Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates

XII

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 a 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 windows. 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 up 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 sour-krout! 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 white 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 Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front, and its gateway towers, each surmounted with a sculptured swan.

"Halfweg,[19] boys," said Peter, "off with your skates."

"You see," explained Lambert to his companion, "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 dykes and sluice-gates, or there would be wet work at once. The sluice arrangements here 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 dyke matters. The castle was once the residence of the celebrated Christiaan 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 dykes, and other defences against the sea. There's no counting the improvements he made in dykes 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 proud—Heigho! 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."

XIII

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 or 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 passers-by had smiled as they listened.

"Come, boys! it's nearly tiffin[20] hour," he said, as they neared a coffee-house 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!"

"Hollo!" 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 under jacket——"

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 neither. 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. Don't one of you know any one 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 any one. 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 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 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 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.

XIV

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' 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, cheerily, "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 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.

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 white-wood 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 to-day?"

"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 flirted 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 scarce 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 to-day, but I will promise to see him early to-morrow 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. My sister Gretel screamed out that he was holding the mother close to the very coals. I could not tell! 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 burnt, 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 hand 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 to-day?"

"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, at 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 till 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!"

XV

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 sightseeing, 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 you already know, 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. They shouldn't know when they bothered her, not they. 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. Every one liked her, but who could love her? She was never in earnest. A pleasant face, a pleasant heart, a pleasant manner—these only satisfy for an hour. Poor, happy Katrinka! such as she, tinkle, tinkle 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 and twined 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 light-hearted 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 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. That 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 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 and sleep a while.

"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 careful, 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 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 strange. If he only could, just 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 window-panes, 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 any more. 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, 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 round 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.

XVI

HAARLEM.—THE BOYS HEAR VOICES

Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffee-house 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 streets of 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 St. 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 crape streamer was flying.

"Who comes here?" cried Ben; "what a queer-looking object."

"That's the aanspreeker," said Lambert; "some one 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 any one 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!" almost screamed Ben, "there is a white cushion, at the door of that double-jointed house with the funny roof."

"I don't see any house with a funny roof."

"Oh, of course not," said Ben. "I forget 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 St. Bavon. The church is open to-day."

"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[21] that sounds like a giant singing."

"The same," answered Lambert van Mounen.

Peter was right. The church was open, though not for religious services. Some one 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 again 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 been 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; 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 St. 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 broad, 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 a 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 cannon-ball which 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 a sign of a name upon 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 awe-struck; 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?' said he; 'you have done impossible things—no ten fingers on earth can play the passages you have given; human hands 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.