the imps, were sorry to miss what they hoped would be a jolly story.
When a thousand years passed away and the age of newspapers and copper
pennies had come, there were no descendants of the two brothers
Spill-penny and Schim; but of Mynheer Eerlyk there were as many as the
years that had flown since he made a will. In this document, he ordered
that his money, in guilders of gold and pennies of silver, should remain
at compound interest for four hundred years. In time, the ever
increasing sum passed from the goldsmiths to the bankers, and kept on
growing enormously. At last this large fortune was spent in building
hundreds of homes for orphans.
According to his wish, each girl in the asylum dressed in clothes that
were of the colors on the city arms. In Amsterdam, for example, each
orphan child's frock is half red and half black, with white aprons, and
the linen and lace caps are very neat and becoming to their rosy faces.
In Friesland, where golden hair and apple blossom cheeks are so often
seen with the white lace and linen, some one has called the orphan girls
"Apples of gold in pictures of silver." Among the many glories of the
Netherlands is her care for the aged and the orphans.
One of the thirty generations of the Eerlyks read one day in the
newspaper:
"Last week, while digging a very deep canal, some workman struck his
pickaxe against timbers that were black with age, and nearly as hard as
stone. These, on being brought up, showed that they were the ribs of an
ancient boat. Learned men say that there was once a river here, which
long since dried up. All the pieces of the boat were recovered, and,
under the skilful hands of our ship carpenters, have been put together
and the whole vessel is now set up and on view in our museum."
"We'll go down to-morrow on our way home from school, and see the
curiosity," cried one of the Eerlyk boys, clapping his hands.
"Wait," said his father, "there's more in the story.
"To-day, the janitor of the museum, while examining a wide crack in one
of the ribs, which was covered with wax, picked this substance away. He
poked his finger in the crack, and finding something soft, pulled it
out. It was a rough leather purse, inside of which was a coin, mouldy
with age and dark as the wood. Even after cleaning it with acid, it was
hard to read what was stamped on it; but, strange to say, the face of
the coin had left its impression on the leather, which had been covered
with wax. From this, though the metal of the coin was black, and the
mould thick on the coin, what they saw showed that it was a silver penny
of the age of Charlemagne, or the ninth century."
"Charlemagne is French, father, but we call him Karel de Groot, or
Charles the Great."
"Yes, my son. Don't you hear Karel's Klok (the curfew) sounding? 'Tis
time for little folks to go to bed."
THE GOLDEN HELMET
For centuries, more than can be counted on the fingers of both hands,
the maidens and mothers of Friesland have worn a helmet of gold covering
the crown and back of their heads, and with golden rosettes at each ear.
It marks the Frisian girl or woman. She is thus known by this head-dress
as belonging to a glorious country, that has never been conquered and is
proudly called Free Frisia. It is a relic of the age of gold, when this
precious metal was used in a thousand forms, not seen to-day.
Of how and why the golden helmet is worn, this is the story:
In days gone by, when forests covered the land and bears and wolves were
plentiful, there were no churches in Friesland. The people were pagans
and all worshipped Woden, whom the Frisians called Fos-i-te'. Certain
trees were sacred to him. When a baby was ill, or grown people had a
disease, which medicine could not help, they laid the sick one at the
foot of the holy tree, hoping for health soon to come. But, should the
patient die under the tree, then the sorrowful friends were made glad,
if the leaves of the tree fell upon the corpse. It was death to any
person who touched the sacred tree with an axe, or made kindling wood,
even of its branches.
Now among the wild people of the north, who ate acorns and were clothed
in the skins of animals, there came, from the Christian lands of the
south, a singer with his harp. Invited to the royal court, he sang sweet
songs. To these the king's daughter listened with delight, until the
tears, first of sorrow and then of joy, rolled down her lovely cheeks.
This maiden was the pride of her father, because of her sweet temper and
willing spirit, while all the people boasted of her beauty. Her eyes
were of the color of a sky without clouds. No spring flower could equal
the pink and rose in her cheeks. Her lips were like the red coral, which
the ship men brought from distant shores. Her long tresses rivalled gold
in their glory. And, because her father worshipped Fos-i-té', the god of
justice, and his daughter was always so fair to all her playmates, he,
in his pride of her, gave her the name Fos-te-dí'-na, that is, the
darling of Fos-i-té', or the Lady of Justice.
[Illustration: WHICH WAS THE MORE GLORIOUS, HER LONG TRESSES OR THE
SHINING CROWN ABOVE.]
The singer from the south sang a new song, and when he played upon his
harp his music was apt to be soft and low; sometimes sad, even, and
often appealing. It was so much finer, and oh! so different, from what
the glee men and harpers in the king's court usually rendered for the
listening warriors. Instead of being about fighting and battle, or the
hunting of wolves and bears, of stags and the aurochs, it was of healing
the sick and helping the weak. In place of battles and the exploits of
war lords, in fighting and killing Danes, the harper's whole story was
of other things and about gentle people. He sang neither of war, nor of
the chase, nor of fighting gods, nor of the storm maidens, that carry up
to the sky, and into the hall of Woden, the souls of the slain on the
battlefield.
The singer sang of the loving Father in Heaven, who sent his dear Son to
earth to live and die, that men might be saved. He made music with voice
and instrument about love, and hope, and kindness to the sick and poor,
of charity to widows and to orphans, and about the delights of doing
good. He closed by telling the story of the crown of thorns, how wicked
men nailed this good prophet to a cross, and how, when tender-hearted
women wept, the Holy Teacher told them not to weep for him, but for
themselves and their children. This mighty lord of noble thoughts and
words lived what he taught. He showed greatness in the hour of death, by
first remembering his mother, and then by forgiving his enemies.
"What! forgive an enemy? Forgive even the Danes? What horrible doctrine
do we hear!" cried the men of war. "Let us kill this singer from the
south." And they beat their swords on their metal shields, till the
clangor was deafening. The great hall rang with echoes of the din, as if
for battle. The Druids, or pagan priests, even more angry, applauded the
action of the fighting men.
But Fos-te-dí-na rushed forward to shield the harper, and her long
golden hair covered him.
"No!" said the king to his warriors. "This man is my guest. I invited
him and he shall be safe here."
Sullen and bitter in their hearts, both priests and war men left the
hall, breathing out revenge and feeling bound to kill the singer. Soon
all were quiet in slumber, for the hour was late.
Why were the pagan followers of the king so angry with the singer?
The answer to this question is a story in itself.
Only three days before, a party of Christian Danes had been taken
prisoners in the forest. They had come, peaceably and without arms, into
the country; for they wanted to tell the Frisians about the new
religion, which they had themselves received. In the cold night air,
they had, unwittingly, cut off some of the dead branches of a tree
sacred to the god Fos-i-té to kindle a fire.
A spy, who had closely watched them, ran and told his chief. Now, the
Christian Danes were prisoners and would be given to the hungry wolves
to be torn to pieces. That was the law concerning sacrilege against the
trees of the gods.
Some of the Frisians had been to Rome, the Eternal City, and had there
learned, from the cruel Romans, how to build great enclosures, not of
stone but of wood. Here, on holidays, they gave their prisoners of war
to the wild beasts, for the amusement of thousands of the people. The
Frisians could get no lions or tigers, for these fierce brutes live in
hot countries; but they sent hundreds of hunters into the woods for many
miles around. These bold fellows drove the deer, bears, wolves, and the
aurochs within an ever narrowing circle towards the pits. Into these,
dug deep in the ground and covered with branches and leaves, the animals
fell down and were hauled out with ropes. The deer were kept for their
meat, but the bears and wolves were shut up, in pens, facing the great
enclosure. When maddened with hunger, these ravenous beasts of prey were
to be let loose on the Christian Danes. Several aurochs, made furious by
being goaded with pointed sticks, or pricked by spears, were to rush out
and trample the poor victims to death.
The heart of the beautiful Fos-te-dí-na, who had heard the songs of the
singer of faith in the one God and love for his creatures, was deeply
touched. She resolved to set the captives free. Being a king's daughter,
she was brave as a man. So, at midnight, calling a trusty maid-servant,
she, with a horn lantern, went out secretly to the prison pen. She
unbolted the door, and, in the name of their God and hers, she bade the
prisoners return to their native land.
How the wolves in their pen did roar, when, on the night breeze, they
sniffed the presence of a newcomer! They hoped for food, but got none.
The next morning, when the crowd assembled, but found that they were to
be cheated of their bloody sport, they raged and howled. Coming to the
king, they demanded his daughter's punishment. The pagan priests
declared that the gods had been insulted, and that their anger would
fall on the whole tribe, because of the injury done to their sacred
tree. The hunters swore they would invade the Danes' land and burn all
their churches.
Fos-te-dí-na was summoned before the council of the priests, who were to
decide on the punishment due her. Being a king's daughter, they could
not put her to death by throwing her to the wolves.
Even as the white-bearded high priest spoke, the beautiful girl heard
the fierce creatures howling, until her blood curdled, but she was brave
and would not recant.
In vain they threatened the maiden, and invoked the wrath of the gods
upon her. Bravely she declared that she would suffer, as her Lord did,
rather than deny him.
"So be it," cried the high priest. "Your own words are your sentence.
You shall wear a crown of thorns."
Fos-te-di'-na was dismissed. Then the old men sat long, in brooding over
what should be done. They feared the gods, but were afraid, also, to
provoke their ruler to wrath. They finally decided that the maiden's
life should be spared, but that for a whole day, from sunrise to sunset,
she should stand in the market-place, with a crown of sharp thorns
pressed down hard upon her head. The crowd should be allowed to revile
her for being a Christian and none be punished; but no vile language was
to be allowed, or stones or sticks were to be thrown at her.
Fos-te-di'-na refused to beg for mercy and bravely faced the ordeal. She
dressed herself in white garments, made from the does and fawns--free
creatures of the forest--and unbound her golden tresses. Then she walked
with a firm step to the centre of the market-place.
"Bring the thorn-crown for the blasphemer of Fos-i-té," cried the high
priest.
This given to him, the king's daughter kneeled, and the angry old man,
his eyes blazing like fire, pressed the sharp thorns slowly, down and
hard, upon the maiden's brow. Quickly the red blood trickled down over
her golden hair and face. Then in long, narrow lines of red, the drops
fell, until the crimson stains were seen over the back, front, and sides
of her white garments.
But without wincing, the brave girl stood up, and all day long, while
the crowd howled, in honor of their gods, and rough fellows jeered at
her, Fos-te-dí-na was silent and patient, like her Great Example.
Inwardly, she prayed the Father of all to pardon and forgive. There were
not a few who pitied the bleeding maiden wearing the cruel crown, that
drew the blood that stained her shining hair and once white clothing.
Years passed by and a great change came over land and people. The very
scars on Fos-te-dí-na's forehead softened the hearts of the people.
Thousands of them heard the words of the good missionaries. Churches
arose, on which was seen the shining cross. Idols were abolished and the
trees, once sacred to the old gods, were cut down. Meadows, rich with
cows, smiled where wolves had roamed. The changes, even in ten years,
were like those in a fairy tale. Best of all, a Christian prince from
the south, grandson of Charlemagne, fell in love with Fos-te-dí-na, now
queen of the country. He sought her hand, and won her heart, and the
date for the marriage was fixed. It was a great day for Free Frisia. The
wedding was to be in a new church, built on the very spot where
Fos-te-dí-na had stood, in pain and sorrow, when the crown of thorns was
pressed upon her brow.
On that morning, a bevy of pretty maidens, all dressed in white, came in
procession to the palace. One of them bore in her hands a golden crown,
with plates coming down over the forehead and temples. It was made in
such a way that, like a helmet, it completely covered and concealed the
scars of the sovereign lady. So Fos-te-dí-na was married, with the
golden helmet on her head. "But which," asked some, "was the more
glorious, her long tresses, floating down her back, or the shining crown
above it?" Few could be sure in making answer.
Instead of a choir singing hymns, the harper, who had once played in the
king's hall, now an older man, had been summoned, with his harp, to sing
in solo. In joyous spirits, he rendered into the sweet Frisian tongue,
two tributes in song to the crowned and glorified Lord of all.
One praised the young guest at the wedding at Cana, Friend of man, who
turned water into wine; the other, "The Great Captain of our Salvation,"
who, in full manly strength, suffered, thorn-crowned, for us all.
Then the solemn silence, that followed the song, was broken by the
bride's coming out of the church. Though by herself alone, without
adornment, Fos-te-dí-na was a vision of beauty. Her head-covering looked
so pretty, and the golden helmet was so becoming, that other maidens,
also, when betrothed, wished to wear it. It became the fashion-for
Christian brides, on their wedding days, to put on this glorified crown
of thorns.
All the jewelers approved of the new bridal head-dress, and in time this
golden ornament was worn in Friesland every day. Thus it has come to
pass that the Frisian helmet, which is the glorified crown of thorns,
is, in one form or another, worn even in our day. When Fos-te-dí-na's
first child, a boy, was born, the happy parents named him William, which
is only another word for Gild Helm. Out from this northern region, and
into all the seventeen provinces of the Netherlands, the custom spread.
In one way or another, one can discern, in the headdresses or costumes
of the Dutch and Flemish women, the relics of ancient history.
When Her Majesty, the Dutch Queen, visits the Frisians, in the old land
of the north, which her fathers held so dear, she, out of compliment to
Free Frisia, wears the ancient costume, surmounted by the golden helm.
Those who know the origin of the name Wilhelmina read in it the true
meaning, which is,
"The Sovereign Lady of the Golden Helm."
WHEN WHEAT WORKED WOE
Many a day has the story-teller wandered along the dykes, which overlook
the Zuyder Zee. Once there were fertile fields, and scores of towns,
where water now covers all. Then fleets of ships sailed on the bosom of
Lake Flevo, and in the river which ran into the sea. Bright and
beautiful cities dotted the shores, and church bells chimed merrily for
the bridal, or tolled in sympathy for the sorrowing. Many were the
festal days, because of the wealth, which the ships brought from lands
near and far.
But to-day the waters roll over the spot and "The Dead Cities of the
Zuyder Zee" are a proverb. Yet all are not dead, in one and the same
sense. Some lie far down under the waves, their very names forgotten,
because of the ocean's flood, which in one night, centuries ago, rushed
in to destroy. Others languished, because wealth came no longer in the
ships, and the seaports dried up. And one, because of a foolish woman,
instead of holding thousands of homes and people, is to-day only a
village nestling behind the dykes. It holds a few hundred people and
only a fragment of land remains of its once great area.
In the distant ages of ice and gravel, when the long and high glaciers
of Norway poked their cold noses into Friesland, Stavoren held the
shrine of Stavo, the storm-god. The people were very poor, but many
pilgrims came to worship at Stavo's altars. After the new religion came
into the land, wealth increased, because the ships traded with the warm
lands in the south. A great city sprang up, to which the counts of
Holland granted a charter, with privileges second to none. It was
written that Stavoren should have "the same freedom which a free city
enjoys from this side of the mountains (the Alps) to the sea."
Then there came an age of gold in Stavoren. People were so rich, that
the bolts and hinges and the keys and locks of their doors were made of
this precious yellow metal. In some of the houses, the parlor floor was
paved with ducats from Spain.
Now in this city lived a married couple, whose wealth came from the
ships. The man, a merchant, was a simple hearted and honest fellow, who
worked hard and was easily pleased.
But his wife was discontented, always peevish and never satisfied with
anything. Even her neighbors grew tired of her whining and complaints.
They declared that on her tombstone should be carved these words:
"_She wanted something else_"
Now on every voyage, made by the many ships he owned, the merchant
charged his captains to bring home something rare and fine, as a present
to his wife. Some pretty carving or picture, a roll of silk for a dress,
a lace collar, a bit of splendid tapestry, a shining jewel; or, it may
be, a singing bird, a strange animal for a pet, a barrel of fruit, or a
box of sweetmeats was sure to be brought. With such gifts, whether large
or small, the husband hoped to please his wife.
But in this good purpose, he could never succeed. So he began to think
that it was his own fault. Being only a man, he could not tell what a
woman wanted. So he resolved to try his own wits and tastes, to see if
he could meet his wife's desires.
One day, when one of his best captains was about to sail on a voyage to
the northeast, to Dantzig, which is almost as far as Russia, he inquired
of his bad-tempered vrouw what he should bring her.
"I want the best thing in the world," said she. "Now this time, do bring
it to me."
The merchant was now very happy. He told the captain to seek out and
bring back what he himself might think was the best thing on earth; but
to make sure, he must buy a cargo of wheat.
The skipper went on board, hoisted anchor and set sail. Using his man's
wits, he also decided that wheat, which makes bread, was the very thing
to be desired. In talking to his mates and sailors, they agreed with
him. Thus, all the men, in this matter, were of one mind, and the
captain dreamed only of jolly times when on shore. On other voyages,
when he had hunted around for curiosities to please the wife of the
boss, he had many and anxious thoughts; but now, he was care-free.
In Dantzig, all the ship's men had a good time, for the captain made
"goed koop" (a fine bargain). Then the vessel, richly loaded with grain,
turned its prow homeward. Arriving at Stavoren, the skipper reported to
the merchant, to tell him of much money made, of a sound cargo obtained,
of safe arrival, and, above all, plenty of what would please his wife;
for what on earth could be more valuable than wheat, which makes bread,
the staff of life?
At lunch time, when the merchant came home, his wife wanted to know what
made him look so joyful. Had he made "goed koop" that day?
Usually, at meal time, this quiet man hardly spoke two words an hour. To
tell the truth, he sometimes irritated his wife because of his silence,
but to-day he was voluble.
The man of wealth answered, "I have a joyful surprise for you. I cannot
tell you now. You must come with me and see."
After lunch, he took his wife on board the ship, giving a wink of his
eye to the skipper, who nodded to the sailors, and then the stout
fellows opened the hatches. There, loaded to the very deck, was the
precious grain. The merchant looked up, expecting to see and hear his
wife clap her hands with joy.
But the greedy woman turned her back on him, and flew into a rage.
"Throw it all overboard, into the water," she screamed. "You wretch, you
have deceived me."
The husband tried to calm her and explain that it was his thought to get
wheat, as the world's best gift, hoping thus to please her.
At that moment, some hungry beggars standing on the wharf, heard the
lady's loud voice, and falling on their knees cried to her:
"Please, madame, give us some of this wheat; we are starving."
"Yes, lady, and there are many poor in Stavoren, in spite of all its
gold," said the captain. "Why not divide this wheat among the needy, if
you are greatly disappointed? You will win praise for yourself. In the
name of God, forgive my boldness, and do as I ask. Then, on the next
voyage, I shall sail as far as China and will get you anything you ask!"
But the angry woman would listen to no one. She stayed on the ship,
urging on the sailors, with their shovels, until every kernel was cast
overboard.
"Never again will I try to please you," said her husband. "The hungry
will curse you, and you may yet suffer for food, because of this wilful
waste, which will make woful want. Even you will suffer."
She listened at first in silence, and then put her fingers in her ears
to hear no more. Proud of her riches, with her voice in a high key, she
shouted, "I ever want? What folly to say so! I am too rich." Then, to
show her contempt for such words, she slipped off a ring from her finger
and threw it into the waters of the harbor. Her husband almost died of
grief and shame, when he saw that it was her wedding ring, which she had
cast overboard.
"Hear you all! When that ring comes back to me, I shall be hungry and
not before," said she, loud enough to be heard on ship, wharf, and
street. Gathering up her skirts, she stepped upon the gangway, tripping
to the shore, and past the poor people, who looked at her in mingled
hate and fear. Then haughtily, she strode to her costly mansion.
Now to celebrate the expected new triumph and to show off her wealth and
luxury, with the numerous curiosities brought her from many lands, the
proud lady had already invited a score of guests. When they were all
seated, the first course of soup was served in silver dishes, which
every one admired. As the fish was about to be brought in, to be eaten
off golden plates, the butler begged the lady's permission to bring in
first, from the chief cook, something rare and wonderful, that he had
found in the mouth of the fish, which was waiting, already garnished, on
the big dish. Not dreaming what it might be, the hostess clapped her
hands in glee, saying to those at the table:
"Perhaps now, at last, I shall get what I have long waited for--the best
thing in the world."
"We shall all hope so," the guests responded in chorus.
But when the chief cook came into the banquet hall, and, bowing low,
held before his mistress a golden salver, with a finger ring on it, the
proud lady turned pale.
It was the very ring which, in her anger, she had tossed overboard the
day before. To add to her shame, she saw from the look of horror on
their faces, that the guests had recognized the fact that it was her
wedding token.
This was only the beginning of troubles. That night, her husband died of
grief and vexation. The next day, the warehouses, stored with valuable
merchandise of all sorts, were burned to the ground.