after midnight. All the dogs in the town and country, for five miles
around, were seized and put into barns, so as not to bark and wake the
giant up. They were given plenty to eat, so that they quickly fell
asleep and were perfectly quiet.
At the given signal, hundreds of men holding ship's masts, or tree
trunks, marched against the gates. They punched and pounded and at last
smashed the iron-bound timbers and rushed in. After overcoming the
garrison, they lighted candles, and unlocking the dungeons, went down
and set the poor half-starved captives free. Some of them pale, haggard
and thin as hop poles, could hardly stand. About the same time, the barn
doors where the dogs had been kept, were thrown open. In full cry, a
regiment of the animals, from puppies to hounds, were at once out,
barking, baying, and yelping, as if they knew what was going on and
wanted to see the fun.
But where was the giant? None of the captains could find him. Not one of
the prisoners or the garrison could tell where he had hid.
But Brabo knew that the big fellow, Antigonus, was not at all brave, but
really only a bully and a coward. So the lad was not afraid. Some of his
comrades outside helped him to set up a tall ladder against the wall.
Then, while all the watchers and men-at-arms inside, had gone away to
defend the gates, Brabo climbed into the castle, through a slit in the
thick wall. This had been cut out, like a window, for the bow-and-arrow
men, and was usually occupied by a sentinel. Sword in hand, Brabo made
for the giant's own room. Glaring at the youth, the big fellow seized
his club and brought it down with such force that it went through the
wooden floor. But Brabo dodged the blow and, in a trice, made a sweep
with his sword. Cutting off the giant's head, he threw it out the
window. It had hardly touched the ground, before the dogs arrived. One
of the largest of these ran away with the trophy and the big, hairy
noddle of the bully was never found again.
But the giant's huge hands! Ah, they were cut off by Brabo, who stood on
the very top of the highest tower, while all below looked up and
cheered. Brabo laid one big hand on top of the other, as the giant used
to do, when he cut off the hands of captains. He took first the right
hand and then the left hand and threw them, one at a time, into the
river.
A pretty sight now revealed the fact that the people knew what had been
going on and were proud of Brabo's valor. In a moment, every house in
Antwerp showed lighted candles, and the city was illuminated. Issuing
from the gates came a company of maidens. They were dressed in white,
but their leader was robed in yellow, red, and black, the colors of the
Brabant flag. They all sang in chorus the praises of Brabo their hero.
"Let us now drop the term of disgrace to the city--that of the
Hand-Throwing and give it a new name," said one of the leading men of
Antwerp.
"No," said the chief ruler, "let us rather keep the name, and, more than
ever, invite all peaceful ships to come again, 'an-'t-werf' (at the
wharf), as of old. Then, let the arms of Antwerp be two red hands above
a castle."
"Agreed," cried the citizens with a great shout. The Duke of Brabant
approved and gave new privileges to the city, on account of Brabo's
bravery. So, from high to low, all rejoiced to honor their hero, who
was richly rewarded.
After this, thousands of ships, from many countries, loaded or unloaded
their cargoes on the wharves, or sailed peacefully by. Antwerp excelled
all seaports and became very rich again. Her people loved their native
city so dearly, that they coined the proverb "All the world is a ring,
and Antwerp is the pearl set in it."
To this day, in the great square, rises the splendid bronze monument of
Brabo the Brave. The headless and handless hulk of the giant Antigonus
lies sprawling, while on his body rests Antwerp castle. Standing over
all, at the top, is Brabo high in air. He holds one of the hands of
Antigonus, which he is about to toss into the Scheldt River.
No people honor valor more than the Belgians. Themselves are to-day, as
of old, among the bravest.
THE FARM THAT RAN AWAY AND CAME BACK
There was once a Dutchman, who lived in the province called Drenthe.
Because there was a row of little trees on his farm, his name was Ryer
Van Boompjes; that is, Ryer of the Little Trees. After a while, he moved
to the shore of the Zuyder Zee and into Overijssel. Overijssel means
over the Ijssel River. There he bought a new farm, near the village of
Blokzyl. By dyking and pumping, certain wise men had changed ten acres,
of sand and heath, into pasture and land for plowing. They surrounded it
on three sides with canals. The fourth side fronted on the Zuyder Zee.
Then they advertised, in glowing language, the merits of the new land
and Ryer Van Boompjes bought it and paid for his real estate. He was as
proud as a popinjay of his island and he ruled over it like a Czar or a
Kaiser.
A few years before, Ryer had married a "queezel," as the Dutch call
either a nun, or a maid who is no longer young. At this date, when our
story begins, he had four blooming, but old-fashioned children, with
good appetites. They could eat cabbage and potatoes, rye bread and
cheese, by the half peck, and drink buttermilk by the quart. In
addition, Ryer owned four horses, six cows, two dogs, some roosters and
hens, a flock of geese, two dozen ducks, and a donkey.
Yet although Ryer was rich, as wealth is reckoned in Drenthe, whence he
had come, he was greedy for more. He skimped the food of his animals. So
much did he do this, that his neighbors declared that they had seen him
put green spectacles on his cows and the donkey. Then he mixed straws
and shavings with the hay to make the animals think they were eating
fresh grass.
When he ploughed, he drove his horses close to the edge next to the
water, so as to make use of every half inch of land. When sometimes bits
of fen land, from his neighbor's farms, got loose and floated on the
water, Ryer felt he was in luck. He would go out at night, grapple the
boggy stuff and fasten it to his own land.
After this had happened several times, and Ryer had added a half acre to
his holdings, his greed possessed him like a bad fairy. He began to
steal the land on the other side of the Zuyder Zee. In the course of
time, he became a regular land thief. Whenever he saw, or heard of, a
floating bit of territory, he rowed his boat after it by night. Before
morning, aided by wicked helpers, who shared in the plunder, and were in
his pay, he would have the bog attached to his own farm.
All this time, he hardly realized that his ill-gotten property, now
increased to twelve acres or more, was itself a very shaky bit of real
estate. In fact, it was not real at all. His wife one day told him so,
for she knew of her mean husband's trickery.
About this time, heavy rains fell, for many days, and without ceasing,
until all the region was reduced to pulp and the country seemed afloat.
The dykes appeared ready to burst. Thousands feared that the land had an
attack of the disease called val (fall) and that the soil would sink
under the waves as portions of the realm had done before, in days long
gone by.
Yet none of this impending trouble worried Ryer, whose greed grew by
what it fed upon. In fact, the first day the sun shone again, quickly
drying up parts of his farm, he had two horses harnessed up for work.
Then he drove them so near the edge of the ditch that plough, man, and
horses tumbled, and down they went, into the shiny mess of mud and
water.
At this moment, also, the water, from below the bottom of the Zuyder
Zee, welled up, in a great wave, like a mushroom, and the whole of
Ryer's soggy estate was on the point of breaking loose and seemed ready
to float away.
The stingy fellow, as he fell overboard, bumped his head so hard on the
plough beam, that he lay senseless for a half hour. He would certainly
have been drowned, had not Pete, his stout son, who was not far away,
and had seen the tumble, ran to the house, launched a boat and rowed
quickly to the spot, where he had last seen his father. Grabbing his
daddy by the collar, he hauled him, half dead, into the boat. Between
his bump and his fright, and the cold bath, old Ryer was a long time
coming to his wits. With filial piety, Pete kept on rubbing the paternal
hands and restoring the circulation.
All this, however, took a long time, even an hour or more. When his
father was able to sit up and talk, Pete started to row back to the
little wharf in front of his home.
But where was it,--the farm, with the house and fields? Whither had they
gone? Ryer was too mystified to get his bearings, but Pete knew the
points of the compass. Yet his father's farm was not there. He looked at
the shore of Overijssel, which he had left. Instead of the old, straight
lines of willow trees, with the church spire beyond, there was a hollow
and empty place. It looked as if a giant, as big as the world itself,
had bitten out a piece of land and swallowed it down. Dumbfounded,
father and son looked, the one at the other, but said nothing, for there
was nothing to say.
Meanwhile, what had become of the farm and "the Queezel," as the
neighbors still called her--that is, the mother with the children. These
good people soon saw that they were floating off somewhere. The mainland
was every moment receding further into the distance. In fact, the farm
was moving from Overijssel northward, towards Friesland. One by one, the
church spires of the village near by faded from sight.
But when the wind changed from south to west, they seemed as if on a
ship, with sails set, and to be making due west, for North Holland. The
younger children, so far from being afraid, clapped their hands in glee.
They thought it great fun to ferry across the big water, which they had
so long seen before their eyes. Their stingy father had never owned a
carriage, or allowed the horses to be ridden. He always made his family
walk to church. Whether it were to the sermon, in the morning, or to
hear the catechism expounded by the Domine, in the afternoon, all the
family had to tramp on their wooden shoes there and back.
As for the floating farm, the cows could not understand it. They mooed
piteously, while the donkey brayed loudly. At night, and day after day,
no one could attend properly to the animals, to see that they were fed
and given water. One always sees a big tub in the middle of a Dutch
pasture field. Neither ducks, nor geese, nor chickens minded it in the
least, but the thirsty cattle and horses, at the end of the first day,
had drunk the tub dry. None of the dumb brutes, even if they had not
been afraid of being drowned, could drink from the Zuyder Zee, for it
was chiefly sea water, that is, salt, or at least brackish.
Occasionally this errant farm, that had thus broken loose, passed by
fishermen, who wondered at so much land thus adrift. Yet they feared to
hail, and go on board, lest the owners might think them intruding.
Others thought it none of their business, supposing some crazy fellow
was using his farm as a ship, to move his lands, goods and household,
and thus save expense. In some of the villages, the runaway farm was
descried from the tops of the church towers. Then, it furnished a
subject for chat and gossip, during three days, to the women, as they
milked the cows, or knitted stockings. To the men, also, while they
smoked, or drank their coffee, it was a lively topic.
"There were real people on it and a house and stables," said the sexton
of a church, who declared that he had seen this new sort of a flying
Dutchman. It was the usual sight--"cow, dog, and stork," and then he
quoted the old Dutch proverb.
At last, after several days, and when Ryer and his son were nearly
finished, with fatigue and fright, in trying to row their boat to catch
up with the runaway farm, they finally reached a village across the
Zuyder Zee, in North Holland, where rye bread and turnips satisfied
their hunger and they had waffles for dessert. Their small change went
quickly, and then the two men were at their wit's end to know what
further to do.
By this time, out on the floating farm, the mother and children were
wild with fear of starving. All the food for the cattle had been eaten
up, the dog had no meat, the cat no milk, and the stork had run out of
its supply of frogs. There was no sugar or coffee, and neither rye nor
currant-bread, or sliced sausage or wafer-thin cheese for any one; but
only potatoes and some barley grain. Happily, however, in drifting
within sight of the village of Osterbeek, the mother and the children
noticed that the east wind was freshening. Soon they descried the tops
of the church towers of North Holland. The smell of cows and cheese and
of burning peat fires from the chimneys made both animals and human
beings happy, as the wind blew the island westward to the village.
Curiously enough, this was the very place at which, by hard rowing, Ryer
and Pete had also arrived. Father and son were sitting in the hotel
parlor, with their eyes down on the sandy floor, wondering how they were
to pay for their next sandwich and coffee, for their money was all gone.
At that moment, a small boy clattered over the bricks in his klomps. He
kicked these off, at the door, and rushed into the room. He had on his
yellow baggy trousers and his hair, of the same color, was cut level
with his ears. Half out of breath, he announced the coming, afloat, of
what looked like a combination of farm and menagerie. A house, a woman,
some girls, a dog, a cat, and a stork were on it and afloat.
At once, old man Ryer, still stiff from his long, cold bath, hobbled
out, and Pete ran before him. Yes, it was mother, the children and all
the animals! For the first time in his life, the mean old sinner felt
his heart thumping, in grateful emotion, under his woolen jacket, with
its two gold buttons. Something like real religion had finally oozed out
from under his crusted soul.
A whole convoy of boys, fishermen, farmers, and a fat vrouw or two,
volunteered to go out and tow the runaway farm to the village wharf.
They succeeded in grappling the float and held it fast by ropes tied to
a horse post.
That night all were happy. The farm was made fast by another rope put
round the town pump. Then the villagers all went to bed. They were happy
in having rescued a runaway farm, and they expected a good "loon"
(reward) from the rich old Ryer, who, in the barroom, had talked big
about his wealth.
As for the Van Boompjes, in order to save a landlord's bill for beds,
they slept in their house, on board the farm, amid the lowing of their
cattle that called out, in their own way, for more fodder; while the
people in the village wondered at roosters crowing out on the water, and
evidently the barn-yard birds were frightened.
And so they were; for, before midnight, when all other creatures were
asleep, and not even a mouse was stirring on land, whether hard fast, or
floating, the west wind rose mightily and blew to a terrific gale.
In a moment, the tow lines, that held the vagrant farm to the village
pump and horse post, snapped. The Van Boompjes estate left the wharf and
was driven, at a furious rate, across the Zuyder Zee. For several hours,
like a ship under full sail, it was pushed westward by the wind. Yet so
soundly did all sleep, man and wife, children and hens, that none
awakened during this strange voyage. Even the roosters, after their
first concert, held in their voices.
Suddenly, and as straight as if steered by a skilled pilot, the Van
Boompjes farm, now an accomplished traveller, after its many adventures,
shot into its old place. This took place with such violence, that Ryer
Van Boompjes and his wife were both thrown out of bed. The cows were
knocked over in the stable. The dog barked, supposing some one had
kicked him. One old rooster, jostled off his perch, set up a tremendous
crowing, that brought some of the early risers out to rub their eyes and
see what was going on.
"Hemel en aard, bliksem en regen" (Heaven and earth, lightning and
rain), they cried, "the old farm is back in its place."
In fact, the Van Boompjes real estate was snugly fitted once more to the
mainland, and again in the niche it had left. It had struck so hard,
that a ridge of raised sod, five inches high, marked the place of
junction. At least twenty fishes and wriggling eels were smashed in the
collision.
From that day forth the conscience of Van Boompjes returned, and he
actually became an honest man. He sawed off, from time to time, portions
of his big farm, and returned them home, with money paid as interest, to
the owners. He found out all the mynheers, whose bits of land had
drifted off. He sent a tidy sum of gold to the village in North Holland,
where his farm had been moored, for a few hours. With a good conscience,
he went to church and worshipped. His action, at each of the two
collections, which Dutch folks always take up on Sundays, was noticed
and praised as a sure and public sign of the old sinner's true
repentance. When the deacons, with their white gloves on, poked under
his nose their black velvet bags, hung at the end of fishing poles, ten
feet long, this man, who had been for years a skinflint, dropped in a
silver coin each time.
On the farm, all the animals, from duck to stork, and from dog to ox,
now led happier lives. In the family, all declared that the behavior of
the farm and the wind of the Zuyder Zee had combined to make a new man
and a delightful father of old Van Boompjes. He lived long and happily
and died greatly lamented.
SANTA KLAAS AND BLACK PETE
Who is Santa Klaas? How did he get his name? Where does he live? Did you
ever see him?
These are questions, often asked of the storyteller, by little folks.
Before Santa Klaas came into the Netherlands, that is, to Belgium and
Holland, he was called by many names, in the different countries in
which he lived, and where he visited. Some people say he was born in
Myra, many hundred years ago before the Dutch had a dyke or a windmill,
or waffles, or wooden shoes. Others tell us how, in time of famine, the
good saint found the bodies of three little boys, pickled in a tub, at a
market for sale, and to be eaten up. They had been salted down to keep
till sold. The kind gentleman and saint, whose name was Nicholas,
restored these three children to life. It is said that once he lost his
temper, and struck with his fist a gentleman named Arius; but the
story-teller does not believe this, for he thinks it is a fib, made up
long afterward. How could a saint lose his temper so?
Another story they tell of this same Nicholas was this. There were three
lovely maidens, whose father had lost all his money. They wanted
husbands very badly, but had no money to buy fine clothes to get married
in. He took pity on both their future husbands and themselves. So he
came to the window, and left three bags of gold, one after the other.
Thus these three real girls all got real husbands, just as the novels
tell us of the imaginary ones. They lived happily ever afterward, and
never scolded their husbands.
By and by, men who were goldsmiths, bankers or pawnbrokers, made a sign
of these three bags of gold, in the shape of balls. Now they hang them
over their shop doors, two above one. This means "two to one, you will
never get it again"--when you put your ring, furs, or clothes, or watch,
or spoons, in pawn.
It is ridiculous how many stories they do tell of this good man,
Nicholas, who was said to be what they call a bishop, or inspector, who
goes around seeing that things are done properly in the churches. It was
because the Reverend Mr. Nicholas had to travel about a good deal, that
the sailors and travellers built temples and churches in his honor. To
travel, one must have a ship on the sea and a horse on the land, or a
reindeer up in the cold north; though now, it is said, he comes to
Holland in a steamship, and uses an automobile.
On Santa Klaas eve, each of the Dutch children sets out in the chimney
his wooden shoe. Into it, he puts a whisp of hay, to feed the
traveller's horse. When St. Nicholas first came to Holland, he arrived
in a sailing ship from Spain and rode on a horse. Now he arrives in a
big steamer, made of steel. Perhaps he will come in the future by
aeroplane. To fill all the shoes and stockings, the good saint must have
an animal to ride. Now the fast white horse, named Sleipnir, was ready
for him, and on Sleipnir's back he made his journeys.
How was Santa Klaas dressed?
His clothes were those of a bishop. He wore a red coat and his cap,
higher than a turban and called a mitre, was split along two sides and
pointed at the top. In his hands, he held a crozier, which was a staff
borrowed from shepherds, who tended sheep; and with the crozier he
helped the lambs over rough places; but the crozier of Santa Klaas was
tipped with gold. He had white hair and rosy cheeks. For an old man, he
was very active, but his heart and feelings never got to be one day
older than a boy's, for these began when mother love was born and
father's care was first in the world, but it never grows old.
When Santa Klaas travelled up north to Norway and into the icy cold
regions, where there were sleighs and reindeer, he changed his clothes.
Instead of his red robe, he wears a jacket, much shorter and trimmed
with ermine, white as snow. Taking off his mitre, he wears a cap of fur
also, and has laid aside his crozier. In the snow, wheels are no good,
and runners are the best for swift travel. So, instead of his white
horse and a wagon, he drives in a sleigh, drawn by two stags with large
horns. In every country, he puts into the children's stockings hung up,
or shoes set in the fireplace, something which they like. In Greenland,
for example, he gives the little folks seal blubber, and fish hooks. So
his presents are not the same in every country. However, for naughty
boys and girls everywhere, instead of filling shoes and stockings, he
may leave a switch, or pass them by empty.
When Santa Klaas travels, he always brings back good things. Now when he
first came to New Netherland in America, what did he find to take back
to Holland?
Well, it was here, on our continent, that he found corn, potatoes,
pumpkins, maple sugar, and something to put in pipes to smoke; besides
strange birds and animals, such as turkeys and raccoons, in addition to
many new flowers. What may be called a weed, like the mullein, for
example, is considered very pretty in Europe, where they did not have
such things. There it is called the American Velvet Plant, or the King's
Candlestick.
But, better than all, Santa Klaas found a negro boy, Pete, who became
one of the most faithful of his helpers. At Utrecht, in Holland, the
students of the University give, every year, a pageant representing
Santa Klaas on his white horse, with Black Pete, who is always on hand
and very busy. Black Pete's father brought peanuts from Africa to
America, and sometimes Santa Klaas drops a bagful of these, as a great
curiosity, into the shoes of the Dutch young folks.
Santa Klaas was kept very busy visiting the homes and the public schools
in New Netherland; for in these schools all the children, girls as well
as boys, and not boys only, received a free education. In later visits
he heard of Captain Kidd and his fellow pirates, who wore striped shirts
and red caps, and had pigtails of hair, tied in eel skins, and hanging
down their backs. These fellows wore earrings and stuck pistols in their
belts and daggers at their sides. Instead of getting their gold
honestly, and giving it to the poor, or making presents to the children,
the pirates robbed ships. Then, as 'twas said, they buried their
treasure. Lunatics and boys that read too many novels, have ever since
been digging in the land to find Captain Kidd's gold.
Santa Klaas does not like such people. Moreover, he was just as good to
the poor slaves, as to white children. So the colored people loved the
good saint also. Their pickaninnies always hung up their stockings on
the evening of December sixth.
Santa Klaas filled the souls of the people in New Netherland so full of
his own spirit, that now children all over the United States, and those
of Americans living in other countries, hang up their stockings and look
for a visit from him.