On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad children were
kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in Holland.
The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was parted near the
horizon, and its edges shone crimson with the coming day. Most of the
good Hollanders were enjoying a placid morning nap. Even Mynheer
von Stoppelnoze, that worthy old Dutchman, was still slumbering “in
beautiful repose”.
Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well-filled basket upon her
head, came skimming over the glassy surface of the canal; or a lusty
boy, skating to his day’s work in the town, cast a good-natured grimace
toward the shivering pair as he flew along.
Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the brother and sister,
for such they were, seemed to be fastening something to their feet--not
skates, certainly, but clumsy pieces of wood narrowed and smoothed at
their lower edge, and pierced with holes, through which were threaded
strings of rawhide.
These queer-looking affairs had been made by the boy Hans. His mother
was a poor peasant woman, too poor even to think of such a thing
as buying skates for her little ones. Rough as these were, they had
afforded the children many a happy hour upon the ice. And now, as with
cold, red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the strings--their
solemn faces bending closely over their knees--no vision of impossible
iron runners came to dull the satisfaction glowing within.
In a moment the boy arose and, with a pompous swing of the arms and a
careless “Come on, Gretel,” glided easily across the canal.
“Ah, Hans,” called his sister plaintively, “this foot is not well yet.
The strings hurt me on last market day, and now I cannot bear them tied
in the same place.”
“Tie them higher up, then,” answered Hans, as without looking at her he
performed a wonderful cat’s cradle step on the ice.
“How can I? The string is too short.”
Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which was
that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered toward her.
“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a stout
leather pair. Your klompen *{Wooden shoes.} would be better than these.”
“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful new shoes in
the fire. Before I knew what he had done, they were all curled up in the
midst o the burning peat. I can skate with these, but not with my wooden
ones. Be careful now--”
Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as he knelt
beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel’s skate with all the force of
his strong young arm.
“Oh! oh!” she cried in real pain.
With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would have cast it on
the ground in true big-brother style, had he not just then spied a tear
trickling down his sister’s cheek.
“I’ll fix it--never fear,” he said with sudden tenderness, “but we must
be quick. The mother will need us soon.”
Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the ground, next at
some bare willow branches above his head, and finally at the sky, now
gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson, and gold.
Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his need, his eye
suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellow who knew what he was
about, he took off his cap and, removing the tattered lining, adjusted
it in a smooth pad over the top of Gretel’s worn-out shoe.
“Now,” he cried triumphantly, at the same time arranging the strings
as briskly as his benumbed fingers would allow, “can you bear some
pulling?”
Gretel drew up her lips as if to say, “Hurt away,” but made no further
response.
In another moment they were all laughing together, as hand in hand they
flew along the canal, never thinking whether the ice would bear them or
not, for in Holland ice is generally an all-winter affair. It settles
itself upon the water in a determined kind of way, and so far from
growing thin and uncertain every time the sun is a little severe upon
it, it gathers its forces day by day and flashes defiance to every beam.
Presently, squeak! squeak! sounded something beneath Hans’ feet. Next
his strokes grew shorter, ending oftimes with a jerk, and finally,
he lay sprawling upon the ice, kicking against the air with many a
fantastic flourish.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Gretel. “That was a fine tumble!” But a tender heart
was beating under her coarse blue jacket, and even as she laughed, she
came, with a graceful sweep, close to her prostrate brother.
“Are you hurt, Hans? Oh, you are laughing! Catch me now!” And she darted
away, shivering no longer, but with cheeks all aglow and eyes sparkling
with fun.
Hans sprang to his feet and started in brisk pursuit, but it was no easy
thing to catch Gretel. Before she had traveled very far, her skates,
too, began to squeak.
Believing that discretion was the better part of valor, she turned
suddenly and skated into her pursuer’s arms.
“Ha! ha! I’ve caught you!” cried Hans.
“Ha! ha! I caught YOU,” she retorted, struggling to free herself.
Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling, “Hans! Gretel!”
“It’s the mother,” said Hans, looking solemn in an instant.
By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure morning air
was very delightful, and skaters were gradually increasing in numbers.
It was hard to obey the summons. But Gretel and Hans were good children;
without a thought of yielding to the temptation to linger, they pulled
off their skates, leaving half the knots still tied. Hans, with his
great square shoulders and bushy yellow hair, towered high above his
blue-eyed little sister as they trudged homeward. He was fifteen years
old and Gretel was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy, with
honest eyes and a brow that seemed to bear a sign GOODNESS WITHIN just
as the little Dutch zomerhuis *{Summer house} wears a motto over its
portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; her eyes had a dancing light in
them, and while you looked at her cheek the color paled and deepened
just as it does upon a bed of pink and white blossoms when the wind is
blowing.
As soon as the children turned from the canal, they could see their
parents’ cottage. Their mother’s tall form, arrayed in jacket and
petticoat and close-fitting cap, stood, like a picture, in the crooked
frame of the doorway. Had the cottage been a mile away, it would still
have seemed near. In that flat country every object stands out plainly
in the distance; the chickens show as distinctly as the windmills.
Indeed, were it not for the dikes and the high banks of the canals, one
could stand almost anywhere in middle Holland without seeing a mound or
a ridge between the eye and the “jumping-off place.”
None had better cause to know the nature of these same dikes than Dame
Brinker and the panting youngsters now running at her call. But before
stating WHY, let me ask you to take a rocking-chair trip with me to that
far country where you may see, perhaps for the first time, some curious
things that Hans and Gretel saw every day.