, a numbness, commencing in the

tired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and soon his whole

body was filled with pain. He shouted again, ‘Will no one come? Mother!

Mother!’ Alas, his mother, good, practical soul, had already locked the

doors and had fully resolved to scold him on the morrow for spending

the night with blind Jansen without her permission. He tried to whistle.

Perhaps some straggling boy might heed the signal, but his teeth

chattered so, it was impossible. Then he called on God for help. And

the answer came, through a holy resolution: ‘I will stay here till

morning.’”

“Now, Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher. Jenny’s eyes were glistening, but

she took a long breath and commenced.

“The midnight moon looked down upon that small, solitary form, sitting

upon a stone, halfway up the dike. His head was bent but he was not

asleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed feebly the

outstretched arm that seemed fastened to the dike--and often the pale,

tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied sounds.

“How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch--what

falterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the boy as he

thought of the warm little bed at home, of his parents, his brothers and

sisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night! If he drew away that

tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrier still, would rush forth,

and never stop until they had swept over the town. No, he would hold it

there till daylight--if he lived! He was not very sure of living. What

did this strange buzzing mean? And then the knives that seemed pricking

and piercing him from head to foot? He was not certain now that he could

draw his finger away, even if he wished to.

“At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of a sick

parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top of

the dike. Bending, he saw, far down on the side, a child apparently

writhing with pain.

“‘In the name of wonder, boy,’ he exclaimed, ‘what are you doing there?’

“‘I am keeping the water from running out,’ was the simple answer of the

little hero. ‘Tell them to come quick.’

“It is needless to add that they did come quickly and that--”

“Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher, rather impatiently, “if you cannot

control your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until you

recover yourself.”

“Yes, sir!” said Jenny, quite startled.

It was strange, but at that very moment, Ben, far over the sea, was

saying to Lambert, “The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with

an account of the incident, but I never knew, till now, that it was

really true.”

“True! Of course it is,” said Lambert. “I have given you the story just

as Mother told it to me, years ago. Why, there is not a child in Holland

who does not know it. And, Ben, you may not think so, but that little

boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leak can show

itself anywhere either in its politics, honor, or public safety, that a

million fingers are not ready to stop it, at any cost.”

“Whew!” cried Master Ben. “Big talking that!”

“It’s true talk anyway,” rejoined Lambert, so very quietly that Ben

wisely resolved to make no further comment.

On the Canal

The skating season had commenced unusually early; our boys were by no

means alone upon the ice. The afternoon was so fine that men, women, and

children, bent upon enjoying the holiday, had flocked to the grand canal

from far and near. Saint Nicholas had evidently remembered the favorite

pastime; shining new skates were everywhere to be seen. Whole families

were skimming their way to Haarlem or Leyden or the neighboring

villages. The ice seemed fairly alive. Men noticed the erect, easy

carriage of women, and their picturesque variety of costume. There were

the latest fashions, fresh from Paris, floating past dingy, moth-eaten

garments that had seen service through two generations; coal-scuttle

bonnets perched over freckled faces bright with holiday smiles; stiff

muslin caps with wings at the sides, flapping beside cheeks rosy with

health and contentment; furs, too, encircling the whitest of throats;

and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddy with exercise. In

short, every quaint and comical mixture of dry goods and flesh that

Holland could furnish seemed sent to enliven the scene.

There were belles from Leyden, and fishwives from the border villages;

cheese women from Gouda, and prim matrons from beautiful country seats

on the Haarlemmer Meer. Gray-headed skaters were constantly to be seen;

wrinkled old women with baskets upon their heads, and plump little

toddlers on skates clutching at their mothers’ gowns. Some women carried

their babies upon their backs, firmly secured with a bright shawl. The

effect was pretty and graceful as they darted by or sailed slowly past,

now nodding to an acquaintance, now chirruping and throwing soft baby

talk to the muffled little ones they carried.

Boys and girls were chasing each other and hiding behind the one-horse

sleds that, loaded high with peat or timber, pursued their cautious

way along the track marked out as “safe.” Beautiful, queenly women were

there, enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Sometimes a long file

of young men, each grasping the coat of the one before him, flew by with

electric speed; and sometimes the ice squeaked under the chair of some

gorgeous old dowager, or rich burgomaster’s lady, who, very red in the

nose and sharp in the eyes, looked like a scare-thaw invented by old

Father Winter for the protection of his skating grounds. The chair would

be heavy with foot stoves and cushions, to say nothing of the old lady.

Mounted upon shining runners, it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest of

servants, who, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent himself

to his task while she cast direful glances upon the screaming little

rowdies who invariably acted as bodyguard.

As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. Some were

attired in ordinary citizen’s dress, but many looked odd enough with

their short woolen coats, wide breeches, and big silver buckles. These

seemed to Ben like little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung suddenly

into manhood and were forced to wear garments that their astonished

mothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed, too, that nearly all the

men had pipes as they passed him, whizzing and smoking like so many

locomotives. There was every variety of pipes, from those of common clay

to the most expensive meerschaums mounted in silver and gold. Some were

carved into extraordinary and fantastic shapes, representing birds,

flowers, heads, bugs, and dozens of other things; some resembled the

“Dutchman’s pipe” that grows in our American woods; some were red and

many were of a pure, snowy white; but the most respectable were those

which were ripening into a shaded brown. The deeper and richer the

brown, of course, the more honored the pipe, for it was proof that the

owner, if honestly shading it, was deliberately devoting his manhood

to the effort. What pipe would not be proud to be the object of such a

sacrifice!

For a while Ben skated on in silence. There was so much to engage his

attention that he almost forgot his companions. Part of the time he had

been watching the iceboats as they flew over the great Haarlemmer Meer

(or lake), the frozen surface of which was now plainly visible from the

canal. These boats had very large sails, much larger, in proportion,

than those of ordinary vessels, and were set upon a triangular frame

furnished with an iron “runner” at each corner--the widest part of the

triangle crossing the bow, and its point stretching beyond the stem.

They had rudders for guiding and brakes for arresting their progress and

were of all sizes and kinds, from small, rough affairs managed by a boy,

to large and beautiful ones filled with gay pleasure parties and manned

by competent sailors, who, smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed and tacked

and steered with great solemnity and precision.

Some of the boats were painted and gilded in gaudy style and flaunted

gay pennons from their mastheads; others, white as snow, with every

spotless sail rounded by the wind, looked like swans borne onward by a

resistless current. It seemed to Ben as, following his fancy, he watched

one of these in the distance, that he could almost hear its helpless,

terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose from a nearer and

less romantic cause--from an iceboat not fifty yards from him, using its

brakes to avoid a collision with a peat sled.

It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal, and their

appearance generally caused no little excitement among skaters,

especially among the timid; but today every iceboat in the country

seemed afloat or rather aslide, and the canal had its full share.

Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at the swift

approach of the resistless, high-winged things threatening to dart in

any and every possible direction. It required all his energies to keep

out of the way of the passersby and to prevent those screaming little

urchins from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to watch

some boys who were making a hole in the ice preparatory to using their

fishing spears. Just as he concluded to start again, he found himself

suddenly bumped into an old lady’s lap. Her push-chair had come upon him

from the rear. The old lady screamed; the servant who was propelling her

gave a warning hiss. In another instant Ben found himself apologizing to

empty air. The indignant old lady was far ahead.

This was a slight mishap compared with one that now threatened him.

A huge iceboat, under full sail, came tearing down the canal, almost

paralyzing Ben with the thought of instant destruction. It was close

upon him! He saw its gilded prow, heard the schipper *{Skipper. Master

of a small trading vessel--a pleasure boat or iceboat.} shout, felt the

great boom fairly whiz over his head, was blind, deaf, and dumb all in

an instant, then opened his eyes to find himself spinning some yards

behind its great skatelike rudder. It had passed within an inch of his

shoulder, but he was safe! Safe to see England again, safe to kiss

the dear faces that for an instant had flashed before him one by

one--Father, Mother, Robby, and Jenny--that great boom had dashed their

images into his very soul. He knew now how much he loved them. Perhaps

this knowledge made him face complacently the scowls of those on the

canal who seemed to feel that a boy in danger was necessarily a BAD boy

needing instant reprimand.

Lambert chided him roundly.

“I thought it was all over with you, you careless fellow! Why don’t

you look where you are going? Not content with sitting on all the old

ladies’ laps, you must make a Juggernaut of every iceboat that comes

along. We shall have to hand you over to the aanspreekers yet, if you

don’t look out!”

“Please don’t,” said Ben with mock humility, then seeing how pale

Lambert’s lips were, he added in a low tone, “I do believe I THOUGHT

more in that one moment, Van Mounen, than in all the rest of my past

life.”

There was no reply, and, for a while, the two boys skated on in silence.

Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears.

“Hark!” said Ben. “What is that?”

“The carillons,” replied Lambert. “They are trying the bells in the

chapel of yonder village. Ah! Ben, you should hear the chimes of the

‘New Church’ at Delft. They are superb--nearly five hundred sweet-toned

bells, and on of the best carillonneurs of Holland to play upon them.

Hard work, though. They say the fellow often has to go to bed from

positive exhaustion, after his performances. You see, the bells are

attached to a kind of keyboard, something like they have on pianofortes;

there is also a set of pedals for the feet; when a brisk tune is going

on, the player looks like a kicking frog fastened to his seat with a

skewer.”

“For shame,” said Ben indignantly.

Peter had, for the present, exhausted his stock of Haarlem anecdotes,

and now, having nothing to do but skate, he and his three companions

were hastening to catch up with Lambert and Ben.

“That English lad is fleet enough,” said Peter. “If he were a born

Hollander, he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make but a

sorry figure on skates. Halloo! Here you are, Van Mounen. Why, we hardly

hoped for the honor of meeting you again. Whom were you flying from in

such haste?”

“Snails,” retorted Lambert. “What kept you?”

“We have been talking, and besides, we halted once to give Poot a chance

to rest.”

“He begins to look rather worn-out,” said Lambert in a low voice.

Just then a beautiful iceboat with reefed sail and flying streamers

swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children muffled up to

their chins. Looking at them from the ice you could see only smiling

little faces imbedded in bright-colored woolen wrappings. They were

singing a chorus in honor of Saint Nicholas. The music, starting in

the discord of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, into

exquisite harmony:

“Friend of sailors and of children!

Double claim have we,

As in youthful joy we’re sailing,

O’er a frozen sea!

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!

Let us sing to thee!

While through wintry air we’re rushing, As our voices blend,

Are you near us? Do you hear us, Nicholas, our friend?

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!

Love can never end.

Sunny sparkles, bright before us, Chase away the cold!

Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome, Never can grow old.

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!

Never can grow old!

Pretty gift and loving lesson, Festival and glee,

Bid us thank thee as we’re sailing O’er the frozen sea.

Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!

So we sing to thee!

Jacob Poot Changes the Plan

The last note died away in the distance. Our boys, who in their vain

efforts to keep up with the boat had felt that they were skating

backward, turned to look at one another.

“How beautiful that was!” exclaimed Van Mounen.

“Just like a dream!”

Jacob drew close to Ben, giving his usual approving nod, as he spoke.

“Dat ish goot. Dat ish te pest vay. I shay petter to take to Leyden mit

a poat!”

“Take a boat!” exclaimed Ben in dismay. “Why, man, our plan was to

SKATE, not to be carried like little children.”

“Tuyfels!” retorted Jacob. “Dat ish no little--no papies--to go for

poat!”

The boys laughed but exchanged uneasy glances. It would be great fun to

jump on an iceboat, if they had a chance, but to abandon so shamefully

their grand undertaking--who could think of such a thing?

An animated discussion arose at once.

Captain Peter brought his party to a halt.

“Boys,” said he, “it strikes me that we should consult Jacob’s wishes in

this matter. He started the excursion, you know.”

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, throwing a contemptuous glance at Jacob. “Who’s

tired? We can rest all night in Leyden.”

Ludwig and Lambert looked anxious and disappointed. It was no slight

thing to lose the credit of having skated all the way from Broek to

the Hague and back again, but both agreed that Jacob should decide the

question.

Good-natured, tired Jacob! He read the popular sentiment at a glance.

“Oh, no,” he said in Dutch. “I was joking. We will skate, of course.”

The boys gave a delighted shout and started on again with renewed vigor.

All but Jacob. He tried his best not to seem fatigued and, by not saying

a word, saved his breath and energy for the great business of skating.

But in vain. Before long, the stout body grew heavier and heavier--the

tottering limbs weaker and weaker. Worse than all, the blood, anxious to

get as far as possible from the ice, mounted to the puffy, good-natured

cheeks, and made the roots of his thin yellow hair glow into a fiery

red.

This kind of work is apt to summon vertigo, of whom good Hans Anderson

writes--the same who hurls daring young hunters from the mountains or

spins them from the sharpest heights of the glaciers or catches them as

they tread the stepping-stones of the mountain torrent.

Vertigo came, unseen, to Jacob. After tormenting him awhile, with one

touch sending a chill from head to foot, with the next scorching every

vein with fever, she made the canal rock and tremble beneath him, the

white sails bow and spin as they passed, then cast him heavily upon the

ice.

“Halloo!” cried Van Mounen. “There goes Poot!”

Ben sprang hastily forward.

“Jacob! Jacob, are you hurt?”

Peter and Carl were lifting him. The face was white enough now. It

seemed like a dead face--even the good-natured look was gone.

A crowd collected. Peter unbuttoned the poor boy’s jacket, loosened his

red tippet, and blew between the parted lips.

“Stand off, good people!” he cried. “Give him air!”

“Lay him down,” called out a woman from the crowd.

“Stand him upon his feet,” shouted another.

“Give him wine,” growled a stout fellow who was driving a loaded sled.

“Yes! yes, give him wine!” echoed everybody.

Ludwig and Lambert shouted in concert, “Wine! Wine! Who has wine?”

A sleepy-headed Dutchman began to fumble mysteriously under the heaviest

of blue jackets, saying as he did so, “Not so much noise, young masters,

not so much noise! The boy was a fool to faint like a girl.”

“Wine, quick!” cried Peter, who, with Ben’s help, was rubbing Jacob from

head to foot.

Ludwig stretched forth his hand imploringly toward the Dutchman, who,

with an air of great importance, was still fumbling beneath the jacket.

“DO hurry! He will die! Has anyone else any wine?”

“He IS dead!” said an awful voice from among the bystanders.

This startled the Dutchman.

“Have a care!” he said, reluctantly drawing forth a small blue flask.

“This is schnapps. A little is enough.”

A little WAS enough. The paleness gave way to a faint flush. Jacob

opened his eyes, and, half bewildered, half ashamed, feebly tried to

free himself from those who were supporting him.

There was no alternative, now, for our party but to have their exhausted

comrade carried, in some way, to Leyden. As for expecting him to skate

anymore that day, the thing was impossible. In truth, by this time each

boy began to entertain secret yearnings toward iceboats, and to avow a

Spartan resolve not to desert Jacob. Fortunately a gentle, steady breeze

was setting southward. If some accommodating schipper would but come

along, matters would not be quite so bad after all.

Peter hailed the first sail that appeared. The men in the stern would

not even look at him. Three drays on runners came along, but they were

already loaded to the utmost. Then an iceboat, a beautiful, tempting

little one, whizzed past like an arrow. The boys had just time to stare

eagerly at it when it was gone. In despair, they resolved to prop up

Jacob with their strong arms, as well as they could, and take him to the

nearest village.

At that moment a very shabby iceboat came in sight. With but little hope

of success Peter hailed at it, at the same time taking off his hat and

flourishing it in the air.

The sail was lowered, then came the scraping sound of the brake, and a

pleasant voice called from the deck, “What now?”

“Will you take us on?” cried Peter, hurrying with his companions as fast

as he could, for the boat as “bringing to” some distance ahead. “Will

you take us on?”

“We’ll pay for the ride!” shouted Carl.

The man on board scarcely noticed him except to mutter something about

its not being a trekschuit. Still looking toward Peter, he asked, “How

many?”

“Six.”

“Well, it’s Nicholas’s Day--up with you! Young gentleman sick?” He

nodded toward Jacob.

“Yes--broken down. Skated all the way from Broek,” answered Peter. “Do

you go to Leyden?”

“That’s as the wind says. It’s blowing that way now. Scramble up!”

Poor Jacob! If that willing Mrs. Poot had only appeared just then, her

services would have been invaluable. It was as much as the boys could do

to hoist him into the boat. All were in at last. The schipper, puffing

away at his pipe, let out the sail, lifted the brake, and sat in the

stern with folded arms.

“Whew! How fast we go!” cried Ben. “This is something like! Feel better,

Jacob?”

“Much petter, I tanks you.”

“Oh, you’ll be as good as new in ten minutes. This makes a fellow feel

like a bird.”

Jacob nodded and blinked his eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep, Jacob, it’s too cold. You might never wake up, you

know. Persons often freeze to death in that way.”

“I no sleep,” said Jacob confidently, and in two minutes he was snoring.

Carl and Ludwig laughed.

“We must wake him!” cried Ben. “It is dangerous, I tell you--Jacob!

Ja-a-c--”

Captain Peter interfered, for three of the boys were helping Ben for the

fun of the thing.

“Nonsense! Don’t shake him! Let him alone, boys. One never snores like

that when one’s freezing. Cover him up with something. Here, this cloak

will do. Hey, schipper?” and he looked toward the stern for permission

to use it.

The man nodded.

“There,” said Peter, tenderly adjusting the garment, “let him sleep. He

will be as frisky as a lamb when he wakes. How far are we from Leyden,

schipper?”

“Not more’n a couple of pipes,” replied a voice, rising from smoke like

the genii in fairy tales (puff! puff!). “Likely not more’n one an’ a

half”--puff! puff!--“if this wind holds.” Puff! puff! puff!

“What is the man saying, Lambert?” asked Ben, who was holding his

mittened hands against his cheeks to ward off the cutting air.

“He says we’re about two pipes from Leyden. Half the boors here on the

canal measure distance by the time it takes them to finish a pipe.”

“How ridiculous.”

“See here, Benjamin Dobbs,” retorted Lambert, growing unaccountably

indignant at Ben’s quiet smile. “See here, you’ve a way of calling every

other thing you see on THIS side of the German ocean ‘ridiculous.’ It

may suit YOU, this word, but it doesn’t suit ME. When you want anything

ridiculous, just remember your English custom of making the Lord Mayor

of London, at his installation, count the nails in a horseshoe to prove

HIS LEARNING.”

“Who told you we had any such custom as that?” cried Ben, looking grave

in an instant.

“Why, I KNOW it, no use of anyone telling me. It’s in all the books--and

it’s true. It strikes me,” continued Lambert, laughing in spite of

himself, “that you have been kept in happy ignorance of a good many

ridiculous things on YOUR side of the map.”

“Humph!” exclaimed Ben, trying not to smile. “I’ll inquire into that

Lord Mayor business when I get home. There must be some mistake.

B-r-r-roooo! How fast we’re going. This is glorious!”

It was a grand sail, or ride, I scarcely know which to call it; perhaps

FLY would be the best word, for the boys felt very much as Sinbad

did when, tied to the roc’s leg, he darted through the clouds; or as

Bellerophon felt when he shot through the air on the back of his winged

horse Pegasus.

Sailing, riding, or flying, whichever it was, everything was rushing

past, backward, and before they had time to draw a deep breath, Leyden

itself, with its high, peaked roofs, flew halfway to meet them.

When the city came in sight, it was high time to waken the sleeper. That

feat accomplished, Peter’s prophecy came to pass. Master Jacob was quite

restored and in excellent spirits.

The schipper made a feeble remonstrance when Peter, with hearty thanks,

endeavored to slip some silver pieces into his tough brown palm.

“Ye see, young master,” said he, drawing away his hand, “the regular

line o’ trade’s ONE thing, and a favor’s another.”

“I know it,” said Peter, “but those boys and girls of yours will want

sweets when you get home. Buy them some in the name of Saint Nicholas.”

The man grinned. “Aye, true enough, I’ve young ‘uns in plenty, a clean

boatload of them. You are a sharp young master at guessing.”

This time the knotty hand hitched forward again, quite carelessly, it

seemed, but its palm was upward. Peter hastily dropped in the money and

moved away.

The sail came tumbling down. Scrape, scrape went the brake, scattering

an ice shower round the boat.

“Good-bye, schipper!” shouted the boys, seizing their skates and leaping

from the deck one by one. “Many thanks to you!”

“Good-bye! good-b--Hold! Here! Stop! I want my coat.”

Ben was carefully assisting his cousin over the side of the boat.

“What is the man shouting about? Oh, I know, you have his wrapper round

your shoulders.”

“Dat ish true,” answered Jacob, half jumping, half tumbling down upon

the framework, “dat ish vot make him sho heavy.”

“Made YOU so heavy, you mean, Poot?”

“Ya, made you sho heavy--dat ish true,” said Jacob innocently as he

worked himself free of the big wrapper. “Dere, now you hands it mit him,

straits way, and tells him I vos much tanks for dat.”

“Ho! for an inn!” cried Peter as they stepped into the city. “Be brisk,

my fine fellows!”

Mynheer Kleef and His Bill of Fare

The boys soon found an unpretending establishment near the Breedstraat

(Broad Street) with a funnily painted lion over the door. This was the

Rood Leeuw or Red Lion, kept by one Huygens Kleef, a stout Dutchman with

short legs and a very long pipe.

By this time they were in a ravenous condition. The tiffin, taken at

Haarlem, had served only to give them an appetite, and this had been

heightened by their exercise and swift sail upon the canal.

“Come, mine host! Give us what you can!” cried Peter rather pompously.

“I can give you anything--everything,” answered Mynheer Kleef,

performing a difficult bow.

“Well, give us sausage and pudding.”

“Ah, mynheer, the sausage is all gone. There is no pudding.”

“Salmagundi, then, and plenty of it.”

“That is out also, young master.”

“Eggs, and be quick.”

“Winter eggs are VERY poor eating,” answered the innkeeper, puckering

his lips and lifting his eyebrows.

“No eggs? Well--caviar.”

The Dutchman raised his fat hands:

“Caviar! That is made of gold! Who has caviar to sell?”

Peter had sometimes eaten it at home; he knew that it was made of the

roes of the sturgeon and certain other large fish, but he had no idea of

its cost.

“Well, mine host, what have you?”

“What have I? Everything. I have rye bread, sauerkraut, potato salad,

and the fattest herring in Leyden.”

“What do you say, boys?” asked the captain. “Will that do?”

“Yes,” cried the famished youths, “if he’ll only be quick.”

Mynheer moved off like one walking in his sleep, but soon opened his

eyes wide at the miraculous manner in which his herring were made to

disappear. Next came, or rather went, potato salad, rye bread, and

coffee--then Utrecht water flavored with orange, and, finally, slices of

dry gingerbread. This last delicacy was not on the regular bill of fare,

but Mynheer Kleef, driven to extremes, solemnly produced it from his

own private stores and gave only a placid blink when his voracious young

travelers started up, declaring they had eaten enough.

“I should think so!” he exclaimed internally, but his smooth face gave

no sign.

Softly rubbing his hands, he asked, “Will your worships have beds?”

“‘Will your worships have beds?’” mocked Carl. “What do you mean? Do we

look sleepy?”

“Not at all, master. But I would cause them to be warmed and aired. None

sleep under damp sheets at the Red Lion.”

“Ah, I understand. Shall we come back here to sleep, captain?”

Peter was accustomed to finer lodgings, but this was a frolic.

“Why not?” he replied. “We can fare excellently here.”

“Your worship speaks only the truth,” said mynheer with great deference.

“How fine to be called ‘your worship,’” laughed Ludwig aside to Lambert,

while Peter replied, “Well, mine host, you may get the rooms ready by

nine.”

“I have one beautiful chamber, with three beds, that will hold all of

your worships,” said Mynheer Kleef coaxingly.

“That will do.”

“Whew!” whistled Carl when they reached the street.

Ludwig startled. “What now?”

“Nothing, only Mynheer Kleef of the Red Lion little thinks how we shall

make things spin in that same room tonight. We’ll set the bolsters

flying!”

“Order!” cried the captain. “Now, boys, I must seek this great Dr.

Boekman before I sleep. If he is in Leyden it will be no great task to

find him, for he always puts up at the Golden Eagle when he comes here.

I wonder that you did not all go to bed at once. Still, as you are

awake, what say you to walking with Ben up by the Museum or the

Stadhuis?”

“Agreed,” said Ludwig and Lambert, but Jacob preferred to go with Peter.

In vain Ben tried to persuade him to remain at the inn and rest. He

declared that he never felt “petter,” and wished of all things to take a

look at the city, for it was his first “stop mit Leyden.”

“Oh, it will not harm him,” said Lambert. “How long the day has

been--and what glorious sport we have had! It hardly seems possible that

we left Broek only this morning.”

Jacob yawned.

“I have enjoyed it well,” he said, “but it seems to me at least a week

since we started.”

Carl laughed and muttered something about “twenty naps.”

“Here we are at the corner. Remember, we all meet at the Red Lion at

eight,” said the captain as he and Jacob walked away.

The Red Lion Becomes Dangerous

The boys were glad to find a blazing fire awaiting them upon their

return to the Red Lion. Carl and his party were there first. Soon

afterward Peter and Jacob came in. They had inquired in vain concerning

Dr. Boekman. All they could ascertain was that he had been seen in

Haarlem that morning.

“As for his being in Leyden,” the landlord of the Golden Eagle had said

to Peter, “the thing is impossible. He always lodges here when in town.

By this time there would be a crowd at my door waiting to consult him.

Bah! People make such fools of themselves!”

“He is called a great surgeon,” said Peter.

“Yes, the greatest in Holland. But what of that? What of being the

greatest pill choker and knife slasher in the world? The man is a bear.

Only last month on this very spot, he called me a PIG, before three

customers!”

“No!” exclaimed Peter, trying to look surprised and indignant.

“Yes, master--A PIG,” repeated the landlord, puffing at his pipe with an

injured air. “Bah! If he did not pay fine prices and bring customers

to my house, I would sooner see him in the Vleit Canal than give him

lodging.”

Perhaps mine host felt that he was speaking too openly to a stranger, or

it may be he saw a smile lurking in Peter’s face, for he added sharply,

“Come, now, what more do you wish? Supper? Beds?”

“No, mynheer, I am but searching for Dr. Boekman.”

“Go find him. He is not in Leyden.”

Peter was not to be put off so easily. He succeeded in obtaining

permission to leave a note for the famous surgeon, or rather, he BOUGHT

from his amiable landlord the privilege of writing it there, and a

promise that it should be promptly delivered when Dr. Boekman arrived.

This accomplished, Peter and Jacob returned to the Red Lion.

This inn had once been a fine house, the home of a rich burgher, but

having grown old and shabby, it had passed through many hands, until

finally it had fallen into the possession of Mynheer Kleef. He was fond

of saying as he looked up at its dingy, broken walls, “Mend it and paint

it, and there’s not a prettier house in Leyden.” It stood six stories

high from the street. The first three were of equal breadth but of

various heights, the last three were in the great, high roof, and grew

smaller and smaller like a set of double steps until the top one was

lost in a point. The roof was built of short, shining tiles, and the

windows, with their little panes, seemed to be scattered irregularly

over the face of the building, without the slightest attention to

outward effect. But the public room on the ground floor was the

landlord’s joy and pride. He never said, “Mend it and paint it,” there,

for everything was in the highest condition of Dutch neatness and order.

If you will but open your mind’s eye, you may look into the apartment.

Imagine a large, bare room, with a floor that seemed to be made of

squares cut out of glazed earthen pie-dishes, first a yellow piece, then

a red, until the whole looked like a vast checkerboard. Fancy a dozen

high-backed wooden chairs standing around; then a great hollow chimney

place all aglow with its blazing fire, reflected a hundred times in the

polished steel firedogs; a tiled hearth, tiled sides, tiled top, with

a Dutch sentence upon it; and over all, high above one’s head, a narrow

mantleshelf, filled with shining brass candlesticks, pipe lighters, and

tinderboxes. Then see, in one end of the room, three pine tables; in

the other, a closet and a deal dresser. The latter is filled with mugs,

dishes, pipes, tankards, earthen and glass bottles, and is guarded at

one end by a brass-hooped keg standing upon long legs. Everything is dim

with tobacco smoke, but otherwise as clean as soap and sand can make it.

Next, picture two sleepy, shabby-looking men, in wooden shoes, seated

near the glowing fireplace, hugging their knees and smoking short,

stumpy pipes; Mynheer Kleef walking softly and heavily about, clad in

leather knee breeches, felt shoes, and a green jacket wider than it

is long; then throw a heap of skates in the corner and put six tired

well-dressed boys, in various attitudes, upon the wooden chairs, and

you will see the coffee room of the Red Lion just as it appeared at nine

o’clock upon the evening of December 6, 184--. For supper, gingerbread

again, slices of Dutch sausage, rye bread sprinkled with anise seed,

pickles, a bottle of Utrecht water, and a pot of very mysterious coffee.

The boys were ravenous enough to take all they could get and pronounce

it excellent. Ben made wry faces, but Jacob declared he had never eaten

a better meal. After they had laughed and talked awhile, and counted

their money by way of settling a discussion that arose concerning their

expenses, the captain marched his company off to bed, led on by a greasy

pioneer boy who carried skates and a candlestick instead of an ax.

One of the ill-favored men by the fire had shuffled toward the dresser

and was ordering a mug of beer, just as Ludwig, who brought up the rear,

was stepping from the apartment. “I don’t like that fellow’s eye,” he

whispered to Carl. “He looks like a pirate or something of that kind.”

“Looks like a granny!” answered Carl in sleepy disdain.

Ludwig laughed uneasily.

“Granny or no granny,” he whispered, “I tell you he looks just like one

of those men in the voetspoelen.”

“Pooh!” sneered Carl, “I knew it. That picture was too much for you.

Look sharp now, and see if yon fellow with the candle doesn’t look like

the other villain.”

“No, indeed, his face is as honest as a Gouda cheese. But, I say, Carl,

that really was a horrid picture.”

“Humph! What did you stare at it so long for?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

By this time the boys had reached the “beautiful room with three beds in

it.” A dumpy little maiden with long earrings met them at the doorway,

dropped them a curtsy, and passed out. She carried a long-handled thing

that resembled a frying pan with a cover.

“I am glad to see that,” said Van Mounen to Ben.

“What?”

“Why, the warming pan. It’s full of hot ashes; she’s been heating our

beds.”

“Oh, a warming pan, eh! Much obliged to her, I’m sure,” said Ben, too

sleepy to make any further comment.

Meantime, Ludwig still talked of the picture that had made such a strong

impression upon him. He had seen it in a shop window during their walk.

It was a poorly painted thing, representing two men tied back to

back, standing on shipboard, surrounded by a group of seamen who were

preparing to cast them together into the sea. This mode of putting

prisoners to death was called voetspoelen, or feet washing, and was

practiced by the Dutch upon the pirates of Dunkirk in 1605; and again by

the Spaniards against the Dutch, in the horrible massacre that followed

the siege of Haarlem. Bad as the painting was, the expression upon the

pirates’ faces was well given. Sullen and despairing as they seemed,

they wore such a cruel, malignant aspect that Ludwig had felt a secret

satisfaction in contemplating their helpless condition. He might have

forgotten the scene by this time but for that ill-looking man by the

fire. Now, while he capered about, boylike, and threw himself with an

antic into his bed, he inwardly hoped that the voetspoelen would not

haunt his dreams.

It was a cold, cheerless room; a fire had been newly kindled in the

burnished stove and seemed to shiver even while it was trying to burn.

The windows, with their funny little panes, were bare and shiny, and the

cold waxed floor looked like a sheet of yellow ice. Three rush-bottomed

chairs stood stiffly against the wall, alternating with three narrow

wooden bedsteads that made the room look like the deserted ward of

a hospital. At any other time the boys would have found it quite

impossible to sleep in pairs, especially in such narrow quarters, but

tonight they lost all fear of being crowded and longed only to lay their

weary bodies upon the feather beds that lay lightly upon each cot.

Had the boys been in Germany instead of Holland, they might have been

covered, also, by a bed of down or feathers. This peculiar form of

luxury was at that time adopted only by wealthy or eccentric Hollanders.

Ludwig, as we have seen, had not quite lost his friskiness, but the

other boys, after one or two feeble attempts at pillow firing, composed

themselves for the night with the greatest dignity. Nothing like fatigue

for making boys behave themselves!

“Good night, boys!” said Peter’s voice from under the covers.

“Good night,” called back everybody but Jacob, who already lay snoring

beside the captain.

“I say,” shouted Carl after a moment, “don’t sneeze, anybody. Ludwig’s

in a fright!”

“No such thing,” retorted Ludwig in a smothered voice. Then there was a

little whispered dispute, which was ended by Carl saying, “For my part,

I don’t know what fear is. But you really are a timid fellow, Ludwig.”

Ludwig grunted sleepily, but made no further reply.

It was the middle of the night. The fire had shivered itself to death,

and, in place of its gleams, little squares of moonlight lay upon the

floor, slowly, slowly shifting their way across the room. Something else

was moving also, but the boys did not see it. Sleeping boys keep but a

poor lookout. During the early hours of the night, Jacob Poot had been

gradually but surely winding himself with all the bed covers. He now lay

like a monster chrysalis beside the half-frozen Peter, who, accordingly,

was skating with all his might over the coldest, bleakest of dreamland

icebergs.

Something else, I say, besides the moonlight, was moving across

the bare, polished floor--moving not quite so slowly, but quite as

stealthily.

Wake up, Ludwig! The voetspoelen is growing real!

No. Ludwig does not waken, but he moans in his sleep.

Does not Carl hear it--Carl the brave, the fearless?

No. Carl is dreaming of the race.

And Jacob? Van Mounen? Ben?

Not they. They, too, are dreaming of the race, and Katrinka is singing

through their dreams--laughing, flitting past them; now and then a wave

from the great organ surges through their midst.

Still the thing moves, slowly, slowly.

Peter! Captain Peter, there is danger!

Peter heard no call, but in his dream, he slid a few thousand feet from

one iceberg to another, and the shock awoke him.

Whew! How cold he was! He gave a hopeless, desperate tug at the

chrysalis in vain. Sheet, blanket, and spread were firmly wound around

Jacob’s inanimate form.

Clear moonlight, he thought. We shall have pleasant weather tomorrow.

Halloo! What’s that?

He saw the moving thing, or rather something black crouching upon the

floor, for it had halted as Peter stirred.

He watched in silence.

Soon it moved again, nearer and nearer. It was a man crawling upon hands

and feet!

The captain’s first impulse was to call out, but he took an instant to

consider matters.

The creeper had a shining knife in one hand. This was ugly, but Peter

was naturally self-possessed. When the head turned, Peter’s eyes were

closed as if in sleep, but at other times, nothing could be keener,

sharper than the captain’s gaze.

Closer, closer crept the robber. His back was very near Peter now. The

knife was laid softly upon the floor. One careful arm reached forth

stealthily to drag the clothes from the chair by the captain’s bed--the

robbery was commenced.

Now was Peter’s time! Holding his breath, he sprang up and leaped with

all his strength upon the robber’s back, stunning the rascal with the

force of the blow. To seize the knife was but a second’s work. The

robber began to struggle, but Peter sat like a giant astride the

prostrate form.

“If you stir,” said the brave boy in as terrible a voice as he could

command, “stir but one inch, I will plunge this knife into your neck.

Boys! Boys! Wake up!” he shouted, still pressing down the black head and

holding the knife at pricking distance. “Give us a hand! I’ve got him!”

The chrysalis rolled over, but made no other sign.

“Up, boys!” cried Peter, never budging. “Ludwig! Lambert! Donder! Are

you all dead?”

Dead? Not they! Van Mounen and Ben were on their feet in an instant.

“Hey! What now?” they shouted.

“I’ve got a robber here,” said Peter coolly. “Lie still, you scoundrel,

or I’ll slice your head off! Now, boys, cut out your bed cord--plenty of

time--he’s a dead man if he stirs.”

Peter felt that he weighed a thousand pounds. So he did, with that knife

in his hand.

The man growled and swore but dared not move.

Ludwig was up by this time. He had a great jackknife, the pride of his

heart, in his breeches pocket. It could do good service now. They bared

the bedstead in a moment. It was laced backward and forward with a rope.

“I’ll cut it,” cried Ludwig, sawing away at the knot. “Hold him tight,

Peter!”

“Never fear!” answered the captain, giving the robber a warning prick.

The boys were soon pulling at the rope like good fellows. It was out at

last--a long, stout piece.

“Now, boys,” commanded the captain, “lift up his rascally arms! Cross

his hands over his back! That’s right--excuse me for being in the

way--tie them tight!”

“Yes, and his feet too, the villain!” cried the boys in great

excitement, tying knot after knot with Herculean jerks.

The prisoner changed his tone.

“Oh--oh!” he moaned. “Spare a poor sick man--I was but walking in my

sleep.”

“Ugh!” grunted Lambert, still tugging away at the rope. “Asleep, were

you? Well, we’ll wake you up.”

The man muttered fierce oaths between his teeth, then cried in a piteous

voice, “Unbind me, good young masters! I have five little children at

home. By Saint Bavon I swear to give you each a ten-guilder piece if you

will but free me!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Peter.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the other boys.

Then came threats, threats that made Ludwig fairly shudder, though he

continued to bind and tie with redoubled energy.

“Hold up, mynheer housebreaker,” said Van Mounen in a warning voice.

“That knife is very near your throat. If you make the captain nervous,

there is no telling what may happen.”

The robber took the hint, and fell into a sullen silence.

Just at this moment the chrysalis upon the bed stirred and sat erect.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, without opening his eyes.

“Matter!” echoed Ludwig, half trembling, half laughing. “Get up, Jacob.

Here’s work for you. Come sit on this fellow’s back while we get into

our clothes, we’re half perished.”

“What fellow? Donder!”

“Hurrah for Poot!” cried all the boys as Jacob, sliding quickly to the

floor, bedclothes and all, took in the state of affairs at a glance and

sat heavily beside Peter on the robber’s back.

Oh, didn’t the fellow groan then!

“No use in holding him down any longer, boys,” said Peter, rising, but

bending as he did so to draw a pistol from the man’s belt. “You see I’ve

been keeping a guard over this pretty little weapon for the last ten

minutes. It’s cocked, and the least wriggle might have set it off. No

danger now. I must dress myself. You and I, Lambert, will go for the

police. I’d no idea it was so cold.”

“Where is Carl?” asked one of the boys.

They looked at one another. Carl certainly was not among them.

“Oh!” cried Ludwig, frightened at last. “Where is he? Perhaps he’s had a

fight with the robber and got killed.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Peter quietly as he buttoned his stout jacket.

“Look under the beds.”

They did so. Carl was not there.

Just then they heard a commotion on the stairway. Ben hastened to

open the door. The landlord almost tumbled in; he was armed with a big

blunderbuss. Two or three lodgers followed; then the daughter, with an

upraised frying pan in one hand and a candle in the other; and behind

her, looking pale and frightened, the gallant Carl!

“There’s your man, mine host,” said Peter, nodding toward the prisoner.

Mine host raised his blunderbuss, the girl screamed, and Jacob, more

nimble than usual, rolled quickly from the robber’s back.

“Don’t fire,” cried Peter, “he is tied, hand and foot. Let’s roll him

over and see what he looks like.”

Carl stepped briskly forward, with a bluster, “Yes. We’ll turn him over

in a way he won’t like. Lucky we’ve caught him!”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Ludwig. “Where were you, Master Carl?”

“Where was I?” retorted Carl angrily. “Why, I went to give the alarm, to

be sure!”

All the boys exchanged glances, but they were too happy and elated to

say anything ill-natured. Carl certainly was bold enough now. He took

the lead while three others aided him in turning the helpless man.

While the robber lay faceup, scowling and muttering, Ludwig took the

candlestick from the girl’s hand.

“I must have a good look at the beauty,” he said, drawing closer, but

the words were no sooner spoken than he turned pale and started so

violently that he almost dropped the candle.

“The voetspoelen!” he cried! “Why, boys, it’s the man who sat by the

fire!”

“Of course it is,” answered Peter. “We counted out money before him like

simpletons. But what have we to do with voetspoelen, brother Ludwig? A

month in jail is punishment enough.”

The landlord’s daughter had left the room. She now ran in, holding up a

pair of huge wooden shoes. “See, father,” she cried, “here are his great

ugly boats. It’s the man that we put in the next room after the young

masters went to bed. Ah! It was wrong to send the poor young gentlemen

up here so far out of sight and sound.”

“The scoundrel!” hissed the landlord. “He has disgraced my house. I go

for the police at once!”

In less than fifteen minutes two drowsy-looking officers were in the

room. After telling Mynheer Kleef that he must appear early in the

morning with the boys and make his complaint before a magistrate, they

marched off with their prisoner.

One would think the captain and his band could have slept no more that

night, but the mooring has not yet been found that can prevent youth and

an easy conscience from drifting down the river of dreams. The boys were

much too fatigued to let so slight a thing as capturing a robber bind

them to wakefulness. They were soon in bed again, floating away to

strange scenes made of familiar things. Ludwig and Carl had spread their

bedding upon the floor. One had already forgotten the voetspoelen,

the race--everything; but Carl was wide-awake. He heard the carillons

ringing out their solemn nightly music and the watchman’s noisy clapper

putting in discord at the quarter hours; he saw the moonshine glide away

from the window and the red morning light come pouring in, and all the

while he kept thinking, Pooh! what a goose I have made of myself!

Carl Schummel, alone, with none to look or to listen, was not quite so

grand a fellow as Carl Schummel strutting about in his boots.

Before the Court

You may believe that the landlord’s daughter bestirred herself to

prepare a good meal for the boys next morning. Mynheer had a Chinese

gong that could make more noise than a dozen breakfast bells. Its

hideous reveille, clanging through the house, generally startled the

drowsiest lodgers into activity, but the maiden would not allow it to be

sounded this morning.

“Let the brave young gentlemen sleep,” she said to the greasy kitchen

boy. “They shall be warmly fed when they awaken.”

It was ten o’clock when Captain Peter and his band came straggling down

one by one.

“A pretty hour,” said mine host, gruffly. “It is high time we were

before the court. Fine business, this, for a respectable inn. You will

testify truly, young masters, that you found most excellent fare and

lodging at the Red Lion?”

“Of course we will,” answered Carl saucily, “and pleasant company, too,

though they visit at rather unseasonable hours.”

A stare and a “humph!” was all the answer mynheer made to this, but the

daughter was more communicative. Shaking her earrings at Carl, she said

sharply, “Not so very pleasant, either, master traveler, if you could

judge by the way YOU ran away from it!”

“Impertinent creature!” hissed Carl under his breath as he began busily

to examine his skate straps. Meantime the kitchen boy, listening outside

at the crack of the door, doubled himself with silent laughter.

After breakfast the boys went to the police court, accompanied by

Huygens Kleef and his daughter. Mynheer’s testimony was principally

to the effect that such a thing as a robber at the Red Lion had been

unheard of until last night, and as for the Red Lion, it was a most

respectable inn, as respectable as any house in Leyden. Each boy, in

turn, told all that he knew of the affair and identified the prisoner

in the box as the same man who entered their room in the dead of night.

Ludwig was surprised to find that the prisoner in the box was a man of

ordinary size--especially after he had described him, under oath, to the

court as a tremendous fellow with great, square shoulders and legs

of prodigious weight. Jacob swore that he was awakened by the robber

kicking and thrashing upon the floor, and immediately afterward, Peter

and the rest (feeling sorry that they had not explained the matter to

their sleepy comrade) testified that the man had not moved a muscle from

the moment the point of the dagger touched his throat, until, bound from

head to foot, he was rolled over for inspection. The landlord’s daughter

made one boy blush, and all the court smile, by declaring, “If it hadn’t

been for that handsome young gentleman there”--pointing to Peter--“they

might have all been murdered in their beds; for the dreadful man had

a great, shining knife most as long as Your Honor’s arm,” and SHE

believed, “the handsome young gentleman had struggled hard enough to get

it away from him, but he was too modest, bless him! to say so.”

Finally, after a little questioning, and cross-questioning from the

public prosecutor, the witnesses were dismissed, and the robber was

handed over to the consideration of the criminal court.

“The scoundrel!” said Carl savagely when the boys reached the street.

“He ought to be sent to jail at once. If I had been in your place,

Peter, I certainly should have killed him outright!”

“He was fortunate, then, in falling into gentler hands,” was Peter’s

quiet reply. “It appears he has been arrested before under a charge of

housebreaking. He did not succeed in robbing this time, but he broke the

door-fastenings, and that I believe constitutes a burglary in the eyes

of the law. He was armed with a knife, too, and that makes it worse for

him, poor fellow!”

“Poor fellow!” mimicked Carl. “One would think he was your brother!”

“So he is my brother, and yours too, Carl Schummel, for that matter,”

answered Peter, looking into Carl’s eye. “We cannot say what we might

have become under other circumstances. WE have been bolstered up from

evil, since the hour we were born. A happy home and good parents might

have made that man a fine fellow instead of what he is. God grant that

the law may cure and not crush him!”

“Amen to that!” said Lambert heartily while Ludwig van Holp looked at

his brother in such a bright, proud way that Jacob Poot, who was an only

son, wished from his heart that the little form buried in the old church

at home had lived to grow up beside him.

“Humph!” said Carl. “It’s all very well to be saintly and forgiving,

and all that sort of thing, but I’m naturally hard. All these fine

ideas seem to rattle off me like hailstones--and it’s nobody’s business,

either, if they do.”

Peter recognized a touch of good feeling in this clumsy concession.

Holding out his hand, he said in a frank, hearty tone, “Come, lad, shake

hands, and let us be good friends, even if we don’t exactly agree on all

questions.”

“We do agree better than you think,” sulked Carl as he returned Peter’s

grasp.

“All right,” responded Peter briskly. “Now, Van Mounen, we await

Benjamin’s wishes. Where would he like to go?”

“To the Egyptian Museum?” answered Lambert after holding a brief

consultation with Ben.

“That is on the Breedstraat. To the museum let it be. Come, boys!”

The Beleaguered Cities

“This open square before us,” said Lambert, as he and Ben walked on

together, “is pretty in summer, with its shady trees. They call it the

Ruine. Years ago it was covered with houses, and the Rapenburg Canal,

here, ran through the street. Well, one day a barge loaded with forty

thousand pounds of gunpowder, bound for Delft, was lying alongside, and

the bargemen took a notion to cook their dinner on the deck, and before

anyone knew it, sir, the whole thing blew up, killing lots of persons

and scattering about three hundred houses to the winds.”

“What!” exclaimed Ben. “Did the explosion destroy three hundred houses!”

“Yes, sir, my father was in Leyden at the time. He says it was terrible.

The explosion occurred just at noon and it was like a volcano. All this

part of the town was on fire in an instant, buildings tumbling down and

men, women, and children groaning under the ruins. The king himself came

to the city and acted nobly, Father says, staying out in the streets all

night, encouraging the survivors in their efforts to arrest the fire and

rescue as many as possible from under the heaps of stone and rubbish.

Through his means a collection for the benefit of the sufferers was

raised throughout the kingdom, besides a hundred thousand guilders paid

out of the treasury. Father was only nineteen years old then. It was

in 1807, I believe, but he remembers it perfectly. A friend of his,

Professor Luzac, was among the killed. They have a tablet erected to his

memory, in Saint Peter’s Church, farther on--the queerest thing you ever

saw, with an image of the professor carved upon it, representing him

just as he looked when he was found after the explosion.”

“What a strange idea! Isn’t Boerhaave’s monument in Saint Peter’s also?”

“I cannot remember. Perhaps Peter knows.”

The captain delighted Ben by saying that the monument was there and that

he thought they might be able to see it during the day.

“Lambert,” continued Peter, “ask Ben if he saw Van der Werf’s portrait

at the town hall last night?”

“No,” said Lambert, “I can answer for him. It was too late to go in. I

say, boys, it is really wonderful how much Ben knows. Why, he has told

me a volume of Dutch history already. I’ll wager he has the siege of

Leyden at his tongue’s end.”

“His tongue must burn, then,” interposed Ludwig, “for if Bilderdyk’s

account is true, it was a pretty hot affair.”

Ben was looking at them with an inquiring smile.

“We are speaking of the siege of Leyden,” explained Lambert.

“Oh, yes,” said Ben, eagerly, “I had forgotten all about it. This was

the very place. Let’s give old Van der Werf three cheers. Hur--”

Van Mounen uttered a hasty “Hush!” and explained that, patriotic as the

Dutch were, the police would soon have something to say if a party of

boys cheered in the street at midday.

“What? Not cheer Van der Werf?” cried Ben, indignantly. “One of the

greatest chaps in history? Only think! Didn’t he hold out against

those murderous Spaniards for months and months? There was the town,

surrounded on all sides by the enemy; great black forts sending fire

and death into the very heart of the city--but no surrender! Every man

a hero--women and children, too, brave and fierce as lions, provisions

giving out, the very grass from between the paving stones gone--till

people were glad to eat horses and cats and dogs and rats. Then came the

plague--hundreds dying in the streets--but no surrender! Then when they

could bear no more, when the people, brave as they were, crowded about

Van der Werf in the public square begging him to give up, what did the

noble old burgomaster say? ‘I have sworn to defend this city, and with

God’s help, I MEAN TO DO IT! If my body can satisfy your hunger, take

it, and divide it among you, but expect no surrender so long as I am

alive.’ Hurrah! hur--”

Ben was getting uproarious; Lambert playfully clapped his hand over his

friend’s mouth. The result was one of those quick India-rubber scuffles

fearful to behold but delightful to human nature in its polliwog state.

“Vat wash te matter, Pen?” asked Jacob, hurrying forward.

“Oh! nothing at all,” panted Ben, “except that Van Mounen was afraid of

starting an English riot in this orderly town. He stopped my cheering

for old Van der--”

“Ya! ya--it ish no goot to sheer--to make te noise for dat. You vill

shee old Van der Does’s likeness mit te Stadhuis.”

“See old Van der Does? I thought it was Van der Werf’s picture they had

there.”

“Ya,” responded Jacob, “Van der Werf--vell, vot of it! Both ish just ash

goot--”

“Yes, Van der Does was a noble old Dutchman, but he was not Van der

Werf. I know he defended the city like a brick, and--”

“Now vot for you shay dat, Penchamin? He no defend te city mit breek,

he fight like goot soltyer mit his guns. You like make te fun mit

effrysinks Tutch.”

“No! No! No! I said he defended the city LIKE a brick. That is very high

praise, I would have you understand. We English call even the Duke of

Wellington a brick.”

Jacob looked puzzled, but his indignation was already on the ebb.

“Vell, it ish no matter. I no tink, before, soltyer mean breek, but it

ish no matter.”

Ben laughed good-naturedly, and seeing that his cousin was tired of

talking in English, he turned to his friend of the two languages.

“Van Mounen, they say the very carrier pigeons that brought news of

relief to the besieged city are somewhere here in Leyden. I really

should like to see them. Just think of it! At the very height of the

trouble, if the wind didn’t turn and blow in the waters, and drown

hundreds of Spaniards and enable the Dutch boats to sail in right over

the land with men and provisions to the very gates of the city. The

pigeons, you know, did great service, in bearing letters to and fro. I

have read somewhere that they were reverently cared for from that day,

and when they died, they were stuffed and placed for safekeeping in the

town hall. We must be sure to have a look at them.”

Van Mounen laughed. “On that principle, Ben, I suppose when you go to

Rome you’ll expect to see the identical goose who saved the capitol. But

it will be easy enough to see the pigeons. They are in the same building

with Van der Werf’s portrait. Which was the greater defense, Ben, the

siege of Leyden or the siege of Haarlem?”

“Well,” replied Ben thoughtfully, “Van der Werf is one of my heroes. We

all have our historical pets, you know, but I really think the siege

of Haarlem brought out a braver, more heroic resistance even, than the

Leyden one; besides, they set the Leyden sufferers an example of courage

and fortitude, for their turn came first.”

“I don’t know much about the Haarlem siege,” said Lambert, “except that

it was in 1573. Who beat?”

“The Spaniards,” said Ben. “The Dutch had stood out for months. Not a

man would yield nor a woman, either, for that matter. They shouldered

arms and fought gallantly beside their husbands and fathers. Three

hundred of them did duty under Kanau Hesselaer, a great woman, and brave

as Joan of Arc. All this time the city was surrounded by the Spaniards

under Frederic of Toledo, son of that beauty, the Duke of Alva. Cut off

from all possible help from without, there seemed to be no hope for the

inhabitants, but they shouted defiance over the city walls. They even

threw bread into the enemy’s camps to show that they were not afraid of

starvation. Up to the last they held out bravely, waiting for the help

that never could come--growing bolder and bolder until their provisions

were exhausted. Then it was terrible. In time, hundreds of famished

creatures fell dead in the streets, and the living had scarcely strength

to bury them. At last they made the desperate resolution that, rather

than perish by lingering torture, the strongest would form a square,

placing the weakest in the center, and rush in a body to their death,

with the faint chance of being able to fight their way through the

enemy. The Spaniards received a hint of this, and believing that there

was nothing the Dutch would not dare to do, they concluded to offer

terms.”

“High time, I should think.”

“Yes, with falsehood and treachery they soon obtained an entrance into

the city, promising protection and forgiveness to all except those whom

the citizens themselves would acknowledge as deserving of death.”

“You don’t say so!” said Lambert, quite interested. “That ended the

business, I suppose.”

“Not a bit of it,” returned en, “for the Duke of Alva had already given

his son orders to show mercy to none.”

“Ah! That was where the great Haarlem massacre came in. I remember now.

You can’t wonder that the Hollanders dislike Spain when you read of the

way they were butchered by Alva and his hosts, though I admit that our

side sometimes retaliated terribly. But as I have told you before,

I have a very indistinct idea of historical matters. Everything is

confusion--from the flood to the battle of Waterloo. One thing is plain,

however, the Duke of Alva was about the worst specimen of a man that

ever lived.”

“That gives only a faint idea of him,” said Ben, “but I hate to think

of such a wretch. What if he HAD brains and military skill, and all that

sort of thing! Give me such men as Van der Werf, and--What now?”

“Why,” said Van Mounen, who was looking up and down the street in a

bewildered way. “We’ve walked right past the museum, and I don’t see the

boys. Let us go back.”

Leyden

The boys met at the museum and were soon engaged in examining its

extensive collection of curiosities, receiving a new insight into

Egyptian life, ancient and modern. Ben and Lambert had often visited the

British Museum, but that did not prevent them from being surprised at

the richness of the Leyden collection. There were household utensils,

wearing apparel, weapons, musical instruments, sarcophagi, and mummies

of men, women, and cats, ibexes, and other creatures. They saw a massive

gold armlet that had been worn by an Egyptian king at a time when some

of these same mummies, perhaps, were nimbly treading the streets of

Thebes; and jewels and trinkets such as Pharaoh’s daughter wore, and the

children of Israel borrowed when they departed out of Egypt.

There were other interesting relics, from Rome and Greece, and some

curious Roman pottery which had been discovered in digging near The

Hague--relics of the days when the countrymen of Julius Caesar had

settled there. Where have they not settled? I for one would hardly be

astonished if relics of the ancient Romans should someday be found deep

under the grass growing around the Bunker Hill monument.

When the boys left this museum, they went to another and saw a wonderful

collection of fossil animals, skeletons, birds, minerals, precious

stones, and other natural specimens, but as they were not learned men,

they could only walk about and stare, enjoy the little knowledge of

natural history they possessed, and wish with all their hearts they

had acquired more. Even the skeleton of the mouse puzzled Jacob. What

wonder? He was not used to seeing the cat-fearing little creatures

running about in their bones--and how could he ever have imagined their

necks to be so queer?

Besides the Museum of Natural History, there was Saint Peter’s Church

to be visited, containing Professor Luzac’s memorial, and Boerhaave’s

monument of white and black marble, with its urn and carved symbols of

the four ages of life, and its medallion of Boerhaave, adorned with his

favorite motto, Simplex sigillum veri. They also obtained admittance to

a tea garden, which in summer was a favorite resort of the citizens and,

passing naked oaks and fruit trees, ascended to a high mound which stood

in the center. This was the site of a round tower now in ruins, said by

some to have been built by Hengist the Anglo-Saxon king, and by others

to have been the castle of one of the ancient counts of Holland.

As the boys walked about on the top of its stone wall, they could get

but a poor view of the surrounding city. The tower stood higher when,

more than two centuries ago, the inhabitants of beleaguered Leyden

shouted to the watcher on its top their wild, despairing cries, “Is

there any help? Are the waters rising? What do you see?”

And for months he could only answer, “No help. I see around us nothing

but the enemy.”

Ben pushed these thoughts away and, resolutely looking down into the

bare tea garden, filled it in imagination with gay summer groups. He

tried to forget old battle clouds, and picture only curling wreaths of

tobacco smoke rising from among men, women, and children enjoying their

tea and coffee in the open air. But a tragedy came in spite of him.

Poot was bending over the edge of the high wall. It would be just like

him to grow dizzy and tumble off. Ben turned impatiently away. If the

fellow, with his weak head, knew no better than to be venturesome, why,

let him tumble. Horror! What mean that heavy, crashing sound?

Ben could not stir. He could only gasp. “Jacob!”

“Jacob!” cried another startled voice and another. Ready to faint, Ben

managed to turn his head. He saw a crowd of boys on the edge of the wall

opposite, but Jacob was not there!

“Good heavens!” he cried, springing forward, “where is my cousin?”

The crowd parted. It was only four boys, after all. There sat Jacob in

their midst, holding his sides and laughing heartily.

“Did I frighten you all?” he said in his native Dutch. “Well, I will

tell you how it was. There was a big stone lying on the wall and I put

my--my foot out just to push it a little, you see, and the first thing I

knew, down went the stone all the way to the bottom and left me sitting

here on top with both my feet in the air. If I had not thrown myself

back at that moment, I certainly should have rolled over after the

stone. Well, it is no matter. Help me up, boys.”

“You’re hurt!” said Ben, seeing a shade of seriousness pass over his

cousin’s face as they lifted him to his feet.

Jacob tried to laugh again. “Oh, no--I feels a little hurt ven I stant

up, but it ish no matter.”

The monument to Van der Werf in the Hooglandsche Kerk was not accessible

that day, but the boys spent a few pleasant moments in the Stadhuis

or town hall, a long irregular structure somewhat in the Gothic style,

uncouth in architecture but picturesque from age. Its little steeple,

tuneful with bells, seemed to have been borrowed from some other

building and hastily clapped on as a finishing touch.

Ascending the grand staircase, the boys soon found themselves in a

rather gloomy apartment, containing the masterpiece of Lucas van Leyden,

or Hugens, a Dutch artist born three hundred and seventy years ago, who

painted well when he was ten years of age and became distinguished

in art when only fifteen. This picture, called the Last Judgment,

considering the remote age in which it was painted, is truly a

remarkable production. The boys, however, were less interested in

tracing out the merits of the work than they were in the fact of its

being a triptych--that is, painted on three divisions, the two outer

ones swung on hinges so as to close, when required, over the main

portion.

The historical pictures of Harel de Moor and other famous Dutch artists

interested them for a while, and Ben had to be almost pulled away from

the dingy old portrait of Van der Werf.

The town hall, as well as the Egyptian Museum, is on the Breedstraat,

the longest and finest street in Leyden. It has no canal running

through it, and the houses, painted in every variety of color, have a

picturesque effect as they stand with their gable ends to the street;

some are very tall with half their height in their step-like roofs;

others crouch before the public edifices and churches. Being clean,

spacious, well-shaded, and adorned with many elegant mansions, it

compares favorably with the finery portions of Amsterdam. It is kept

scrupulously neat. Many of the gutters are covered with boards that open

like trapdoors, and it is supplied with pumps surmounted with shining

brass ornaments kept scoured and bright at the public cost. The city

is intersected by numerous water roads formed by the river Rhine, there

grown sluggish, fatigued by its long travel, but more than one hundred

and fifty stone bridges reunite the dissevered streets. The same

world-renowned river, degraded from the beautiful, free-flowing Rhine,

serves as a moat from the rampart that surrounds Leyden and is crossed

by drawbridges at the imposing gateways that give access to the city.

Fine broad promenades, shaded by noble trees, border the canals and add

to the retired appearance of the houses behind, heightening the effect

of scholastic seclusion that seems to pervade the place.

Ben, as he scanned the buildings on the Rapenburg Canal, was somewhat

disappointed in the appearance of the great University of Leyden. But

when he recalled its history--how, attended with all the pomp of a grand

civic display, it had been founded by the Prince of Orange as a tribute

to the citizens for the bravery displayed during the siege; when he

remembered the great men in religion, learning, and science who had once

studied there and thought of the hundreds of students now sharing the

benefits of its classes and its valuable scientific museums--he was

quite willing to forego architectural beauty, though he could not

help feeling that no amount of it could have been misplaced on such an

institution.

Peter and Jacob regarded the building with an even deeper, more

practical interest, for they were to enter it as students in the course

of a few months.

“Poor Don Quixote would have run a hopeless tilt in this part of

the world,” said Ben after Lambert had been pointing out some of the

oddities and beauties of the suburbs. “It is all windmills. You remember

his terrific contest with one, I suppose.”

“No,” said Lambert bluntly.

“Well, I don’t, either, that is, not definitely. But there was something

of that kind in his adventures, and if there wasn’t, there should have

been. Look at them, how frantically they whirl their great arms--just

the thing to excite the crazy knight to mortal combat. It bewilders one

to look at them. Help me to count all those we can see, Van Mounen.

I want a big item for my notebook.” And after a careful reckoning,

superintended by all the party, Master Ben wrote in pencil, “Saw, Dec.,

184--, ninety-eight windmills within full view of Leyden.”

He would have been glad to visit the old brick mill in which the painter

Rembrandt was born, but he abandoned the project upon learning that it

would take them out of their way. Few boys as hungry as Ben was by this

time would hesitate long between Rembrandt’s home a mile off and tiffin

close by. Ben chose the latter.

After tiffin, they rested awhile, and then took another, which, for

form’s sake, they called dinner. After dinner the boys sat warming

themselves at the inn; all but Peter, who occupied the time in another

fruitless search for Dr. Boekman.

This over, the party once more prepared for skating. They were thirteen

miles from The Hague and not as fresh as when they had left Broek early

on the previous day, but they were in good spirits and the ice was

excellent.

The Palace in the Wood

As the boys skated onward, they saw a number of fine country seats, all

decorated and surrounded according to the Dutchest of Dutch taste, but

impressive to look upon, with their great, formal houses, elaborate

gardens, square hedges, and wide ditches--some crossed by a bridge,

having a gate in the middle to be carefully locked at night. These

ditches, everywhere traversing the landscape, had long ago lost their

summer film and now shone under the sunlight like trailing ribbons of

glass.

The boys traveled bravely, all the while performing the surprising feat

of producing gingerbread from their pockets and causing it to vanish

instantly.

Twelve miles were passed. A few more long strokes would take them to The

Hague, when Van Mounen proposed that they should vary their course by

walking into the city through the Bosch.

“Agreed!” cried one and all--and their skates were off in a twinkling.

The Bosch is a grand park or wood, nearly two miles long, containing the

celebrated House in the Wood--Huis in’t Bosch--sometimes used as a royal

residence.

The building, though plain outside for a palace, is elegantly furnished

within and finely frescoed--that is, the walls and ceiling are covered

with groups and designs painted directly upon them while the plaster was

fresh. Some of the rooms are tapestried with Chinese silks, beautifully

embroidered. One contains a number of family portraits, among them a

group of royal children who in time were orphaned by a certain ax, which

figures very frequently in European history. These children were painted

many times by the Dutch artist Van Dyck, who was court painter to their

father, Charles the First of England. Beautiful children they were. What

a deal of trouble the English nation would have been spared had they

been as perfect in heart and soul as they were in form!

The park surrounding the palace is charming, especially in summer, for

flowers and birds make it bright as fairyland. Long rows of magnificent

oaks rear their proud heads, conscious that no profaning hand will ever

bring them low. In fact, the Wood has for ages been held as an almost

sacred spot. Children are never allowed to meddle with its smallest

twig. The ax of the woodman has never resounded there. Even war and riot

have passed it reverently, pausing for a moment in their devastating

way. Philip of Spain, while he ordered Dutchmen to be mowed down by

hundreds, issued a mandate that not a bough of the beautiful Wood should

be touched. And once, when in a time of great necessity the State was

about to sacrifice it to assist in filling a nearly exhausted treasury,

the people rushed to the rescue, and nobly contributed the required

amount rather than that the Bosch should fall.

What wonder, then, that the oaks have a grand, fearless air? Birds from

all Holland have told them how, elsewhere, trees are cropped and bobbed

into shape--but THEY are untouched. Year after year they expand in

unclipped luxuriance and beauty; their wide-spreading foliage, alive

with song, casts a cool shade over lawn and pathway or bows to its image

in the sunny ponds.

Meanwhile, as if to reward the citizens for allowing her to have her way

for once, Nature departs from the invariable level, wearing gracefully

the ornaments that have been reverently bestowed upon her. So the lawn

slopes in a velvety green; the paths wind in and out; flower beds glow

and send forth perfume; and ponds and sky look at each other in mutual

admiration.

Even on that winter day the Bosch was beautiful. Its trees were bare,

but beneath them still lay the ponds, every ripple smoothed into glass.

The blue sky was bright overhead, and as it looked down through the

thicket of boughs, it saw another blue sky, not nearly so bright,

looking up from the dim thicket under the ice.

Never had the sunset appeared more beautiful to Peter than when he saw

it exchanging farewell glances with the windows and shining roofs of the

city before him. Never had The Hague itself seemed more inviting. He was

no longer Peter van Holp, going to visit a great city, nor a fine

young gentleman bent on sight-seeing; he was a knight, an adventurer,

travel-soiled and weary, a Hop-o’-my-Thumb grown large, a Fortunatas

approaching the enchanted castle where luxury and ease awaited him, for

his own sister’s house was not half a mile away.

“At last, boys,” he cried in high glee, “we may hope for a royal resting

place--good beds, warm rooms, and something fit to eat. I never realized

before what a luxury such things are. Our lodgings at the Red Lion have

made us appreciate our own homes.”

The Merchant Prince and the Sister-Princess

Well might Peter feel that his sister’s house was like an enchanted

castle. Large and elegant as it was, a spell of quiet hung over it. The

very lion crouching at its gate seemed to have been turned into

stone through magic. Within, it was guarded by genii, in the shape of

red-faced servants, who sprang silently forth at the summons of bell

or knocker. There was a cat also, who appeared as knowing as any

Puss-in-Boots, and a brass gnome in the hall whose business it was to

stand with outstretched arms ready to receive sticks and umbrellas. Safe

within the walls bloomed a Garden of Delight, where the flowers firmly

believed it was summer, and a sparkling fountain was laughing merrily

to itself because Jack Frost could not find it. There was a Sleeping

Beauty, too, just at the time of the boys’ arrival, but when Peter, like

a true prince, flew lightly up the stairs and kissed her eyelids, the

enchantment was broken. The princess became his own good sister, and

the fairy castle just one of the finest, most comfortable houses of The

Hague.

As may well be believed, the boys received the heartiest of welcomes.

After they had conversed awhile with their lively hostess, one of the

genii summoned them to a grand repast in a red-curtained room, where

floor and ceiling shone like polished ivory, and the mirrors suddenly

blossomed into rosy-cheeked boys as far as the eye could reach.

They had caviar now, and salmagundi, and sausage and cheese, besides

salad and fruit and biscuit and cake. How the boys could partake of such

a medley was a mystery to Ben, for the salad was sour, and the cake was

sweet; the fruit was dainty, and the salmagundi heavy with onions and

fish. But, while he was wondering, he made a hearty meal, and was

soon absorbed in deciding which he really preferred, the coffee or the

anisette cordial. It was delightful too--this taking one’s food from

dishes of frosted silver and liqueur glasses from which Titania herself

might have sipped. The young gentleman afterward wrote to his mother

that, pretty and choice as things were at home, he had never known what

cut glass, china, and silver services were until he visited The Hague.

Of course, Peter’s sister soon heard all of the boys’ adventures. How

they had skated over forty miles and seen rare sights on the way; how

they had lost their purse and found it again. How one of the party had

fallen and given them an excuse for a grand sail in an ice boat; how,

above all, they had caught a robber and so, for a second time, saved

their slippery purse.

“And now, Peter,” said the lady when the story was finished, “you must

write at once to tell the good people of Broek that your adventures have

reached their height, that you and your fellow travelers have all been

taken prisoners.”

The boys looked startled.

“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” laughed Peter. “We must leave

tomorrow at noon.”

But the sister had already decided differently, and a Holland lady is

not to be easily turned from her purpose. In short, she held forth

such strong temptations and was so bright and cheerful and said so many

coaxing and unanswerable things, both in English and Dutch, that the

boys were all delighted when it was settled that they should remain at

The Hague for at least two days.

Next the grand skating race was talked over; Mevrouw van Gend gladly

promised to be present on the occasion. “I shall witness your triumph,

Peter,” she said, “for you are the fastest skater I ever knew.”

Peter blushed and gave a slight cough as Carl answered for him.

“Ah, mevrouw, he is swift, but all the Broek boys are fine skaters--even

the rag pickers,” and he thought bitterly of poor Hans.

The lady laughed. “That will make the race all the more exciting,” she

said. “But I shall wish each of you to be the winner.”

At this moment her husband Mynheer van Gend came in, and the enchantment

falling upon the boys was complete.

The invisible fairies of the household at once clustered about them,

whispering that Jasper van Gend had a heart as young and fresh as their

own, and if he loved anything in this world more than industry, it

was sunshine and frolic. They hinted also something about his having a

hearty full of love and a head full of wisdom and finally gave the boys

to understand that when mynheer said a thing, he meant it.

Therefore his frank “Well, now, this is pleasant,” as he shook hands

with them all, made the boys feel quite at home and as happy as

squirrels.

There were fine paintings in the drawing room and exquisite statuary,

and portfolios filled with rare Dutch engravings, besides many beautiful

and curious things from China and Japan. The boys felt that it would

require a month to examine all the treasures of the apartment.

Ben noticed with pleasure English books lying upon the table. He saw

also over the carved upright piano, life-sized portraits of William of

Orange and his English queen, a sight that, for a time, brought England

and Holland side by side in his heart. William and Mary have left a halo

round the English throne to this day, he the truest patriot that ever

served an adopted country, she the noblest wife that ever sat upon a

British throne, up to the time of Victoria and Albert the Good. As

Ben looked at the pictures he remembered accounts he had read of King

William’s visit to The Hague in the winter of 1691. He who sang the

Battle of Ivry had not yet told the glowing story of that day, but Ben

knew enough of it to fancy that he could almost hear the shouts of the

delighted populace as he looked from the portraits to the street,

which at this moment was aglow with a bonfire, kindled in a neighboring

square.

That royal visit was one never to be forgotten. For two years William of

Orange had been monarch of a foreign land, his head working faithfully

for England, but his whole heart yearning for Holland. Now, when

he sought its shores once more, the entire nation bade him welcome.

Multitudes flocked to The Hague to meet him--“Many thousands came

sliding or skating along the frozen canals from Amsterdam, Rotterdam,

Leyden, Haarlem, Delft.” *{Macaulay’s History of England.} All day long

the festivities of the capital were kept up, the streets were gorgeous

with banners, evergreen arches, trophies, and mottoes of welcome and

emblems of industry. William saw the deeds of his ancestors and scenes

of his own past life depicted on banners and tapestries along the

streets. At night superb fireworks were displayed upon the ice. Its

glassy surface was like a mirror. Sparkling fountains of light sprang

up from below to meet the glittering cascades leaping upon it. Then a

feathery fire of crimson and green shook millions of rubies and emeralds

into the ruddy depths of the ice--and all this time the people were

shouting, “God bless William of Orange! Long live the king!” They were

half mad with joy and enthusiasm. William, their own prince, their

stadtholder, had become the ruler of three kingdoms; he had been

victorious in council and in war, and now, in his hour of greatest

triumph, had come as a simple guest to visit them. The king heard their

shouts with a beating heart. It is a great thing to be beloved by one’s

country. His English courtiers complimented him upon his reception.

“Yes,” said he, “but the shouting is nothing to what it would have been

if Mary had been with me!”

While Ben was looking at the portraits, Mynheer van Gend was giving the

boys an account of a recent visit to Antwerp. As it was the birthplace

of Quentin Matsys, the blacksmith who for love of an artist’s daughter

studied until he became a great painter, the boys asked their host if he

had seen any of Matsys’ works.

“Yes, indeed,” he replied, “and excellent they are. His famous triptych

in a chapel of the Antwerp cathedral, with the Descent from the Cross

on the center panel, is especially fine, but I confess I was more

interested in his well.”

“What well, mynheer?” asked Ludwig.

“One in the heart of the city, near this same cathedral, whose lofty

steeple is of such delicate workmanship that the French emperor said it

reminded him of Mechlin lace. The well is covered with a Gothic canopy

surmounted by the figure of a knight in full armor. It is all of metal

and proves that Matsys was an artist at the forge as well as at the

easel; indeed, his great fame is mainly derived from his miraculous

skill as an artificer in iron.”

Next, mynheer showed the boys some exquisite Berlin castings, which

he had purchased in Antwerp. They were IRON JEWELRY, and very

delicate--beautiful medallions designed from rare paintings, bordered

with fine tracery and open work--worthy, he said, of being worn by the

fairest lady of the land. Consequently the necklace was handed with a

bow and a smile to the blushing Mevrouw van Gend.

Something in the lady’s aspect, as she bent her bright young face over

the gift, caused mynheer to say earnestly, “I can read your thoughts,

sweetheart.”

She looked up in playful defiance.

“Ah, now I am sure of them! You were thinking of those noblehearted

women, but for whom Prussia might have fallen. I know it by that proud

light in your eye.”

“The proud light in my eye plays me false, then,” she answered. “I had

no such grand matter in my mind. To confess the simple truth, I was only

thinking how lovely this necklace would be with my blue brocade.”

“So, so!” exclaimed the rather crestfallen spouse.

“But I CAN think of the other, Jasper, and it will add a deeper value

to your gift. You remember the incident, do you not, Peter? How when

the French were invading Prussia and for lack of means the country was

unable to defend itself against the enemy, the women turned the scale by

pouring their plate and jewels into the public treasury--”

Aha! thought mynheer as he met his vrouw’s kindling glance. The proud

light is there now, in earnest.

Peter remarked maliciously that the women had still proved true to their

vanity on that occasion, for jewelry they would have. If gold or silver

were wanted by the kingdom, they would relinquish it and use iron, but

they could not do without their ornaments.

“What of that?” said the vrouw, kindling again. “It is no sin to love

beautiful things if you adapt your material to circumstances. All I have

to say is, the women saved their country and, indirectly, introduced a

very important branch of manufacture. Is not that so, Jasper?”

“Of course it is, sweetheart,” said mynheer, “but Peter needs no word of

mine to convince him that all the world over women have never been

found wanting in their country’s hour of trial, though”--(bowing to

mevrouw)--“his own country women stand foremost in the records of female

patriotism and devotion.”

Then, turning to Ben, the host talked with him in English of the fine

old Belgian city. Among other things he told the origin of its name. Ben

had been taught that Antwerp was derived from ae’nt werf (on the wharf),

but Mynheer van Gend gave him a far more interesting derivation.

It appears that about three thousand years ago, a great giant, named

Antigonus, lived on the river Scheld, on the site of the present city of

Antwerp. This giant claimed half the merchandise of all navigators who

passed his castle. Of course, some were inclined to oppose this simple

regulation. In such cases, Antigonus, by way of teaching them to

practice better manners next time, cut off and threw into the river

the rights hands of the merchants. Thus handwerpen (or hand-throwing),

changed to Antwerp, came to be the name of the place. The escutcheon

or arms of the city has two hands upon it; what better proof than this

could one have of the truth of the story, especially when one wishes to

believe it!

When Mynheer van Gend had related in two languages this story of

Antwerp, he was tempted to tell other legends--some in English, some in

Dutch; and so the moments, borne upon the swift shoulders of gnomes and

giants, glided rapidly away toward bedtime.

It was hard to break up so pleasant a party, but the Van Gend household

moved with the regularity of clockwork. There was no lingering at the

threshold when the cordial “Good night!” was spoken. Even while our

boys were mounting the stairs, the invisible household fairies again

clustered around them, whispering that system and regularity had been

chief builders of the master’s prosperity.

Beautiful chambers with three beds in them were not to be found in this

mansion. Some of the rooms contained two, but each visitor slept alone.

Before morning, the motto of the party evidently was, “Every boy his own

chrysalis,” and Peter, at least, was not sorry to have it so.

Tired as he was, Ben, after noting a curious bell rope in the

corner, began to examine his bedclothes. Each article filled him with

astonishment--the exquisitely fine pillow spread trimmed with costly

lace and embroidered with a gorgeous crest and initial, the dekbed cover

(a great silk bag, large as the bed, stuffed with swan’s down), and

the pink satin quilts, embroidered with garlands of flowers. He

could scarcely sleep for thinking what a queer little bed it was, so

comfortable and pretty, too, with all its queerness. In the morning

he examined the top coverlet with care, for he wished to send home

a description of it in his next letter. It was a beautiful Japanese

spread, marvelous in texture as well as in its variety of brilliant

coloring, and worth, as Ben afterward learned, not less than three

hundred dollars.

The floor was of polished wooden mosaic, nearly covered with a rich

carpet bordered with thick black fringe. Another room displayed a margin

of satinwood around the carpet. Hung with tapestry, its walls of crimson

silk were topped with a gilded cornice which shot down gleams of light

far into the polished floor.

Over the doorway of the room in which Jacob and Ben slept was a bronze

stork that, with outstretched neck, held a lamp to light the guests

into the apartment. Between the two narrow beds of carved whitewood and

ebony, stood the household treasure of the Van Gends, a massive oaken

chair upon which the Prince of Orange had once sat during a council

meeting. Opposite stood a quaintly carved clothespress, waxed and

polished to the utmost and filled with precious stores of linen; beside

it a table holding a large Bible, whose great golden clasps looked poor

compared with its solid, ribbed binding made to outlast six generations.

There was a ship model on the mantleshelf, and over it hung an old

portrait of Peter the Great, who, you know, once gave the dockyard cats

of Holland a fine chance to look at a king, which is one of the special

prerogatives of cats. Peter, though czar of Russia, was not too proud to

work as a common shipwright in the dockyards of Saardam and Amsterdam,

that he might be able to introduce among his countrymen Dutch

improvements in ship building. It was this willingness to be thorough

even in the smallest beginnings that earned for him the title of Peter

the Great.

Peter the little (comparatively speaking) was up first, the next

morning; knowing the punctual habits of his brother-in-law, he took good

care that none of the boys should oversleep themselves. A hard task he

found it to wake Jacob Poot, but after pulling that young gentleman out

of bed, and, with Ben’s help, dragging him about the room for a while,

he succeeded in arousing him.

While Jacob was dressing and moaning within him because the felt

slippers, provided him as a guest, were too tight for his swollen feet,

Peter wrote to inform their friends at Broek of the safe arrival of

his party at The Hague. He also begged his mother to send word to Hans

Brinker that Dr. Boekman had not yet reached Leyden but that a letter

containing Hans’s message had been left at the hotel where the doctor

always lodged during his visits to the city. “Tell him, also,” wrote

Peter, “that I shall call there again, as I pass through Leyden. The

poor boy seemed to feel sure that ‘the meester’ would hasten to save

his father, but we, who know the gruff old gentleman better, may be

confident he will do no such thing. It would be a kindness to send a

visiting physician from Amsterdam to the cottage at once, if Jufvrouw

*{In Holland, women of the lower grades of society do not take the title

of Mrs. (or Mevrouw) when they marry, as with us. They assume their

husbands’ names but are still called Miss (Jufvrouw, pronounced

Yuffrow).} Brinker will consent to receive any but the great king of the

meesters, as Dr. Boekman certainly is.

“You know, Mother,” added Peter, “that I have always considered Sister

van Gend’s house as rather quiet and lonely, but I assure you, it is not

so now. He says we make him wish that he had a houseful of boys of his

own. He has promised to let us ride on his noble black horses. They are

gentle as kittens, he says, if one have but a firm touch at the rein.

Ben, according to Jacob’s account, is a glorious rider, and your son

Peter is not a very bad hand at the business; so we two are to go out

together this morning mounted like knights of old. After we return,

Brother van Gend says he will lend Jacob his English pony and obtain

three extra horses; and all of the party are to trot about the city in

a grand cavalcade, led on by him. He will ride the black horse which

Father sent him from Friesland. My sister’s pretty roan with the

long white tail is lame, and she will ride none other; else she would

accompany us. I could scarcely close my eyes last night after Sister

told me of the plan. Only the thought of poor Hans Brinker and his sick

father checked me, but for that I could have sung for joy. Ludwig has

given us a name already--the Broek Cavalry. We flatter ourselves that we

shall make an imposing appearance, especially in single file....”

The Broek Cavalry were not disappointed. Mynheer van Gend readily

procured good horses; and all the boys could ride, though none was as

perfect horsemen (or horseboys) as Peter and Ben. They saw The Hague

to their hearts’ content, and The Hague saw them--expressing its

approbation loudly, through the mouths of small boys and cart dogs;

silently, through bright eyes that, not looking very deeply into things,

shone as they looked at the handsome Carl and twinkled with fun as a

certainly portly youth with shaking cheeks rode past bumpetty, bumpetty,

bump!

On their return, the boys pronounced the great porcelain stove in the

family sitting room a decidedly useful piece of furniture, for they

could gather around it and get warm without burning their noses or

bringing on chilblains. It was so very large that, though hot elsewhere,

it seemed to send out warmth by the houseful. Its pure white sides

and polished brass rings made it a pretty object to look upon,

notwithstanding the fact that our ungrateful Ben, while growing

thoroughly warm and comfortable beside it, concocted a satirical

sentence for his next letter, to the effect that a stove in Holland

must, of course, resemble a great tower of snow or it wouldn’t be in

keeping with the oddity of the country.

To describe all the boys saw and did on that day and the next would

render this little book a formidable volume indeed. They visited the

brass cannon foundry, saw the liquid fire poured into molds, and watched

the smiths, who, half naked, stood in the shadow, like demons playing

with flame. They admired the grand public buildings and massive private

houses, the elegant streets, and noble Bosch--pride of all beauty-loving

Hollanders. The palace with its brilliant mosaic floors, its frescoed

ceilings, and gorgeous ornaments, filled Ben with delight; he was

surprised that some of the churches were so very plain--elaborate

sometimes in external architecture but bare and bleak within with their

blank, whitewashed walls.

If there were no printed record, the churches of Holland would almost

tell her story. I will not enter into the subject here, except to say

that Ben--who had read of her struggles and wrongs and of the terrible

retribution she had from time to time dealt forth--could scarcely tread

a Holland town without mentally leaping horror-stricken over the bloody

stepping-stones of its history. He could not forget Philip of Spain nor

the Duke of Alva even while rejoicing in the prosperity that followed

the Liberation. He looked into the meekest of Dutch eyes for something

of the fire that once lit the haggard faces of those desperate,

lawless men who, wearing with pride the title of “Beggars,” which their

oppressors had mockingly cast upon them, became the terror of land and

sea. In Haarlem he had wondered that the air did not still resound with

the cries of Alva’s three thousand victims. In Leyden his heart had

swelled in sympathy as he thought of the long procession of scarred

and famished creatures who after the siege, with Adrian van der Werf

at their head, tottered to the great church to sing a glorious anthem

because Leyden was free! He remembered that this was even before they

had tasted the bread brought by the Dutch ships. They would praise

God first, then eat. Thousands of trembling voices were raised in glad

thanksgiving. For a moment it swelled higher and higher, then suddenly

changed to sobbing--not one of all the multitude could sing another

note. But who shall say that anthem, even to its very end, was not heard

in heaven!

Here, in The Hague, other thoughts came to Ben--of how Holland in later

years unwillingly put her head under the French yoke, and how, galled

and lashed past endurance, she had resolutely jerked it out again. He

liked her for that. What nation of any spirit, thought he, could be

expected to stand such work, paying all her wealth into a foreign

treasury and yielding up the flower of her youth under foreign

conscription. It was not so very long ago, either, since English guns

had been heard booming close by in the German Ocean; well--all the

fighting was over at last. Holland was a snug little monarchy now in her

own right, and Ben, for one, was glad of it. Arrived at this charitable

conclusion, he was prepared to enjoy to the utmost all the wonders of

her capital; he quite delighted Mynheer van Gend with his hearty and

intelligent interest--so, in fact, did all the boys, for a merrier, more

observant party never went sight-seeing.

Through the Hague

The picture gallery in the Maurits Huis, *{A building erected by Prince

Maurice of Nassau.} one of the finest in the world, seemed to have only

flashed by the boys during a two-hour visit, so much was there to

admire and examine. As for the royal cabinet of curiosities in the same

building, they felt that they had but glanced at it, though they were

there nearly half a day. It seemed to them that Japan had poured all her

treasures within its walls. For a long period Holland, always foremost

in commerce, was the only nation allowed to have any intercourse with

Japan. One can well forego a journey to that country if he can but visit

the museum at The Hague.

Room after room is filled with collections from the Hermit

Empire--costumes peculiar to various ranks and pursuits, articles of

ornament, household utensils, weapons, armor, and surgical instruments.

There is also an ingenious Japanese model of the Island of Desina, the

Dutch factory in Japan. It appears almost as the island itself would if

seen through a reversed opera glass and makes one feel like a Gulliver

coming unexpectedly upon a Japanese Lilliput. There you see hundreds of

people in native costumes, standing, kneeling, stooping, reaching--all

at work, or pretending to be--and their dwellings, even their very

furniture, spread out before you, plain as day. In another room a huge

tortoiseshell dollhouse, fitted up in Dutch style and inhabited by

dignified Dutch dolls, stands ready to tell you at a glance how people

live in Holland.

Gretel, Hilda, Katrinka, even the proud Rychie Korbes would have been

delighted with this, but Peter and his gallant band passed it by without

a glance. The war implements had the honor of detaining them for an

hour; such clubs, such murderous krits, or daggers, such firearms, and,

above all, such wonderful Japanese swords, quite capable of performing

the accredited Japanese feat of cutting a man in two at a single stroke!

There were Chinese and other Oriental curiosities in the collection.

Native historical relics, too, upon which our young Dutchmen gazed very

soberly, though they were secretly proud to show them to Ben.

There was a model of the cabin at Saardam in which Peter the Great lived

during his short career as ship-builder. Also, wallets and bowls--once

carried by the “Beggar” Confederates, who, uniting under the Prince

of Orange, had freed Holland from the tyranny of Spain; the sword

of Admiral van Speyk, who about ten years before had perished in

voluntarily blowing up his own ship; and Van Tromp’s armor with the

marks of bullets upon it. Jacob looked around, hoping to see the broom

which the plucky admiral fastened to his masthead, but it was not there.

The waistcoat which William Third *{William, Prince of Orange, who

became king of England, was a great-grandson of William the Silent,

Prince of Orange, who was murdered by Geraerts (or Gerard) July 10,

1584.} of England wore during the last days of his life, possessed great

interest for Ben, and one and all gazed with a mixture of reverence

and horror-worship at the identical clothing worn by William the Silent

*{see above} when he was murdered at Delft by Balthazar Geraerts. A

tawny leather doublet and plain surcoat of gray cloth, a soft felt hat,

and a high neck-ruff from which hung one of the “Beggars’” medals--these

were not in themselves very princely objects, though the doublet had a

tragic interest from its dark stains and bullet holes. Ben could readily

believe, as he looked upon the garments, that the Silent Prince, true to

his greatness of character, had been exceedingly simple in his attire.

His aristocratic prejudices were, however, decidedly shocked when

Lambert told him of the way in which William’s bride first entered The

Hague.

“The beautiful Louisa de Coligny, whose father and former husband both

had fallen at the massacre of St. Bartholomew, was coming to be fourth

wife to the Prince, and of course,” said Lambert, “we Hollanders were

too gallant to allow the lady to enter the town on foot. No, sir, we

sent--or rather my ancestors did--a clean, open post-wagon to meet her,

with a plank across it for her to sit upon!”

“Very gallant indeed!” exclaimed Ben, with almost a sneer in his polite

laugh. “And she the daughter of an admiral of France.”

“Was she? Upon my word, I had nearly forgotten that. But, you see,

Holland had very plain ways in the good old time; in fact, we are a

very simple, frugal people to this day. The Van Gend establishment is a

decided exception, you know.”

“A very agreeable exception, I think,” said Ben.

“Certainly, certainly. But, between you and me, Mynheer van Gend, though

he has wrought his own fortunes, can afford to be magnificent and yet be

frugal.”

“Exactly so,” said Ben profoundly, at the same time stroking his upper

lip and chin, which latterly he believed had been showing delightful and

unmistakable signs of coming dignities.

While tramping on foot through the city, Ben often longed for a good

English sidewalk. Here, as in the other towns, there was no curb, no

raised pavement for foot travelers, but the streets were clean and even,

and all vehicles were kept scrupulously within a certain tract. Strange

to say, there were nearly as many sleds as wagons to be seen, though

there was not a particle of snow. The sleds went scraping over the

bricks or cobblestones, some provided with an apparatus in front for

sprinkling water, to diminish the friction, and some rendered less

musical by means of a dripping oil rag, which the driver occasionally

applied to the runners.

Ben was surprised at the noiseless way in which Dutch laborers do their

work. Even around the warehouses and docks there was no bustle, no

shouting from one to another. A certain twitch of the pipe, or turn

of the head, or, at most, a raising of the hand, seemed to be all the

signal necessary. Entire loads of cheeses or herrings are pitched from

cart or canalboat into the warehouses without a word; but the passerby

must take his chance of being pelted, for a Dutchman seldom looks before

or behind him while engaged at work.

Poor Jacob Poot, who seemed destined to bear all the mishaps of the

journey, was knocked nearly breathless by a great cheese, which a fat

Dutchman was throwing to a fellow laborer, but he recovered himself, and

passed on without evincing the least indignation. Ben professed great

sympathy upon the occasion, but Jacob insisted that it was “notting.”

“Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?”

“What for screw mine face?” repeated Jacob soberly. “Vy, it vash

de--de--”

“That what?” insisted Ben maliciously.

“Vy, de-de-vat you call dis, vat you taste mit de nose?”

Ben laughed. “Oh, you mean the smell.”

“Yesh. Dat ish it,” said Jacob eagerly. “It wash de shmell. I draw mine

face for dat!”

“Ha! ha!” roared Ben. “That’s a good one. A Dutch boy smell a cheese!

You can never make me believe THAT!”

“Vell, it ish no matter,” replied Jacob, trudging on beside Ben in

perfect good humor. “Vait till you hit mit cheese--dat ish all.”

Soon he added pathetically, “Penchamin, I no likes to be call Tuch--dat

ish no goot. I bees a Hollander.”

Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him.

“Hold up! Ben, here is the fish market. There is not much to be seen at

this season. But we can take a look at the storks if you wish.”

Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in Holland and

that the bird figured upon the arms of the capital. He had noticed

cart wheels placed upon the roofs of Dutch cottages to entice storks to

settle upon them; he had seen their huge nests, too, on many a thatched

gable roof from Broek to The Hague. But it was winter now. The nests

were empty. No greedy birdlings opened their mouths--or rather their

heads--at the approach of a great white-winged thing, with outstretched

neck and legs, bearing a dangling something for their breakfast. The

long-bills were far away, picking up food on African shores, and before

they would return in the spring, Ben’s visit to the land of dikes would

be over.

Therefore he pressed eagerly forward, as Van Mounen led the way through

the fish market, anxious to see if storks in Holland were anything

like the melancholy specimens he had seen in the Zoological Gardens of

London.

It was the same old story. A tamed bird is a sad bird, say what you

will. These storks lived in a sort of kennel, chained by the feet

like felons, though supposed to be honored by being kept at the public

expense. In summer they were allowed to walk about the market, where

the fish stalls were like so many free dining saloons to them. Untasted

delicacies in the form of raw fish and butcher’s offal lay about their

kennels now, but the city guests preferred to stand upon one leg,

curving back their long necks and leaning their heads sidewise, in a

blinking reverie. How gladly they would have changed their petted state

for the busy life of some hardworking stork mother or father, bringing

up a troublesome family on the roof of a rickety old building where

flapping wind-mills frightened them half to death every time they

ventured forth on a frolic!

Ben soon made up his mind, and rightly, too, that The Hague with its

fine streets and public parks shaded with elms, was a magnificent city.

The prevailing costume was like that of London or Paris, and his British

ears were many a time cheered by the music of British words. The shops

were different in many respects from those on Oxford Street and the

Strand, but they often were illumined by a printed announcement that

English was “spoken within.” Others proclaimed themselves to have London

stout for sale, and one actually promised to regale its customers with

English roast beef.

Over every possible shop door was the never-failing placard, TABAK

TE KOOP (tobacco to be sold). Instead of colored glass globes in the

windows, or high jars of leeches, the drugstores had a gaping Turk’s

head at the entrance--or, if the establishment was particularly fine, a

wooden mandarin entire, indulging in a full yawn.

Some of these queer faces amused Ben exceedingly; they seemed to have

just swallowed a dose of physic, but Van Mounen declared he could not

see anything funny about them. A druggist showed his sense by putting

a Gaper before his door, so that his place would be known at once as an

apotheek and that was all there was to it.

Another thing attracted Ben--the milkmen’s carts. These were small

affairs, filled with shiny brass kettles, or stone jars, and drawn by

dogs. The milkman walked meekly beside his cart, keeping his dog in

order, and delivering the milk to customers. Certain fish dealers had

dogcarts, also, and when a herring dog chanced to meet a milk dog, he

invariably put on airs and growled as he passed him. Sometimes a milk

dog would recognize an acquaintance before another milk cart across the

street, and then how the kettles would rattle, especially if they were

empty! Each dog would give a bound and, never caring for his master’s

whistle, insist upon meeting the other halfway. Sometimes they contented

themselves with an inquisitive sniff, but generally the smaller dog made

an affectionate snap snap at the larger one’s ear, or a friendly tussle

was engaged in by way of exercise. Then woe to the milk kettles, and woe

to the dogs!

The whipping over, each dog, expressing his feelings as best as he

could, would trot demurely back to his work.

If some of these animals were eccentric in their ways, others were

remarkably well behaved. In fact, there was a school for dogs in the

city, established expressly for training them. Ben probably saw some of

its graduates. Many a time he noticed a span of barkers trotting along

the street with all the dignity of horses, obeying the slightest hint

of the man walking briskly beside them. Sometimes, when their load was

delivered, the dealer would jump in the cart and have a fine drive to

his home beyond the gates of the city; and sometimes, I regret to say,

a patient vrouw would trudge beside the cart with a fish basket upon her

head and a child in her arms--while her lord enjoyed his drive, carrying

no heavier burden than a stumpy clay pipe, the smoke of which mounted

lovingly into her face.

A Day of Rest

The sight-seeing came to an end at last, and so did our boys’ visit

to The Hague. They had spent three happy days and nights with the Van

Gends, and, strange to say, had not once, in all that time, put on

skates. The third day had indeed been one of rest. The noise and bustle

of the city was hushed; sweet Sunday bells sent blessed, tranquil

thoughts into their hearts. Ben felt, as he listened to their familiar

music, that the Christian world is one, after all, however divided by

sects and differences it may be. As the clock speaks everyone’s native

language in whatever land it may strike the hour, so church bells are

never foreign if our hearts but listen.

Led on by these clear voices, our party, with Mevrouw van Gend and her

husband, trod the quiet but crowded streets, until they came to a fine

old church in the southern part of the city.

The interior was large and, notwithstanding its great stained windows,

seemed dimly lighted, though the walls were white and dashes of red and

purple sunshine lay brightly upon pillar and pew.

Ben saw a few old women moving softly through the aisles, each bearing a

high pile of foot stoves which she distributed among the congregation by

skillfully slipping out the under one, until none were left. It puzzled

him that mynheer should settle himself with the boys in a comfortable

side pew, after seating his vrouw in the body of the church, which was

filled with chairs exclusively appropriated to the women. But Ben was

learning only a common custom of the country.

The pews of the nobility and the dignitaries of the city were circular

in form, each surrounding a column. Elaborately carved, they formed a

massive base to their great pillars standing out in bold relief

against the blank, white walls beyond. These columns, lofty and well

proportioned, were nicked and defaced from violence done to them long

ago; yet it seemed quite fitting that, before they were lost in the deep

arches overhead, their softened outlines should leaf out as they did

into richness and beauty.

Soon Ben lowered his gaze to the marble floor. It was a pavement of

gravestones. Nearly all the large slabs, of which it was composed,

marked the resting places of the dead. An armorial design engraved

upon each stone, with inscription and date, told whose form as sleeping

beneath, and sometimes three of a family were lying one above the other

in the same sepulcher.

He could not help but think of the solemn funeral procession winding

by torchlight through those lofty aisles and bearing its silent burden

toward a dark opening whence the slab had been lifted, in readiness for

its coming. It was something to think that his sister Mabel, who died

in her flower, was lying in a sunny churchyard where a brook rippled and

sparkled in the daylight and waving trees whispered together all night

long; where flowers might nestle close to the headstone, and moon and

stars shed their peace upon it, and morning birds sing sweetly overhead.

Then he looked up from the pavement and rested his eyes upon the carved

oaken pulpit, exquisitely beautiful in design and workmanship. He could

not see the minister--though, not long before, he had watched him slowly

ascending its winding stair--a mild-faced man wearing a ruff about his

neck and a short cloak reaching nearly to the knee.

Meantime the great church had been silently filling. Its pews were

somber with men and its center radiant with women in their fresh Sunday

attire. Suddenly a soft rustling spread through the pulpit. All eyes

were turned toward the minister now appearing above the pulpit.

Although the sermon was spoken slowly, Ben could understand little of

what was said; but when the hymn came, he joined in with all his heart.

A thousand voices lifted in love and praise offered a grander language

than he could readily comprehend.

Once he was startled, during a pause in the service, by seeing a little

bag suddenly shaken before him. It had a tinkling bell at its side

and was attached to a long stick carried by one of the deacons of

the church. Not relying solely upon the mute appeal of the poor boxes

fastened to the columns near the entrance, this more direct method was

resorted to, of awakening the sympathies of the charitable.

Fortunately Ben had provided himself with a few stivers, or the musical

bag must have tinkled before him in vain.

More than once, a dark look rose on our English boy’s face that morning.

He longed to stand up and harangue the people concerning a peculiarity

that filled him with pain. Some of the men wore their hats during the

service or took them off whenever the humor prompted, and many put

theirs on in the church as soon as they arose to leave. No wonder Ben’s

sense of propriety was wounded; and yet a higher sense would have been

exercised had he tried to feel willing that Hollanders should follow

the customs of their country. But his English heart said over and over

again, “It is outrageous! It is sinful!”

There is an angel called Charity who would often save our hearts a great

deal of trouble if we would but let her in.

Homeward Bound

On Monday morning, bright and early, our boys bade farewell to their

kind entertainers and started on their homeward journey.

Peter lingered awhile at the lion-guarded door, for he and his sister

had many parting words to say.

As Ben saw them bidding each other good-bye, he could not help feeling

that kisses as well as clocks were wonderfully alike everywhere. The

English kiss that his sister Jenny had given him when he left home had

said the same thing to him that the Vrouw van Gend’s Dutch kiss said

to Peter. Ludwig had taken his share of the farewell in the most

matter-of-fact manner possible, and though he loved his sister well,

had winced a little at her making such a child of him as to put an extra

kiss “for mother” upon his forehead.

He was already upon the canal with Carl and Jacob. Were they thinking

about sisters or kisses? Not a bit of it. They were so happy to be on

skates once more, so impatient to dart at once into the very heart of

Broek, that they spun and wheeled about like crazy fellows, relieving

themselves, meantime, by muttering something about “Peter and donder”

not worth translating.

Even Lambert and Ben, who had been waiting at the street corner, began

to grow impatient.

The captain joined them at last and they were soon on the canal with the

rest.

“Hurry up, Peter,” growled Ludwig. “We’re freezing by inches--there! I

knew you’d be the last after all to get on your skates.”

“Did you?” said his brother, looking up with an air of deep interest.

“Clever boy!”

Ludwig laughed but tried to look cross, as he said, “I’m in earnest. We

must get home sometime this year.”

“Now, boys,” cried Peter, springing up as he fastened the last buckle.

“There’s a clear way before us! We will imagine it’s the grand race.

Ready! One, two, three, start!”

I assure you that very little was said for the first half hour. They

were six Mercuries skimming the ice. In plain English, they were

lightning. No--that is imaginary too. The fact is, one cannot decide

what to say when half a dozen boys are whizzing past at such a rate.

I can only tell you that each did his best, flying, with bent body and

eager eyes, in and out among the placid skates on the canal, until the

very guard shouted to them to “Hold up!” This only served to send them

onward with a two-boy power that startled all beholders.

But the laws of inertia are stronger even than canal guards.

After a while Jacob slackened his speed, then Ludwig, then Lambert, then

Carl.

They soon halted to take a long breath and finally found themselves

standing in a group gazing after Peter and Ben, who were still racing in

the distance as if their lives were at stake.

“It is very evident,” said Lambert at he and his three companions

started up again, “that neither of them will give up until he can’t help

it.”

“What foolishness,” growled Carl, “to tire themselves at the beginning

of the journey! But they’re racing in earnest--that’s certain. Halloo!

Peter’s flagging!”

“Not so!” cried Ludwig. “Catch him being beaten!”

“Ha! ha!” sneered Carl. “I tell you, boy, Benjamin is ahead.”

Now, if Ludwig disliked anything in this world, it was to be called a

boy--probably because he was nothing else. He grew indignant at once.

“Humph, what are YOU, I wonder. There, sir! NOW look and see if Peter

isn’t ahead!”

“I think he IS,” interposed Lambert, “but I can’t quite tell at this

distance.”

“I think he isn’t!” retorted Carl.

Jacob was growing anxious--he always abhorred an argument--so he said in

a coaxing tone, “Don’t quarrel--don’t quarrel!”

“Don’t quarrel!” mocked Carl, looking back at Jacob as he skated. “Who’s

quarreling? Poot, you’re a goose!”

“I can’t help that,” was Jacob’s meek reply. “See! they are nearing the

turn of the canal.”

“NOW we can see!” cried Ludwig in great excitement.

“Peter will make it first, I know.”

“He can’t--for Ben is ahead!” insisted Carl. “Gunst! That iceboat

will run over him. No! He is clear! They’re a couple of geese, anyhow.

Hurrah! they’re at the turn. Who’s ahead?”

“Peter!” cried Ludwig joyfully.

“Good for the captain!” shouted Lambert and Jacob.

And Carl condescended to mutter, “It IS Peter after all. I thought, all

the time, that head fellow was Ben.”

This turn in the canal had evidently been their goal, for the two racers

came to a sudden halt after passing it.

Carl said something about being “glad that they had sense enough to

stop and rest,” and the four boys skated on in silence to overtake their

companions.

All the while Carl was secretly wishing that he had kept on with Peter

and Ben, as he felt sure he could easily have come out winner. He was a

very rapid, though by no means a graceful, skater.

Ben was looking at Peter with mingled vexation, admiration, and surprise

as the boys drew near.

They heard him saying in English, “You’re a perfect bird on the ice,

Peter van Holp. The first fellow that ever beat me in a fair race, I can

tell you!”

Peter, who understood the language better than he could speak it,

returned a laughing bow at Ben’s compliment but made no further reply.

Possibly he was scant of breath at the time.

“Now, Penchamin, vat you do mit yourself? Get so hot as a fire

brick--dat ish no goot,” was Jacob’s plaintive comment.

“Nonsense!” answered Ben. “This frosty air will cool me soon enough. I

am not tired.”

“You are beaten, though, my boy,” said Lambert in English, “and fairly

too. How will it be, I wonder, on the day of the grand race?”

Ben flushed and gave a proud, defiant laugh, as if to say, “This was

mere pastime. I’m DETERMINED to beat then, come what will!”

Boys and Girls

By the time the boys reached the village of Voorhout, which stands near

the grand canal, about halfway between The Hague and Haarlem, they were

forced to hold a council. The wind, though moderate at first, had grown

stronger and stronger, until at last they could hardly skate against it.

The weather vanes throughout the country had evidently entered into a

conspiracy.

“No use trying to face such a blow as this,” said Ludwig. “It cuts its

way down a man’s throat like a knife.”

“Keep your mouth shut, then,” grunted the affable Carl, who was as

strong-chested as a young ox. “I’m for keeping on.”

“In this case,” interposed Peter, “we must consul the weakest of the

party rather than the strongest.”

The captain’s principle was all right, but its application was not

flattering to Master Ludwig. Shrugging his shoulders, he retorted,

“Who’s weak? Not I, for one, but the wind’s stronger than any of us. I

hope you’ll condescend to admit that!”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Van Mounen, who could barely keep his feet. “So it

is.”

Just then the weather vanes telegraphed to each other by a peculiar

twitch--and, in an instant, the gust came. It nearly threw the

strong-chested Carl; it almost strangled Jacob and quite upset Ludwig.

“This settles the question,” shouted Peter. “Off with your skates! We’ll

go into Voorhout.”

At Voorhout they found a little inn with a big yard. The yard was

well stocked, and better than all, was provided with a complete set of

skittles, so our boys soon turned the detention into a frolic. The wind

was troublesome even in that sheltered quarter, but they were on good

standing ground and did not mind it.

First a hearty dinner--then the game. With pins as long as their arms

and balls as big as their heads, plenty of strength left for rolling,

and a clean sweep of sixty yards for the strokes--no wonder they were

happy.

That night Captain Peter and his men slept soundly. No prowling robber

came to disturb them, and, as they were distributed in separate rooms,

they did not even have a bolster battle in the morning.

Such a breakfast as they ate! The landlord looked frightened. When he

had asked them where they “belonged,” he made up his mind that the

Broek people starved their children. It was a shame. “Such fine young

gentlemen too!”

Fortunately the wind had tired itself out and fallen asleep in the great

sea cradle beyond the dunes. There were signs of snow; otherwise the

weather was fine.

It was mere child’s play for the well-rested boys to skate to Leyden.

Here they halted awhile, for Peter had an errand at the Golden Eagle.

He left the city with a lightened heart; Dr. Boekman had been at the

hotel, read the note containing Hans’s message, and departed for Broek.

“I cannot say that it was your letter sent him off so soon,” explained

the landlord. “Some rich lady in Broek was taken bad very sudden, and he

was sent for in haste.”

Peter turned pale.

“What was the name?” he asked.

“Indeed, it went in one ear and out of the other, for all I hindered it.

Plague on people who can’t see a traveler in comfortable lodgings, but

they must whisk him off before one can breathe.”

“A lady in Broek, did you say?”

“Yes.” Very gruffly. “Any other business, young master?”

“No, mine host, except that I and my comrades here would like a bite of

something and a drink of hot coffee.”

“Ah,” said the landlord sweetly, “a bite you shall have, and coffee,

too, the finest in Leyden. Walk up to the stove, my masters--now I think

again--that was a widow lady from Rotterdam, I think they said, visiting

at one Van Stoepel’s if I mistake not.”

“Ah!” said Peter, greatly relieved. “They live in the white house by the

Schlossen Mill. Now, mynheer, the coffee, please!”

What a goose I was, thought he, as the party left the Golden Eagle, to

feel so sure that it was my mother. But she may be somebody’s mother,

poor woman, for all that. Who can she be? I wonder.

There were not many upon the canal that day, between Leyden and Haarlem.

However, as the boys neared Amsterdam, they found themselves once more

in the midst of a moving throng. The big ysbreeker *{Icebreaker. A heavy

machine armed with iron spikes for breaking the ice as it is dragged

along. Some of the small ones are worked by men, but the large ones are

drawn by horses, sixty or seventy of which are sometimes attached to one

ysbreeker.} had been at work for the first time that season, but there

was any amount of skating ground left yet.

“Three cheers for home!” cried Van Mounen as they came in sight of the

great Western Dock (Westelijk Dok). “Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted one and

all. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

This trick of cheering was an importation among our party. Lambert van

Mounen had brought it from England. As they always gave it in English,

it was considered quite an exploit and, when circumstances permitted,

always enthusiastically performed, to the sore dismay of their

quiet-loving countrymen.

Therefore, their arrival at Amsterdam created a great sensation,

especially among the small boys on the wharf.

The Y was crossed. They were on the Broek canal.

Lambert’s home was reached first.

“Good-bye, boys!” he cried as he left them. “We’ve had the greatest

frolic ever known in Holland.”

“So we have. Good-bye, Van Mounen!” answered the boys.

“Good-bye!”

Peter hailed him. “I say, Van Mounen, the classes begin tomorrow!”

“I know it. Our holiday is over. Good-bye, again.”

“Good-bye!”

Broek came in sight. Such meetings! Katrinka was upon the canal! Carl

was delighted. Hilda was there! Peter felt rested in an instant. Rychie

was there! Ludwig and Jacob nearly knocked each other over in their

eagerness to shake hands with her.

Dutch girls are modest and generally quiet, but they have very glad

eyes. For a few moments it was hard to decide whether Hilda, Rychie, or

Katrinka felt the most happy.

Annie Bouman was also on the canal, looking even prettier than the other

maidens in her graceful peasant’s costume. But she did not mingle with

Rychie’s party; neither did she look unusually happy.

The one she liked most to see was not among the newcomers. Indeed, he

was not upon the canal at all. She had not been near Broek before, since

the Eve of Saint Nicholas, for she was staying with her sick grandmother

in Amsterdam and had been granted a brief resting spell, as the

grandmother called it, because she had been such a faithful little nurse

night and day.

Annie had devoted her resting-spell to skating with all her might toward

Broek and back again, in the hope of meeting her mother on the canal,

or, it might be, Gretel Brinker. Not one of them had she seen, and she

must hurry back without even catching a glimpse of her mother’s cottage,

for the poor helpless grandmother, she knew, was by this time moaning

for someone to turn her upon her cot.

Where can Gretel be? thought Annie as she flew over the ice; she can

almost always steal a few moments from her work at this time of day.

Poor Gretel! What a dreadful thing it must be to have a dull father! I

should be woefully afraid of him, I know--so strong, and yet so strange!

Annie had not heard of his illness. Dame Brinker and her affairs

received but little notice from the people of the place.

If Gretel had not been known as a goose girl, she might have had more

friends among the peasantry of the neighborhood. As it was, Annie Bouman

was the only one who did not feel ashamed to avow herself by word and

deed the companion of Gretel and Hans.

When the neighbors’ children laughed at her for keeping such poor

company, she would simply flush when Hans was ridiculed, or laugh in

a careless, disdainful way, but to hear little Gretel abused always

awakened her wrath.

“Goose girl, indeed!” she would say. “I can tell you that any of you are

fitter for the work than she. My father often said last summer that it

troubled him to see such a bright-eyed, patient little maiden tending

geese. Humph! She would not harm them, as you would, Janzoon Kolp, and

she would not tread upon them, as you might, Kate Wouters.”

This would be pretty sure to start a laugh at the clumsy, ill-natured

Kate’s expense, and Annie would walk loftily away from the group of

young gossips. Perhaps some memory of Gretel’s assailants crossed her

mind as she skated rapidly toward Amsterdam, for her eyes sparkled

ominously and she more than once gave her pretty head a defiant

toss. When that mood passed, such a bright, rosy, affectionate look

illuminated her face that more than one weary working man turned to gaze

after her and to wish that he had a glad, contented lass like that for a

daughter.

There were five joyous households in Broek that night.

The boys were back safe and sound, and they found all well at home. Even

the sick lady at neighbor Van Stoepel’s was out of danger.

But the next morning! Ah, how stupidly school bells will ding-dong,

ding-dong, when one is tired.

Ludwig was sure that he had never listened to anything so odious. Even

Peter felt pathetic on the occasion. Carl said it was a shameful thing

for a fellow to have to turn out when his bones were splitting. And

Jacob soberly bade Ben “Goot-pye!” and walked off with his satchel as if

it weighed a hundred pounds.

The Crisis

While the boys are nursing their fatigue, we will take a peep into the

Brinker cottage.

Can it be that Gretel and her mother have not stirred since we saw them

last? That the sick man upon the bed has not even turned over? It was

four days ago, and there is the sad group just as it was before. No, not

precisely the same, for Raff Brinker is paler; his fever is gone, though

he knows nothing of what is passing. Then they were alone in the bare,

clean room. Now there is another group in an opposite corner.

Dr. Boekman is there, talking in a low tone with a stout young man who

listens intently. The stout young man is his student and assistant. Hans

is there also. He stands near the window, respectfully waiting until he

shall be accosted.

“You see, Vollenhoven,” said Dr. Boekman, “it is a clear case of--” And

here the doctor went off into a queer jumble of Latin and Dutch that I

cannot conveniently translate.

After a while, as Vollenhoven looked at him rather blankly, the learned

man condescended to speak to him in simpler phrase.

“It is probably like Rip Donderdunck’s case,” he exclaimed in a low,

mumbling tone. “He fell from the top of Voppelploot’s windmill. After

the accident the man was stupid and finally became idiotic. In time he

lay helpless like yon fellow on the bed, moaned, too, like him, and kept

constantly lifting his hand to his head. My learned friend Von Choppem

performed an operation upon this Donderdunck and discovered under the

skull a small dark sac, which pressed upon the brain. This had been

the cause of the trouble. My friend Von Choppem removed it--a splendid

operation! You see, according to Celsius--” And here the doctor again

went off into Latin.

“Did the man live?” asked the assistant respectfully.

Dr. Boekman scowled. “That is of no consequence. I believe he died,

but why not fix your mind on the grand features of the case? Consider a

moment how--” And he plunged into Latin mysteries more deeply than ever.

“But mynheer,” gently persisted the student, who knew that the doctor

would not rise to the surface for hours unless pulled at once from his

favorite depths. “Mynheer, you have other engagements today, three legs

in Amsterdam, you remember, and an eye in Broek, and that tumor up the

canal.”

“The tumor can wait,” said the doctor reflectively. “That is another

beautiful case--a beautiful case! The woman has not lifted her head from

her shoulder for two months--magnificent tumor, sir!”

The doctor by this time was speaking aloud. He had quite forgotten where

he was.

Vollenhoven made another attempt.

“This poor fellow on the bed, mynheer. Do you think you can save him?”

“Ah, indeed, certainly,” stammered the doctor, suddenly perceiving that

he had been talking rather off the point. “Certainly, that is--I hope

so.”

“If anyone in Holland can, mynheer,” murmured the assistant with honest

bluntness, “it is yourself.”

The doctor looked displeased, growled out a tender request for the

student to talk less, and beckoned Hans to draw near.

This strange man had a great horror of speaking to women, especially

on surgical matters. “One can never tell,” he said, “what moment the

creatures will scream or faint.” Therefore he explained Raff Brinker’s

case to Hans and told him what he believed should be done to save the

patient.

Hans listened attentively, growing red and pale by turns and throwing

quick, anxious glances toward the bed.

“It may KILL the father--did you say, mynheer?” he exclaimed at last in

a trembling whisper.

“It may, my boy. But I have a strong belief that it will cure and not

kill. Ah! If boys were not such dunces, I could lay the whole matter

before you, but it would be of no use.”

Hans looked blank at this compliment.

“It would be of no use,” repeated Dr. Boekman indignantly. “A great

operation is proposed, but one might as well do it with a hatchet. The

only question asked is, ‘Will it kill?’”

“The question is EVERYTHING to us, mynheer,” said Hans with tearful

dignity.

Dr. Boekman looked at him in sudden dismay.

“Ah! Exactly so. You are right, boy, I am a fool. Good boy. One does not

wish one’s father killed--of course I am a fool.”

“Will he die, mynheer, if this sickness goes on?”

“Humph! This is no new illness. The same thing growing worse ever

instant--pressure on the brain--will take him off soon like THAT,” said

the doctor, snapping his fingers.

“And the operation MAY save him,” pursued Hans. “How soon, mynheer, can

we know?”

Dr. Boekman grew impatient.

“In a day, perhaps, an hour. Talk with your mother, boy, and let her

decide. My time is short.”

Hans approached his mother; at first, when she looked up at him, he

could not utter a syllable; then, turning his eyes away, he said in a

firm voice, “I must speak with the mother alone.”

Quick little Gretel, who could not quite understand what was passing,

threw rather an indignant look at Hans and walked away.

“Come back, Gretel, and sit down,” said Hans, sorrowfully.

She obeyed.

Dame Brinker and her boy stood by the window while the doctor and his

assistant, bending over the bedside, conversed together in a low tone.

There was no danger of disturbing the patient. He appeared like one

blind and deaf. Only his faint, piteous moans showed him to be a living

man. Hans was talking earnestly, and in a low voice, for he did not wish

his sister to hear.

With dry, parted lips, Dame Brinker leaned toward him, searching his

face, as if suspecting a meaning beyond his words. Once she gave a

quick, frightened sob that made Gretel start, but, after that, she

listened calmly.

When Hans ceased to speak, his mother turned, gave one long, agonized

look at her husband, lying there so pale and unconscious, and threw

herself on her knees beside the bed.

Poor little Gretel! What did all this mean? She looked with questioning

eyes at Hans; he was standing, but his head was bent as if in prayer--at

the doctor. He was gently feeling her father’s head and looked like

one examining some curious stone--at the assistant. The man coughed and

turned away--at her mother. Ah, little Gretel, that was the best you

could do--to kneel beside her and twine your warm, young arms about her

neck, to weep and implore God to listen.

When the mother arose, Dr. Boekman, with a show of trouble in his eyes,

asked gruffly, “Well, jufvrouw, shall it be done?”

“Will it pain him, mynheer?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“I cannot say. Probably not. Shall it be done?”

“It MAY cure him, you said, and--mynheer, did you tell my boy

that--perhaps--perhaps...” She could not finish.

“Yes, jufvrouw, I said the patient might sink under the operation, but

we hope it may prove otherwise.” He looked at his watch. The assistant

moved impatiently toward the window. “Come, jufvrouw, time presses. Yes

or no?”

Hans wound his arm about his mother. It was not his usual way. He even

leaned his head against her shoulder.

“The meester awaits an answer,” he whispered.

Dame Brinker had long been head of her house in every sense. Many a time

she had been very stern with Hans, ruling him with a strong hand and

rejoicing in her motherly discipline. NOW she felt so weak, so helpless.

It was something to feel that firm embrace. There was strength even in

the touch of that yellow hair.

She turned to her boy imploringly.

“Oh, Hans! What shall I say?”

“Say what God tells thee, Mother,” answered Hans, bowing his head.

One quick, questioning prayer to Heaven rose from the mother’s heart.

The answer came.

She turned toward Dr. Boekman.

“It is right, mynheer. I consent.”

“Humph!” grunted the doctor, as if to say, “You’ve been long enough

about it.” Then he conferred a moment with his assistant, who listened

with great outward deference but was inwardly rejoicing at the grand

joke he would have to tell his fellow students. He had actually seen a

tear in “old Boekman’s” eye.

Meanwhile Gretel looked on in trembling silence, but when she saw the

doctor open a leather case and take out one sharp, gleaming instrument

after another, she sprang forward.

“Oh, Mother! The poor father meant no wrong. Are they going to MURDER

him?”

“I do not know, child,” screamed Dame Brinker, looking fiercely at

Gretel. “I do not know.”

“This will not do, jufvrouw,” said Dr. Boekman sternly, and at the same

time he cast a quick, penetrating look at Hans. “You and the girl must

leave the room. The boy may stay.”

Dame Brinker drew herself up in an instant. Her eyes flashed. Her whole

countenance was changed. She looked like one who had never wept, never

felt a moment’s weakness. Her voice was low but decided. “I stay with my

husband, mynheer.”

Dr. Boekman looked astonished. His orders were seldom disregarded in

this style. For an instant his eye met hers.

“You may remain, jufvrouw,” he said in an altered voice.

Gretel had already disappeared.

In one corner of the cottage was a small closet where her rough, boxlike

bed was fastened against the wall. None would think of the trembling

little creature crouching there in the dark.

Dr. Boekman took off his heavy coat, filled an earthen basin with water,

and placed it near the bed. Then turning to Hans he asked, “Can I depend

upon you, boy?”

“You can, mynheer.”

“I believe you. Stand at the head, here--your mother may sit at your

right--so.” And he placed a chair near the cot.

“Remember, jufvrouw, there must be no cries, no fainting.”

Dame Brinker answered him with a look.

He was satisfied.

“Now, Vollenhoven.”

Oh, that case with the terrible instruments! The assistant lifted them.

Gretel, who had been peering with brimming eyes through the crack of the

closet door, could remain silent no longer.

She rushed frantically across the apartment, seized her hood, and ran

from the cottage.

Gretel and Hilda

It was recess hour. At the first stroke of the schoolhouse bell, the

canal seemed to give a tremendous shout and grow suddenly alive with

boys and girls.

Dozens of gaily clad children were skating in and out among each other,

and all their pent-up merriment of the morning was relieving itself

in song and shout and laughter. There was nothing to check the flow

of frolic. Not a thought of schoolbooks came out with them into the

sunshine. Latin, arithmetic, grammar--all were locked up for an hour in

the dingy schoolroom. The teacher might be a noun if he wished, and a

proper one at that, but THEY meant to enjoy themselves. As long as the

skating was as perfect as this, it made no difference whether Holland

were on the North Pole or the equator; and, as for philosophy, how could

they bother themselves with inertia and gravitation and such things when

it was as much as they could do to keep from getting knocked over in the

commotion.

In the height of the fun, one of the children called out, “What is

that?”

“What? Where?” cried a dozen voices.

“Why, don’t you see? That dark thing over there by the idiot’s cottage.”

“I don’t see anything,” said one.

“I do,” shouted another. “It’s a dog.”

“Where’s any dog?” put in a squeaky voice that we have heard before.

“It’s no such thing--it’s a heap of rags.”

“Pooh! Voost,” retorted another gruffly, “that’s about as near the fact

as you ever get. It’s the goose girl, Gretel, looking for rats.”

“Well, what of it?” squeaked Voost. “Isn’t SHE a bundle of rags, I’d

like to know?”

“Ha! ha! Pretty good for you, Voost! You’ll get a medal for wit yet, if

you keep on.”

“You’d get something else, if her brother Hans were here. I’ll warrant

you would!” said a muffled-up little fellow with a cold in his head.

As Hans was NOT there, Voost could afford to scout the insinuation.

“Who cares for HIM, little sneezer? I’d fight a dozen like him any day,

and you in the bargain.”

“You would, would you? I’d like to catch you all at it,” and, by way of

proving his words, the sneezer skated off at the top of his speed.

Just then a general chase after three of the biggest boys of the school

was proposed--and friend and foe, frolicsome as ever, were soon united

in a common cause.

Only one of all that happy throng remembered the dark little form by the

idiot’s cottage. Poor, frightened little Gretel! She was not thinking of

them, though their merry laughter floated lightly toward her, making her

feel like one in a dream.

How loud the moans were behind the darkened window! What if those

strange men were really killing her father!

The thought made her spring to her feet with a cry of horror.

“Ah, no!” She sobbed, sinking upon the frozen mound of earth where she

had been sitting. Mother is there, and Hans. They will care for him. But

how pale they were. And even Hans was crying!

Why did the cross old meester keep him and send me away? she thought.

I could have clung to the mother and kissed her. That always makes her

stroke my hair and speak gently, even after she has scolded me. How

quiet it is now! Oh, if the father should die, and Hans, and the mother,

what WOULD I do? And Gretel, shivering with cold, buried her face in her

arms and cried as if her heart would break.

The poor child had been tasked beyond her strength during the past four

days. Through all, she had been her mother’s willing little handmaiden,

soothing, helping, and cheering the half-widowed woman by day and

watching and praying beside her all the long night. She knew that

something terrible and mysterious was taking place at this moment,

something that had been too terrible and mysterious for even kind, good

Hans to tell.

Then new thoughts came. Why had not Hans told her? It was a shame. It

was HER father as well as his. She was no baby. She had once taken a

sharp knife from the father’s hand. She had even drawn him away from the

mother on that awful night when Hans, as big as he was, could not help

her. Why, then, must she be treated like one who could do nothing? oh,

how very still it was--how bitter, bitter cold! If Annie Bouman had only

stayed home instead of going to Amsterdam, it wouldn’t be so lonely. How

cold her feet were growing! Was it the moaning that made her feel as if

she were floating in the air?

This would not do--the mother might need her help at any moment!

Rousing herself with an effort, Gretel sat upright, rubbing her eyes and

wondering--wondering that the sky was so bright and blue, wondering at

the stillness in the cottage, more than all, at the laughter rising and

falling in the distance.

Soon she sank down again, the strange medley of thought growing more and

more confused in her bewildered brain.

What a strange lip the meester had! How the stork’s nest upon the roof

seemed to rustle and whisper down to her! How bright those knives were

in the leather case--brighter perhaps than the silver skates. If she

had but worn her new jacket, she would not shiver so. The new jacket was

pretty--the only pretty thing she had ever worn. God had taken care of

her father so long. He would do it still, if those two men would but go

away. Ah, now the meesters were on the roof, they were clambering to the

top--no--it was her mother and Hans--or the storks. It was so dark, who

could tell? And the mound rocking, swinging in that strange way. How

sweetly the birds were singing. They must be winter birds, for the air

was thick with icicles--not one bird but twenty. Oh! hear them, Mother.

Wake me, Mother, for the race. I am so tired with crying, and crying--

A firm hand was laid upon her shoulder.

“Get up, little girl!” cried a kind voice. “This will not do, for you to

lie here and freeze.”

Gretel slowly raised her head. She was so sleepy that it seemed nothing

strange to her that Hilda van Gleck should be leaning over her, looking

with kind, beautiful eyes into her face. She had often dreamed it

before.

But she had never dreamed that Hilda was shaking her roughly, almost

dragging her by main force; never dreamed that she heard her saying,

“Gretel! Gretel Brinker! You MUST wake!”

This was real. Gretel looked up. Still the lovely delicate young lady

was shaking, rubbing, fairly pounding her. It must be a dream. No, there

was the cottage--and the stork’s nest and the meester’s coach by the

canal. She could see them now quite plainly. Her hands were tingling,

her feet throbbing. Hilda was forcing her to walk.

At last Gretel began to feel like herself again.

“I have been asleep,” she faltered, rubbing her eyes with both hands and

looking very much ashamed.

“Yes, indeed, entirely too much asleep”--laughed Hilda, whose lips were

very pale--“but you are well enough now. Lean upon me, Gretel. There,

keep moving, you will soon be warm enough to go by the fire. Now let me

take you into the cottage.”

“Oh, no! no! no! jufvrouw, not in there! The meester is there. He sent

me away!”

Hilda was puzzled, but she wisely forebore to ask at present for an

explanation. “Very well, Gretel, try to walk faster. I saw you upon the

mound, some time ago, but I thought you were playing. That is right,

keep moving.”

All this time the kindhearted girl had been forcing Gretel to walk up

and down, supporting her with one arm and, with the other, striving as

well as she could to take off her own warm sacque.

Suddenly Gretel suspected her intention.

“Oh, jufvrouw! jufvrouw!” she cried imploringly. “PLEASE never think

of such a thing as THAT. Oh! please keep it on, I am burning all over,

jufvrouw! I really am burning. Not burning exactly, but pins and needles

pricking all over me. Oh, jufvrouw, don’t!”

The poor child’s dismay was so genuine that Hilda hastened to reassure

her.

“Very well, Gretel, move your arms then--so. Why, your cheeks are as

pink as roses, already. I think the meester would let you in now, he

certainly would. Is your father so very ill?”

“Ah, jufvrouw,” cried Gretel, weeping afresh, “he is dying, I think.

There are two meesters in with him at this moment, and the mother has

scarcely spoken today. Can you hear him moan, jufvrouw?” she added with

sudden terror. “The air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead! Oh, I

do wish I could hear him!”

Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could be

heard.

Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the window.

“You cannot see there, my lady,” sobbed Gretel eagerly. “The mother has

oiled paper hanging inside. But at the other one, in the south end of

the cottage, you can look in where the paper is torn.”

Hilda, in her anxiety, ran around, past the corner where the low roof

was fringed with its loosened thatch.

A sudden thought checked her.

“It is not right for me to peep into another’s house in this way,” she

said to herself. Then, softly calling to Gretel, she added in a whisper,

“You may look--perhaps he is only sleeping.”

Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her limbs were

trembling. Hilda hastened to her support.

“You are sick, yourself, I fear,” she said kindly.

“No, not sick, jufvrouw, but my heart cries all the time now, even when

my eyes are as dry as yours. Why, jufvrouw, your eyes are not dry! Are

you crying for US? Oh, jufvrouw, if God sees you! Oh! I know father will

get better now.” And the little creature, even while reaching to look

through the tiny window, kissed Hilda’s hand again and again.

The sash was sadly patched and broken; a torn piece of paper hung

halfway down across it. Gretel’s face was pressed to the window.

“Can you see anything?” whispered Hilda at last.

“Yes--the father lies very still, his head is bandaged, and all their

eyes are fastened upon him. Oh, jufvrouw!” almost screamed Gretel, as

she started back and, by a quick, dexterous movement shook off her heavy

wooden shoes. “I MUST go in to my mother! Will you come with me?”

“Not now, the bell is ringing. I shall come again soon. Good-bye!”

Gretel scarcely heard the words. She remembered for many a day afterward

the bright, pitying smile on Hilda’s face as she turned away.

The Awakening

An angel could not have entered the cottage more noiselessly. Gretel,

not daring to look at anyone, slid softly to her mother’s side.

The room was very still. She could hear the old doctor breathe. She

could almost hear the sparks as they fell into the ashes on the hearth.

The mother’s hand was very cold, but a burning spot glowed on her cheek,

and her eyes were like a deer’s--so bright, so sad, so eager.

At last there was a movement upon the bed, very slight, but enough to

cause them all to start. Dr. Boekman leaned eagerly forward.

Another movement. The large hands, so white and soft for a poor man’s

hand, twitched, then raised itself steadily toward the forehead.

It felt the bandage, not in a restless, crazy way but with a questioning

movement that caused even Dr. Boekman to hold his breath.

“Steady! Steady!” said a voice that sounded very strange to Gretel.

“Shift that mat higher, boys! Now throw on the clay. The waters are

rising fast; no time to--”

Dame Brinker sprang forward like a young panther.

She seized his hands and, leaning over him, cried, “Raff! Raff, boy,

speak to me!”

“Is it you, Meitje?” he asked faintly. “I have been asleep, hurt, I

think. Where is little Hans?”

“Here I am, Father!” shouted Hans, half mad with joy. But the doctor

held him back.

“He knows us!” screamed Dame Brinker. “Great God! He knows us! Gretel!

Gretel! Come, see your father!”

In vain Dr. Boekman commanded “Silence!” and tried to force them from

the bedside. He could not keep them off.

Hans and the mother laughed and cried together as they hung over the

newly awakened man. Gretel made no sound but gazed at them all with

glad, startled eyes. Her father was speaking in a faint voice.

“Is the baby asleep, Meitje?”

“The baby!” echoed Dame Brinker. “Oh, Gretel, that is you! And he calls

Hans ‘little Hans.’ Ten years asleep! Oh, mynheer, you have saved us

all. He has known nothing for ten years! Children, why don’t you thank

the meester?”

The good woman was beside herself with joy. Dr. Boekman said nothing,

but as his eye met hers, he pointed upward. She understood. So did Hans

and Gretel.

With one accord they knelt by the cot, side by side. Dame Brinker felt

for her husband’s hand even while she was praying. Dr. Boekman’s head

was bowed; the assistant stood by the hearth with his back toward them.

“Why do you pray?” murmured the father, looking feebly from the bed as

they rose. “Is it God’s day?”

It was not Sunday; but his vrouw bowed her head--she could not speak.

“Then we should have a chapter,” said Raff Brinker, speaking slowly and

with difficulty. “I do not know how it is. I am very, very weak. Mayhap

the minister will read it to us.”

Gretel lifted the big Dutch Bible from its carved shelf. Dr. Boekman,

rather dismayed at being called a minister, coughed and handed the

volume to his assistant.

“Read,” he murmured. “These people must be kept quiet or the man will

die yet.”

When the chapter was finished, Dame Brinker motioned mysteriously to the

rest by way of telling them that her husband was asleep.

“Now, jufvrouw,” said the doctor in a subdued tone as he drew on his

thick woolen mittens, “there must be perfect quiet. You understand. This

is truly a most remarkable case. I shall come again tomorrow. Give

the patient no food today,” and, bowing hastily, he left the cottage,

followed by his assistant.

His grand coach was not far away; the driver had kept the horses moving

slowly up and down by the canal nearly all the time the doctor had been

in the cottage.

Hans went out also.

“May God bless you, mynheer!” he said, blushing and trembling. “I can

never repay you, but if--”

“Yes, you can,” interrupted the doctor crossly. “You can use your wits

when the patient wakes again. This clacking and sniveling is enough to

kill a well man, let alone one lying on the edge of his grave. If you

want your father to get well, keep ‘em quiet.”

So saying, Dr. Boekman, without another word, stalked off to meet his

coach, leaving Hans standing there with eyes and mouth wide open.

Hilda was reprimanded severely that day for returning late to school

after recess, and for imperfect recitations.

She had remained near the cottage until she heard Dame Brinker laugh,

until she had heard Hans say, “Here I am, Father!” And then she had gone

back to her lessons. What wonder that she missed them! How could she get

a long string of Latin verbs by heart when her heart did not care a fig

for them but would keep saying to itself, “Oh, I am so glad! I am so

glad!”

Bones and Tongues

Bones are strange things. One would suppose that they knew nothing at

all about school affairs, but they do. Even Jacob Poot’s bones, buried

as they were in flesh, were sharp in the matter of study hours.

Early on the morning of his return they ached through and through,

giving Jacob a twinge at every stroke of the school bell, as if to

say, “Stop that clapper! There’s trouble in it.” After school, on the

contrary, they were quiet and comfortable; in fact, seemed to be taking

a nap among their cushions.

The other boys’ bones behaved in a similar manner, but that is not

so remarkable. Being nearer the daylight than Jacob’s, they might be

expected to be more learned in the ways of the world. Master Ludwig’s,

especially, were like beauty, only skin deep; they were the most knowing

bones you ever heard of. Just put before him ever so quietly a grammar

book with a long lessons marked in it, and immediately the sly bone over

his eyes would set up such an aching! Request him to go to the garret

for your foot stove, instantly the bones would remind him that he was

“too tired.” Ask him to go to the confectioner’s, a mile away, and

PRESTO! not a bone would remember that it had ever been used before.

Bearing all this in mind, you will not wonder when I tell you that our

five boys were among the happiest of the happy throng pouring forth from

the schoolhouse that day.

Peter was in excellent spirits. He had heard through Hilda of Dame

Brinker’s laugh and of Hans’s joyous words, and he needed no further

proof that Raff Brinker was a cured man. In fact, the news had gone

forth in every direction, for miles around. Persons who had never

before cared for the Brinkers, or even mentioned them, except with a

contemptuous sneer or a shrug of pretended pity, now became singularly

familiar with every point of their history. There was no end to the

number of ridiculous stories that were flying about.

Hilda, in the excitement of the moment, had stopped to exchange a word

with the doctor’s coachman as he stood by the horses, pommelling his

chest and clapping his hands. Her kind heart was overflowing. She could

not help pausing to tell the cold, tired-looking man that she

thought the doctor would be out soon; she even hinted to him that she

suspected--only suspected--that a wonderful cure had been performed, an

idiot brought to his senses. Nay, she was SURE of it, for she had heard

his widow laugh--no, not his widow, of course, but his wife--for the

man was as much alive as anybody, and, for all she knew, sitting up and

talking like a lawyer.

All this was very indiscreet. Hilda, in an impenitent sort of way, felt

it to be so.

But it is always so delightful to impart pleasant or surprising news!

She went tripping along by the canal, quite resolved to repeat the sin,

ad infinitum, and tell nearly every girl and boy in the school.

Meantime Janzoon Kolp came skating by. Of course, in two seconds, he was

striking slippery attitudes and shouting saucy things to the coachman,

who stared at him in indolent disdain.

This, to Janzoon, was equivalent to an invitation to draw nearer. The

coachman was now upon his box, gathering up the reins and grumbling at

his horses.

Janzoon accosted him.

“I say. What’s going on at the idiot’s cottage? Is your boss in there?”

Coachman nodded mysteriously.

“Whew!” whistled Janzoon, drawing closer. “Old Brinker dead?”

The driver grew big with importance and silent in proportion.

“See here, old pincushion, I’d run home yonder and get you a chunk of

gingerbread if I thought you could open your mouth.”

Old pincushion was human--long hours of waiting had made him ravenously

hungry. At Janzoon’s hint, his countenance showed signs of a collapse.

“That’s right, old fellow,” pursued his tempter. “Hurry up! What

news?--old Brinker dead?”

“No, CURED! Got his wits,” said the coachman, shooting forth his words,

one at a time, like so many bullets.

Like bullets (figuratively speaking) they hit Janzoon Kolp. He jumped as

if he had been shot.

“Goede Gunst! You don’t say so!”

The man pressed his lips together and looked significantly toward Master

Kolp’s shabby residence.

Just then Janzoon saw a group of boys in the distance. Hailing them in a

rowdy style, common to boys of his stamp all over the world, weather in

Africa, Japan, Amsterdam, or Paris, he scampered toward them, forgetting

coachman, gingerbread, everything but the wonderful news.

Therefore, by sundown it was well known throughout the neighboring

country that Dr. Boekman, chancing to stop at the cottage, had given the

idiot Brinker a tremendous dose of medicine, as brown as gingerbread.

It had taken six men to hold him while it was poured down. The idiot had

immediately sprung to his feet, in full possession of all his faculties,

knocked over the doctor or thrashed him (there was admitted to be a

slight uncertainty as to which of these penalties was inflicted), then

sat down and addressed him for all the world like a lawyer. After that

he had turned and spoken beautifully to his wife and children. Dame

Brinker had laughed herself into violent hysterics. Hans had said,

“Here I am, Father, your own dear son!” And Gretel had said, “Here I am,

Father, your own dear Gretel!” And the doctor had afterward been seen

leaning back in his carriage looking just as white as a corpse.

A New Alarm

When Dr. Boekman called the next day at the Brinker cottage, he could

not help noticing the cheerful, comfortable aspect of the place. An

atmosphere of happiness breathed upon him as he opened the door. Dame

Brinker sat complacently knitting beside the bed, her husband was

enjoying a tranquil slumber, and Gretel was noiselessly kneading rye

bread on the table in the corner.

The doctor did not remain long. He asked a few simple questions,

appeared satisfied with the answers, and after feeling his patient’s

pulse, said, “Ah, very weak yet, jufvrouw. Very weak, indeed. He must

have nourishment. You may begin to feed the patient. Ahem! Not too much,

but what you do give him let it be strong and of the best.”

“Black bread, we have, mynheer, and porridge,” replied Dame Brinker

cheerily. “They have always agreed with him well.”

“Tut, tut!” said the doctor, frowning. “Nothing of the kind. He must

have the juice of fresh meat, white bread, dried and toasted, good

Malaga wine, and--ahem! The man looks cold. Give him more covering,

something light and warm. Where is the boy?”

“Hans, mynheer, has gone into Broek to look for work. He will be back

soon. Will the meester please be seated?”

Whether the hard polished stool offered by Dame Brinker did not look

particularly tempting, or whether the dame herself frightened him,

partly because she was a woman, and partly because an anxious,

distressed look had suddenly appeared in her face, I cannot say. Certain

it is that our eccentric doctor looked hurriedly about him, muttered

something about “an extraordinary case,” bowed, and disappeared before

Dame Brinker had time to say another word.

Strange that the visit of their good benefactor should have left a

cloud, yet so it was. Gretel frowned, an anxious, childish frown, and

kneaded the bread dough violently without looking up. Dame Brinker

hurried to her husband’s bedside, leaned over him, and fell into silent

but passionate weeping.

In a moment Hans entered.

“Why, Mother,” he whispered in alarm, “what ails thee? Is the father

worse?”

She turned her quivering face toward him, making no attempt to conceal

her distress.

“Yes. He is starving--perishing. A meester said it.”

Hans turned pale.

“What does this mean, Mother? We must feed him at once. Here, Gretel,

give me the porridge.”

“Nay!” cried his mother, distractedly, yet without raising her voice.

“It may kill him. Our poor fare is too heavy for him. Oh, Hans, he will

die--the father will DIE, if we use him this way. He must have meat

and sweet wine and a dekbed. Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?” she

sobbed, wringing her hands. “There is not a stiver in the house.”

Gretel pouted. It was the only way she could express sympathy just then.

Her tears fell one by one into the dough.

“Did the meester say he MUST have these things, Mother?” asked Hans.

“Yes, he did.”

“Well, Mother, don’t cry, HE SHALL HAVE THEM. I shall bring meat and

wine before night. Take the cover from my bed. I can sleep in the

straw.”

“Yes, Hans, but it is heavy, scant as it is. The meester said he must

have something light and warm. He will perish. Our peat is giving out,

Hans. The father has wasted it sorely, throwing it on when I was not

looking, dear man.”

“Never mind, Mother,” whispered Hans cheerfully. “We can cut down the

willow tree and burn it, if need be, but I’ll bring home something

tonight. There MUST be work in Amsterdam, though there’s none in Broek.

Never fear, Mother, the worst trouble of all is past. We can brave

anything now that the father is himself again.”

“Aye!” sobbed Dame Brinker, hastily drying her eyes. “That is true

indeed.”

“Of course it is. Look at him, Mother, how softly he sleeps. Do you

think God would let him starve, just after giving him back to us? Why,

Mother, I’m as SURE of getting all the father needs as if my pocket were

bursting with gold. There, now, don’t fret.” And, hurriedly kissing her,

Hans caught up his skates and slipped from the cottage.

Poor Hans! Disappointed in his morning’s errand, half sickened with this

new trouble, he wore a brave look and tried to whistle as he tramped

resolutely off with the firm intention of mending matters.

Want had never before pressed so sorely upon the Brinker family. Their

stock of peat was nearly exhausted, and all the flour in the cottage was

in Gretel’s dough. They had scarcely cared to eat during the past few

days, scarcely realized their condition. Dame Brinker had felt so sure

that she and the children could earn money before the worst came that

she had given herself up to the joy of her husband’s recovery. She had

not even told Hans that the few pieces of silver in the old mitten were

quite gone.

Hans reproached himself, now, that he had not hailed the doctor when

he saw him enter his coach and drive rapidly away in the direction of

Amsterdam.

Perhaps there is some mistake, he thought. The meester surely would

have known that meat and sweet wine were not at our command; and yet the

father looks very weak--he certainly does. I MUST get work. If Mynheer

van Holp were back from Rotterdam, I could get plenty to do. But Master

Peter told me to let him know if he could do aught to serve us. I shall

go to him at once. Oh, if it were but summer!

All this time Hans was hastening toward the canal. Soon his skates were

on, and he was skimming rapidly toward the residence of Mynheer van

Holp.

“The father must have meat and wine at once,” he muttered, “but how can

I earn the money in time to buy them today? There is no other way but to

go, as I PROMISED, to Master Peter. What would a gift of meat and wine

be to him? When the father is once fed, I can rush down to Amsterdam and

earn the morrow’s supply.”

Then came other thoughts--thoughts that made his heart thump heavily and

his cheeks burn with a new shame. It is BEGGING, to say the least. Not

one of the Brinkers has ever been a beggar. Shall I be the first? Shall

my poor father just coming back into life learn that his family has

asked for charity--he, always so wise and thrifty? “No,” cried Hans

aloud, “better a thousand times to part with the watch.”

I can at least borrow money on it, in Amsterdam! he thought, turning

around. That will be no disgrace. I can find work at once and get it

back again. Nay, perhaps I can even SPEAK TO THE FATHER ABOUT IT!

This last thought made the lad dance for joy. Why not, indeed, speak

to the father? He was a rational being now. He may wake, thought Hans,

quite bright and rested--may tell us the watch is of no consequence, to

sell it of course! And Hans almost flew over the ice.

A few moments more and the skates were again swinging from his arm. He

was running toward the cottage.

His mother met him at the door.

“Oh, Hans!” she cried, her face radiant with joy, “the young lady has

been here with her maid. She brought everything--meat, jelly, wine, and

bread--a whole basketful! Then the meester sent a man from town with

more wine and a fine bed and blankets for the father. Oh! he will get

well now. God bless them!”

“God bless them!” echoed Hans, and for the first time that day his eyes

filled with tears.

The Father’s Return

That evening Raff Brinker felt so much better that he insisted upon

sitting up for a while on the rough high-backed chair by the fire. For a

few moments there was quite a commotion in the little cottage. Hans was

all-important on the occasion, for his father was a heavy man and needed

something firm to lean upon. The dame, though none of your fragile

ladies, was in such a state of alarm and excitement at the bold step

they were taking in lifting him without the meester’s orders that she

came near pulling her husband over, even while she believed herself to

be his main prop and support.

“Steady, vrouw, steady,” panted Raff. “Have I grown old and feeble, or

is it the fever makes me thus helpless?”

“Hear the man!”--Dame Brinker laughed--“talking like any other

Christian! Why, you’re only weak from the fever, Raff. Here’s the chair,

all fixed snug and warm. Now, sit thee down--hi-di-didy--there we are!”

With these words Dame Brinker let her half of the burden settle slowly

into the chair. Hans prudently did the same.

Meanwhile Gretel flew about generally, bringing every possible thing to

her mother to tuck behind the father’s back and spread over his knees.

Then she twitched the carved bench under his feet, and Hans kicked the

fire to make it brighter.

The father was sitting up at last. What wonder that he looked about him

like one bewildered. “Little Hans” had just been almost carrying him.

“The baby” was over four feet long and was demurely brushing up the

hearth with a bundle of willow wisps. Meitje, the vrouw, winsome and

fair as ever, had gained at least fifty pounds in what seemed to him a

few hours. She also had some new lines in her face that puzzled him. The

only familiar things in the room were the pine table that he had made

before he was married, the Bible upon the shelf, and the cupboard in the

corner.

Ah! Raff Brinker, it was only natural that your eyes should fill with

hot tears even while looking at the joyful faces of your loved ones. Ten

years dropped from a man’s life are no small loss; ten years of manhood,

of household happiness and care; ten years of honest labor, of conscious

enjoyment of sunshine and outdoor beauty, ten years of grateful

life--one day looking forward to all this; the next, waking to find them

passed and a blank. What wonder the scalding tears dropped one by one

upon your cheek!

Tender little Gretel! The prayer of her life was answered through those

tears. She LOVED her father silently at that moment. Hans and his mother

glanced silently at each other when they saw her spring toward him and

throw her arms about his neck.

“Father, DEAR Father,” she whispered, pressing her cheek close to his,

“don’t cry. We are all here.”

“God bless thee,” sobbed Raff, kissing her again and again. “I had

forgotten that!”

Soon he looked up again and spoke in a cheerful voice. “I should know

her, vrouw,” he said, holding the sweet young face between his hands and

gazing at it as though he were watching it grow. “I should know her. The

same blue eyes and the lips, and ah! me, the little song she could sing

almost before she could stand. But that was long ago,” he added, with a

sigh, still looking at her dreamily. “Long ago; it’s all gone now.”

“Not so, indeed,” cried Dame Brinker eagerly. “Do you think I would

let her forget it? Gretel, child, sing the old song thou hast known so

long!”

Raff Brinker’s hand fell wearily and his eyes closed, but it was

something to see the smile playing about his mouth as Gretel’s voice

floated about him like incense.

It was a simple air; she had never known the words.

With loving instinct she softened every note, until Raff almost fancied

that his two-year-old baby was once more beside him.

As soon as the song was finished, Hans mounted a wooden stool and began

to rummage in the cupboard.

“Have a care, Hans,” said Dame Brinker, who through all her poverty was

ever a tidy housewife. “Have a care, the wine is there at your right and

the white bread beyond it.”

“Never fear, Mother,” answered Hans, reaching far back on an upper

shelf. “I shall do no mischief.”

Jumping down, he walked toward his father and placed an oblong block of

pine wood in his hands. One of its ends was rounded off, and some deep

cuts had been made on the top.

“Do you know what that is, Father?” asked Hans.

Raff Brinker’s face brightened. “Indeed I do, boy! It is the boat I was

making you yest--alack, not yesterday, but years ago.”

“I have kept it ever since, Father. It can be finished when your hand

grows strong again.”

“Yes, but not for you, my lad. I must wait for the grandchildren. Why,

you are nearly a man. Have you helped your mother through all these

years?”

“Aye and bravely,” put in Dame Brinker.

“Let me see,” muttered the father, looking in a puzzled way at them all,

“how long is it since the night when the waters were coming in? ‘Tis the

last I remember.”

“We have told thee true, Raff. It was ten years last Pinxter week.”

“Ten years--and I fell then, you say? Has the fever been on me ever

since?”

Dame Brinker scarcely knew how to reply. Should she tell him all? Tell

him that he had been an idiot, almost a lunatic? The doctor had charged

her on no account to worry or excite his patient.

Hans and Gretel looked astonished.

“Like enough, Raff,” she said, nodding her head and raising her

eyebrows. “When a heavy man like thee falls on his head, it’s hard to

say what will come--but thou’rt well NOW, Raff. Thank the good Lord!”

The newly awakened man bowed his head.

“Aye, well enough, mine vrouw,” he said after a moment’s silence, “but

my brain turns somehow like a spinning wheel. It will not be right till

I get on the dikes again. When shall I be at work, think you?”

“Hear the man!” cried Dame Brinker, delighted, yet frightened, too, for

that matter. “We must get him on the bed, Hans. Work indeed!”

They tried to raise him from the chair, but he was not ready yet.

“Be off with ye!” he said with something like his old smile (Gretel had

never seen it before). “Does a man want to be lifted about like a log?

I tell you before three suns I shall be on the dikes again. Ah! There’ll

be some stout fellows to greet me. Jan Kamphuisen and young Hoogsvliet.

They have been good friends to thee, Hans, I’ll warrant.”

Hans looked at his mother. Young Hoogsvliet had been dead five years.

Jan Kamphuisen was in the jail at Amsterdam.

“Aye, they’d have done their share no doubt,” said Dame Brinker,

parrying the inquiry, “had we asked them. But what with working and

studying, Hans has been busy enough without seeking comrades.”

“Working and studying,” echoed Raff, in a musing tone. “Can the

youngsters read and cipher, Meitje?”

“You should hear them!” she answered proudly. “They can run through a

book while I mop the floor. Hans there is as happy over a page of big

words as a rabbit in a cabbage patch; as for ciphering--”

“Here, lad, help a bit,” interrupted Raff Brinker. “I must get me on the

bed again.”

The Thousand Guilders

None seeing the humble supper eaten in the Brinker cottage that night

would have dreamed of the dainty repast hidden away nearby. Hans and

Gretel looked rather wistfully toward the cupboard as they drank their

cupful of water and ate their scanty share of black bread; but even in

thought they did not rob their father.

“He relished his supper well,” said Dame Brinker, nodding sidewise

toward the bed, “and fell asleep the next moment. Ah, the dear man will

be feeble for many a day. He wanted sore to sit up again, but while I

made show of humoring him and getting ready, he dropped off. Remember

that, my girl, when you have a man of your own (and many a day may it

be before that comes to pass), remember that you can never rule by

differing; ‘humble wife is husband’s boss.’ Tut! tut! Never swallow such

a mouthful as that again, child. Why, I could make a meal off two such

pieces. What’s in thee, Hans? One would think there were cobwebs on the

walls.”

“Oh, no, Mother, I was only thinking--”

“Thinking about what? Ah, no use asking,” she added in a changed tone.

“I was thinking of the same a while ago. Well, it’s no blame if we DID

look to hear something by this time about the thousand guilders but not

a word--no--it’s plain enough he knows naught about them.”

Hans looked up anxiously, dreading lest his mother should grow agitated,

as usual, when speaking of the lost money, but she was silently nibbling

her bread and looking with a doleful stare toward the window.

“Thousand guilders,” echoed a faint voice from the bed. “Ah, I am sure

they have been of good use to you, vrouw, through the long years when

your man was idle.”

The poor woman started up. These words quite destroyed the hope that of

late had been glowing within her.

“Are you awake, Raff?” she faltered.

“Yes, Meitje, and I feel much better. Our money was well saved, vrouw, I

was saying. Did it last through all those ten years?”

“I--I--have not got it, Raff, I--” She was going to tell him the whole

truth when Hans lifted his finger warningly and whispered, “Remember

what the meester told us. The father must not be worried.”

“Speak to him, child,” she answered, trembling.

Hans hurried to the bedside.

“I am glad you are feeling better,” he said, leaning over his father.

“Another day will see you quite strong again.”

“Aye, like enough. How long did the money last, Hans? I could not hear

your mother. What did she say?”

“I said, Raff,” stammered Dame Brinker in great distress, “that it was

all gone.”

“Well, well, wife, do not fret at that; one thousand guilders is not

so very much for ten years and with children to bring up... but it has

helped to make you all comfortable. Have you had much sickness to bear?”

“No, no,” sobbed Dame Brinker, lifting her apron to her eyes.

“Tut, tut, woman, why do you cry?” said Raff kindly. “We will soon fill

another pouch when I am on my feet again. Lucky I told you all about it

before I fell.”

“Told me what, man?”

“Why, that I buried the money. In my dream just now, it seemed that I

had never said aught about it.”

Dame Brinker started forward. Hans caught her arm.

“Hist! Mother,” he whispered, hastily leading her away, “we must be very

careful.” Then, while she stood with clasped hands waiting in breathless

anxiety, he once more approached the cot. Trembling with eagerness he

said, “That was a troublesome dream. Do you remember WHEN you buried the

money, Father?”

“Yes, my boy. It was just before daylight on the same day I was hurt.

Jan Kamphuisen said something, the sundown before, that made me distrust

his honesty. He was the only one living besides Mother who knew that we

had saved a thousand guilders, so I rose up that night and buried the

money--blockhead that I was ever to suspect an old friend!”

“I’ll be bound, Father,” pursued Hans in a laughing voice, motioning to

his mother and Gretel to remain quiet, “that you’ve forgotten where you

buried it.”

“Ha! ha! Not I, indeed. But good night, my son, I can sleep again.”

Hans would have walked away, but his mother’s gestures were not to be

disobeyed. So he said gently, “Good night, Father. Where did you say you

buried the money? I was only a little one then.”

“Close by the willow sapling behind the cottage,” said Raff Brinker

drowsily.

“Ah, yes. North side of the tree, wasn’t it, Father?”

“No, the south side. Ah, you know the spot well enough, you rogue. Like

enough you were there when your mother lifted it. Now, son, easy. Shift

this pillow so. Good night.”

“Good night, Father!” said Hans, ready to dance for joy.

The moon rose very late that night, shining in, full and clear, at the

little window, but its beams did not disturb Raff Brinker. He slept

soundly; so did Gretel. As for Hans and his mother, they had something

else to do.

After making a few hurried preparations, they stole forth with bright,

expectant faces, bearing a broken spade and a rusty implement that had

done many a day’s service when Raff was a hale worker on the dikes.

It was so light out of doors that they could see the willow tree

distinctly. The frozen ground was hard as stone, but Hans and his mother

were resolute. Their only dread was that they might disturb the sleepers

in the cottage.

“This ysbreeker is just the thing, Mother,” said Hans, striking many a

vigorous blow, “but the ground has set so firm it’ll be a fair match for

it.”

“Never fear, Hans,” she answered, watching him eagerly. “Here, let me

try awhile.”

They soon succeeded in making an impression. One opening and the rest

was not so difficult.

Still they worked on, taking turns and whispering cheerily to one

another. Now and then Dame Brinker stepped noiselessly over the

threshold and listened, to be certain that her husband slept.

“What grand news it will be for him,” she said, laughing, “when he is

strong enough to bear it. How I should like to put the pouch and the

stocking, just as we find them, all full of money, near him this blessed

night, for the dear man to see when he wakens.”

“We must get them first, Mother,” panted Hans, still tugging away at his

work.

“There’s no doubt of that. They can’t slip away from us now,” she

answered, shivering with cold and excitement as she crouched beside the

opening. “Like enough we’ll find them stowed in the old earthen pot I

lost long ago.”

By this time Hans, too, began to tremble, but not with cold. He had

penetrated a foot deep for quite a space on the south side of the tree.

At any moment they might come upon the treasure. Meantime the stars

winked and blinked at each other as if to say, “Queer country, this

Holland! How much we do see, to be sure!”

“Strange that the dear father should have put it down so woeful deep,”

said Dame Brinker in rather a provoked tone. “Ah, the ground was soft

enough then, I warrant. How wise of him to mistrust Jan Kamphuisen, and

Jan in full credit at the time. Little I thought that handsome fellow

with his gay ways would ever go to jail! Now, Hans, let me take a turn.

It’s lighter work, d’ye see, the deeper we go? I’d be loath to kill the

tree, Hans. Will we harm it, do you think?”

“I cannot say,” he answered gravely.

Hour after hour, mother and son worked on. The hole grew larger and

deeper. Clouds began to gather in the sky, throwing elfish shadows as

they passed. Not until moon and stars faded away and streaks of daylight

began to appear did Meitje Brinker and Hans look hopelessly into each

other’s faces.

They had searched the ground thoroughly, desperately, all round the

tree; south, north, east, west. THE HIDDEN MONEY WAS NOT THERE!

Glimpses

Annie Bouman had a healthy distaste for Janzoon Kolp. Janzoon Kolp, in

his own rough way, adored Annie. Annie declared that she could not “to

save her life” say one civil word to that odious boy. Janzoon believed

her to be the sweetest, sauciest creature in the world. Annie laughed

among her playmates at the comical flapping of Janzoon’s tattered and

dingy jacket; he sighed in solitude over the floating grace of her

jaunty blue petticoat. She thanked her stars that her brothers were not

like the Kolps, and he growled at his sister because she was not like

the Boumans. His presence made her harsh and unfeeling, and the very

sight of her made him gentle as a lamb. Of course they were thrown

together very often. It is thus that in some mysterious way we are

convinced of error and cured of prejudice. In this case, however, the

scheme failed. Annie detested Janzoon more and more at each encounter;

and Janzoon liked her better and better every day.

He killed a stork, the wicked old wretch! she would say to herself.

She knows I am strong and fearless, thought Janzoon.

How red and freckled and ugly he is! was Annie’s secret comment when she

looked at him.

How she stares and stares! thought Janzoon. Well, I am a fine,

weather-beaten fellow, anyway.

“Janzoon Kolp, you impudent boy, go right away from me!” Annie often

said. “I don’t want any of your company.”

Ha! Ha! laughed Janzoon to himself. Girls never say what they mean. I’ll

skate with her every chance I can get.

And so it came to pass that the pretty maid would not look up that

morning when, skating homeward from Amsterdam, she became convinced that

a great burly boy was coming down the canal toward her.

Humph! if I look at him, thought Annie, I’ll--

“Good morrow, Annie Bouman,” said a pleasant voice.

How a smile brightens a girl’s face!

“Good morrow, Master Hans, I am right glad to meet you.”

How a smile brightens a boy’s face!

“Good morrow, again, Annie. There has been a great change at our house

since you left.”

“How so?” she exclaimed, opening her eyes very wide.

Hans, who had been in a great hurry and rather moody, grew talkative and

quite at leisure in Annie’s sunshine.

Turning about, and skating slowly with her toward Broek, he told the

good news of his father. Annie was so true a friend that he told

her even of their present distress, of how money was needed and how

everything depended upon his obtaining work, and he could find nothing

to do in the neighborhood.

All this was not said as a complaint but just because she was looking at

him and really wished to know. He could not speak of last night’s bitter

disappointment, for that secret was not wholly his own.

“Good-bye, Annie!” he said at last. “The morning is going fast, and I

must haste to Amsterdam and sell these skates. Mother must have money at

once. Before nightfall I shall certainly find a job somewhere.”

“Sell your new skates, Hans?” cried Annie. “You, the best skater around

Broek! Why, the race is coming off in five days!”

“I know it,” he answered resolutely. “Good-bye! I shall skate home again

on the old wooden ones.”

Such a bright glance! So different from Janzoon’s ugly grin--and Hans

was off like an arrow.

“Hans, come back!” she called.

Her voice changed the arrow into a top. Spinning around, he darted, in

one long, leaning sweep, toward her.

“Then you really are going to sell your new skates if you can find a

customer?”

“Well, Hans, if you ARE going to sell your skates,” said Annie, quite

confused, “I mean if you--well, I know somebody who would like to buy

them, that’s all.”

“Not Janzoon Kolp?” asked Hans, flushing.

“Oh, no,” she said, pouting, “he is not one of my friends.”

“But you KNOW him,” persisted Hans.

Annie laughed, “Yes, I know him, and it’s all the worse for him that I

do. Now, please, Hans, don’t ever talk any more to me about Janzoon. I

hate him!”

“Hate him! YOU hate anybody, Annie?”

She shook her head saucily. “Yes, and I’ll hate you, too, if you persist

in calling him one of my friends. You boys may like him because he

caught the greased goose at the kermis last summer and climbed the pole

with his great, ugly body tied up in a sack, but I don’t care for such

things. I’ve disliked him ever since I saw him try to push his little

sister out of the merry-go-round at Amsterdam, and it’s no secret up

OUR way who killed the stork on your mother’s roof. But we mustn’t talk