would hurt people; but the church bells would guide travellers in the
forest, and quiet the storms, that destroyed houses and upset boats and
killed or drowned people, besides inviting the people to come and pray
and sing. They knew that the good teachers were poor and could not buy
bells in France or Italy. Even if they had money, they could not get
them through the thick forests, or over the stormy seas, for they were
too heavy.
When all the kabouters were told of this, they came together to work,
night and day, in the mines. With pick and shovel, crowbar and chisel,
and hammer and mallet, they broke up the rocks containing copper and
tin. Then they built great roaring fires, to smelt the ore into ingots.
They would show the teachers that the Dutch kabouters could make bells,
as well as the men in the lands of the South. These dwarfish people are
jealous of men and very proud of what they can do.
It was the funniest sight to see these short legged fellows, with tiny
coats coming just below their thighs, and little red caps, looking like
a stocking and ending in a tassel, on their heads, and in shoes that had
no laces, but very long points. They flew around as lively as monkeys,
and when the fire was hot they threw off everything and worked much
harder and longer than men do.
Were they like other fairies? Well, hardly. One must put away all his
usual thoughts, when he thinks of kabouters. No filmy wings on their
backs! No pretty clothes or gauzy garments, or stars, or crowns, or
wands! Instead of these were hammers, pickaxes, and chisels. But how
diligent, useful and lively these little folks, in plain, coarse coats
and with bare legs, were! In place of things light, clean and easy, the
kabouters had furnaces, crucibles and fires of coal and wood.
Sometimes they were grimy, with smoke and coal dust, and the sweat ran
down their faces and bodies. Yet there was always plenty of water in the
mines, and when hard work was over they washed and looked plain but
tidy. Besides their stores of gold, and silver, and precious stones,
which they kept ready, to give to good people, they had tools with which
to tease or tantalize cruel, mean or lazy folks.
Now when the kabouter daddies began the roaring fires for the making of
the bells, the little mothers and the small fry in the kabouter world
could not afford to be idle. One and all, they came down from off the
earth, and into the mines they went in a crowd. They left off teasing
milkmaids, tangling skeins of flax, tearing fishermen's nets, tying
knots in cows' tails, tumbling pots, pans and dishes, in the kitchen, or
hiding hats, and throwing stones down the chimneys onto the fireplaces.
They even ceased their fun of mocking children, who were calling the
cows home, by hiding behind the rocks and shouting to them. Instead of
these tricks, they saved their breath to blow the fires into a blast.
Everybody wondered where the "kabs" were, for on the farms and in town
nothing happened and all was as quiet as when a baby is asleep.
For days and weeks underground, the dwarfs toiled, until their skins,
already dark, became as sooty as the rafters in the houses of our
ancestors. Finally, when all the labor was over, the chief gnomes were
invited down into the mines to inspect the work.
What a sight! There were at least a hundred bells, of all sizes, like as
in a family; where there are daddy, mother, grown ups, young sons and
daughters, little folk and babies, whether single, twins or triplets.
Big bells, that could scarcely be put inside a hogshead, bells that
would go into a barrel, bells that filled a bushel, and others a peck,
stood in rows. From the middle, and tapering down the row, were scores
more, some of them no larger than cow-bells. Others, at the end, were so
small, that one had to think of pint and gill measures.
Besides all these, there were stacks of iron rods and bars, bolts, nuts,
screws, and wires and yokes on which to hang the bells.
One party of the strongest of the kabouters had been busy in the forest,
close to a village, where some men, ordered to do so by a foreign
teacher, had begun to cut down some of the finest and most sacred of the
grand old trees. They had left their tools in the woods; but the "kabs,"
at night, seized their axes and before morning, without making any
noise, they had levelled all but the holy trees. Those they spared.
Then, the timber, all cut and squared, ready to hold the bells, was
brought to the mouth of the mine.
Now in Dutch, the name for bell is "klok." So a wise and gray-bearded
gnome was chosen by the high sounding title of klokken-spieler, or bell
player, to test the bells for a carillon. They were all hung, for
practice, on the big trestles, in a long row. Each one of these frames
was called a "hang," for they were just like those on which fishermen's
nets were laid to dry and be mended.
So when all were ready, washed, and in their clean clothes, every one of
the kabouter families, daddies, mothers, and young ones, were ranged in
lines and made to sing. The heavy male tenors and baritones, the female
sopranos and contraltos, the trebles of the little folks, and the
squeaks of the very small children, down to the babies' cooing, were all
heard by the gnomes, who were judges. The high and mighty
klokken-spieler, or master of the carillon, chose those voices with best
tone and quality, from which to set in order and regulate the bells.
It was pitiful to see how mad and jealous some of the kabouters, both
male and female, were, when they were not appointed to the first row, in
which were some of the biggest of the males, and some of the fattest of
the females. Then the line tapered off, to forty or fifty young folks,
including urchins of either sex, down to mere babies, that could hardly
stand. These had bibs on and had to be held up by their fond mothers.
Each one by itself could squeal and squall, coo and crow lustily; but,
at a distance, their voices blended and the noise they made sounded like
a tinkle.
All being ready, the old gnome bit his tuning fork, hummed a moment, and
then started a tune. Along the line, at a signal from the chief gnome,
they started a tune.
In the long line, there were, at first, booms and peals, twanging and
clanging, jangling and wrangling, making such a clangor that it sounded
more like an uproar than an opera. The chief gnome was almost
discouraged.
But neither a gnome nor a kabouter ever gives up. The master of the
choir tried again and again. He scolded one old daddy, for singing too
low. He frowned at a stalwart young fellow, who tried to drown out all
the rest with his bull-like bellow. He shook his finger at a kabouter
girl, that was flirting with a handsome lad near her. He cheered up the
little folks, encouraging them to hold up their voices, until finally he
had all in order. Then they practiced, until the master gnome thought he
had his scale of notation perfect and gave orders to attune the bells.
To the delight of all the gnomes, kabouters and elves, that had been
invited to the concert, the rows of bells, a hundred or more, from
boomers to tinklers, made harmony. Strung one above the other, they
could render merriment, or sadness, in solos, peals, chimes, cascades
and carillons, with sweetness and effect. At the low notes the babies
called out "cow, cow;" but at the high notes, "bird, bird."
So it happened that, on the very day that the bishop had his great
church built, with a splendid bulb spire on the top, and all nicely
furnished within, but without one bell to ring in it, that the kabouters
planned a great surprise.
It was night. The bishop was packing his saddle bags, ready to take a
journey, on horseback, to Rheims. At this city, the great caravans from
India and China ended, bringing to the annual fair, rugs, spices, gems,
and things Oriental, and the merchants of Rheims rolled in gold. Here
the bishop would beg the money, or ask for a bell, or chimes.
Suddenly, in the night, while in his own house, there rang out music in
the air, such as the bishop had never heard in Holland, or in any of the
seventeen provinces of the Netherlands. Not even in the old lands,
France, or Spain, or Italy, where the Christian teachers, builders and
singers, and the music of the bells had long been heard, had such a
flood of sweet sounds ever fallen on human ears. Here, in these northern
regions, rang out, not a solo, nor a peal, nor a chime, nor even a
cascade, from one bell, or from many bells; but, a long programme of
richest music in the air--something which no other country, however rich
or old, possessed. It was a carillon, that is, a continued mass of real
music, in which whole tunes, songs, and elaborate pieces of such length,
mass and harmony, as only a choir of many voices, a band of music, or an
orchestra of many performers could produce.
To get this grand work of hanging in the spire done in one night, and
before daylight, also, required a whole regiment of fairy toilers, who
must work like bees. For if one ray of sunshine struck any one of the
kabouters, he was at once petrified. The light elves lived in the
sunshine and thrived on it; but for dark elves, like the kabouters,
whose home was underground, sunbeams were as poisoned arrows bringing
sure death; for by these they were turned into stone. Happily the task
was finished before the eastern sky grew gray, or the cocks crowed.
While it was yet dark, the music in the air flooded the earth. The
people in their beds listened with rapture.
"Laus Deo" (Praise God), devoutly cried the surprised bishop. "It sounds
like a choir of angels. Surely the cherubim and seraphim are here. Now
is fulfilled the promise of the Psalmist: 'The players on instruments
shall be there.'"
So, from this beginning, so mysterious to the rough, unwise and stupid
teachers, but, by degrees, clearer to the tactful ones, who were kind
and patient, the carillons spread over all the region between the
forests of Ardennes and the island in the North Sea. The Netherlands
became the land of melodious symphonies and of tinkling bells. No town,
however poor, but in time had its carillon. Every quarter of an hour,
the sweet music of hymn or song, made the air vocal, while at the
striking of the hours, the pious bowed their heads and the workmen heard
the call for rest, or they took cheer, because their day's toil was
over. At sunrise, noon, or sunset, the Angelus, and at night the curfew
sounded their calls.
It grew into a fashion, that, on stated days, great concerts were given,
lasting over an hour, when the grand works of the masters of music were
rendered and famous carillon players came from all over the Netherlands,
to compete for prizes. The Low Countries became a famous school, in
which klokken-spielers (bell players) by scores were trained. Thus no
kingdom, however rich or great, ever equalled the Land of the Carillon,
in making the air sweet with both melody and harmony.
Nobody ever sees a kabouter nowadays, for in the new world, when the
woods are nearly all cut down, the world made by the steam engine, and
telegraph, and wireless message, the automobile, aeroplane and
submarine, cycle and under-sea boat, the little folks in the mines and
forests are forgotten. The chemists, miners, engineers and learned men
possess the secrets which were once those of the fairies only. Yet the
artists and architects, the clockmakers and bellfounders, who love
beauty, remember what their fathers once thought and believed. That is
the reason why, on many a famous clock, either in front of the dial or
near the pendulum, are figures of the gnomes, who thought, and the
kabouters who wrought, to make the carillons. In Teuton lands, where
their cousins are named kobolds, and in France where they are called
fée, and in England brownies, they have tolling and ringing of bells,
with peals, chimes and cascades of sweet sound; but the Netherlands,
still, above all others on earth, is the home of the carillon.
THE WOMAN WITH THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SIX CHILDREN
Long, long ago, before the oldest stork was young and big deer and
little fawns were very many in the Dutch forests, there was a pond,
famous for its fish, which lay in the very heart of Holland, with woods
near by. Hunters came with their bows and arrows to hunt the stags. Or,
out of the bright waters, boys and men in the sunshine drew out the fish
with shining scales, or lured the trout, with fly-bait, from their
hiding places. In those days the fish-pond was called the Vijver, and
the woods where the deer ran, Rensselaer, or the Deer's Lair.
So, because the forests of oak, and beech, and alder trees were so fine,
and game on land and in water so plentiful, the lord of the country came
here and built his castle. He made a hedge around his estate, so that
the people called the place the Count's Hedge; or, as we say, The Hague.
Even to-day, within the beautiful city, the forests, with their grand
old trees, still remain, and the fish-pond, called the Vijver, is there
yet, with its swans. On the little island, the fluffy, downy cygnets are
born and grow to be big birds, with long necks, bent like an arch. In
another part of the town, also, with their trees for nesting, and their
pond for wading, are children of the same storks, whose fathers and
mothers lived there before America was discovered.
By and by, many people of rank and fortune came to The Hague, for its
society. They built their grand houses at the slope of the hill, not far
away from the Vijver, and in time a city grew up.
It was a fine sight to see the lords and ladies riding out from the
castle into the country. The cavalcade was very splendid, when they went
hawking. There were pretty women on horseback, and gentlemen in velvet
clothes, with feathers in their hats, and the horses seemed proud to
bear them. The falconers followed on foot, with the hunting birds
perched on a hoop, which the man inside the circle carried round him.
Each falcon had on a little cap or hood, which was fastened over its
head. When this was taken off, it flew high up into the air, on its hunt
for the big and little birds, which it brought down for its masters.
There were also men with dogs, to beat the reeds and bushes, and drive
the smaller birds from shelter. The huntsmen were armed with spears,
lest a wild boar, or bear, should rush out and attack them. It was
always a merry day, when a hawking party, in their fine clothes and gay
trappings, started out.
There were huts, as well as palaces, and poor people, also, at The
Hague. Among these, was a widow, whose twin babies were left without
anything to eat--for her husband and their father had been killed in the
war. Having no money to buy a cradle, and her babies being too young to
be left alone, she put the pair of little folks on her back and went out
to beg.
Now there was a fine lady, a Countess, who lived with her husband, the
Count, near the Vijver. She was childless and very jealous of other
women who were mothers and had children playing around them. On this
day, when the beggar woman, with her two babies on her back, came along,
the grand lady was in an unusually bad temper. For all her pretty
clothes, she was not a person of fine manners. Indeed, she often acted
more like a snarling dog, ready to snap at any one who should speak to
her. Although she had cradles and nurses and lovely baby clothes all
ready, there was no baby. This spoiled her disposition, so that her
husband and the servants could hardly live with her.
One day, after dinner, when there had been everything good to eat and
drink on her table, and plenty of it, the Countess went out to walk in
front of her house. It was the third day of January, but the weather was
mild. The beggar woman, with her two babies on her back and their arms
round her neck, crying with hunger, came trudging along. She went into
the garden and asked the Countess for food or an alms. She expected
surely, at least a slice of bread, a cup of milk, or a small coin.
But the Countess was rude to her and denied her both food and money. She
even burst into a bad temper, and reviled the woman for having two
children, instead of one.
"Where did you get those brats? They are not yours. You just brought
them here to play on my feelings and excite my jealousy. Begone!"
But the poor woman kept her temper. She begged piteously and said: "For
the love of Heaven, feed my babies, even if you will not feed me."
"No! they are not yours. You're a cheat," said the fine lady, nursing
her rage.
"Indeed, Madame, they are both my children and born on one day. They
have one father, but he is dead. He was killed in the war, while serving
his grace, your husband."
"Don't tell me such a story," snapped back the Countess, now in a fury.
"I don't believe that any one, man or woman, could have two children at
once. Away with you," and she seized a stick to drive off the poor
woman.
Now, it was the turn of the beggar to answer back. Both had lost their
temper, and the two angry women seemed more like she-bears robbed of
their whelps.
"Heaven punish you, you wicked, cruel, cold-hearted woman," cried the
mother. Her two babies were almost choking her in their eagerness for
food. Yet their cries never moved the rich lady, who had bread and good
things to spare, while their poor parent had not a drop of milk to give
them. The Countess now called her men-servants to drive the beggar away.
This they did, most brutally. They pushed the poor woman outside the
garden gate and closed it behind her. As she turned away, the poor
mother, taking each of her children by its back, one in each hand, held
them up before the grand lady and cried out loudly, so that all heard
her:
"May you have as many children as there are days in the year."
Now with all her wrath burning in her breast, what the beggar woman
really meant was this: It was the third of January, and so there were
but three days in the year, so far. She intended to say that, instead of
having to care for two children, the Countess might have the trouble of
rearing three, and all born on the same day.
But the fine lady, in her mansion, cared nothing for the beggar woman's
words. Why should she? She had her lordly husband, who was a count, and
he owned thousands of acres. Besides, she possessed vast riches. In her
great house, were ten men-servants and thirty-one maid-servants,
together with her rich furniture, and fine clothes and jewels. The lofty
brick church, to which she went on Sundays, was hung with the coats of
arms of her famous ancestors. The stone floor, with its great slabs, was
so grandly carved with the crests and heraldry of her family, that to
walk over these was like climbing a mountain, or tramping across a
ploughed field. Common folks had to be careful, lest they should stumble
over the bosses and knobs of the carved tombs. A long train of her
servants, and tenants on the farms followed her, when she went to
worship. Inside the church, the lord and lady sat, in high seats, on
velvet cushions and under a canopy.
By the time summer had come, according to the fashion in all good Dutch
families, all sorts of pretty baby clothes were made ready. There were
soft, warm, swaddling bands, tiny socks, and long white linen dresses. A
baptismal blanket, covered with silk, was made for the christening, and
daintily embroidered. Plenty of lace, and pink and blue ribbons--pink
for a girl and blue for a boy--were kept at hand. And, because there
might be twins, a double set of garments was provided, besides baby
bathtubs and all sorts of nice things for the little stranger or
strangers--whether one or two--to come. Even the names were chosen--one
for a boy and the other for a girl. Would it be Wilhelm or Wilhelmina?
It was real fun to think over the names, but it was hard to choose out
of so many. At last, the Countess crossed off all but forty-six; or the
following; nearly every girl's name ending in _je_, as in our
"Polly," "Sallie."
_Girls_ _Boys_
Magtel Catharyna Gerrit Gysbert
Nelletje Alida Cornelis Jausze
Zelia Annatje Volkert Myndert
Jannetje Christina Kilian Adrian
Zara Katrina Johannes Joachim
Marytje Bethje Petrus Arendt
Willemtje Eva Barent Dirck
Geertruy Dirkje Wessel Nikolaas
Petronella Mayken Hendrik Staats
Margrieta Hilleke Teunis Gozen
Josina Bethy Wouter Willemtje
Japik Evert
But before the sun set on the expected day, it was neither one boy nor
one girl, nor both; nor were all the forty-six names chosen sufficient;
for the beggar woman's wish had come true, in a way not expected. There
were as many as, and no fewer children than, there were days in the
year; and, since this was leap year, there were three hundred and
sixty-six little folks in the house; so that other names, besides the
forty-six, had to be used.
Yet none of these wee creatures was bigger than a mouse. Beginning at
daylight, one after another appeared--first a girl and then a boy; so
that after the forty-eighth, the nurse was at her wit's end, to give
them names. It was not possible to keep the little babies apart. The
thirty-one servant maids of the mansion were all called in to help in
sorting out the girls from the boys; but soon it seemed hopeless to try
to pick out Peter from Henry, or Catalina from Annetje. After an hour or
two spent at the task, and others coming along, the women found that it
was useless to try any longer. It was found that little Piet, Jan and
Klaas, Hank, Douw and Japik, among the boys; and Molly, Mayka, Lena,
Elsje, Annatje and Marie were getting all mixed up. So they gave up the
attempt in despair. Besides, the supply of pink and blue ribbons had
given out long before, after the first dozen or so were born. As for
the baby clothes made ready, they were of no use, for all the garments
were too big. In one of the long dresses, tied up like a bag, one might
possibly, with stuffing, have put the whole family of three hundred and
sixty-six brothers and sisters.
It was not likely such small fry of human beings could live long. So,
the good Bishop Guy, of Utrecht, when he heard that the beggar woman's
curse had come true, in so unexpected a manner, ordered that the babies
should be all baptized at once. The Count, who was strict in his ideas
of both custom and church law, insisted on it too.
So nothing would do but to carry the tiny infants to church. How to get
them there, was a question. The whole house had been rummaged to provide
things to carry the little folks in: but the supply of trays, and mince
pie dishes, and crocks, was exhausted at the three hundred and sixtieth
baby. So there was left only a Turk's Head, or round glazed earthen
dish, fluted and curved, which looked like the turban of a Turk. Hence
its name. Into this, the last batch of babies, or extra six girls, were
stowed. Curiously enough, number 366 was an inch taller than the others.
To thirty house maids was given a tray, for each was to carry twelve
mannikins, and one the last six, in the Turk's Head. Instead of rich
silk blankets a wooden tray, and no clothes on, must suffice.
In the Groote Kerk, or Great Church, the Bishop was waiting, with his
assistants, holding brass basins full of holy water, for the
christening. All the town, including the dogs, were out to see what was
going on. Many boys and girls climbed up on the roofs of the one-story
houses, or in the trees to get a better view of the curious
procession--the like of which had never been seen in The Hague before.
Neither has anything like it ever been seen since.
So the parade began. First went the Count, with his captains and the
trumpeters, blowing their trumpets. These were followed by the
men-servants, all dressed in their best Sunday clothes, who had the
crest and arms of their master, the Count, on their backs and breasts.
Then came on the company of thirty-one maids, each one carrying a tray,
on which were twelve mannikins, or minikins. Twenty of these trays were
round and made of wood, lined with velvet, smooth and soft; but ten were
of earthenware, oblong in shape, like a manger. In these, every year,
were baked the Christmas pies.
At first, all went on finely, for the outdoor air seemed to put the
babies asleep and there was no crying. But no sooner were they inside
the church, than about two hundred of the brats began wailing and
whimpering. Pretty soon, they set up such a squall that the Count felt
ashamed of his progeny and the Bishop looked very unhappy.