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Hans Brinker or the Silver Skates


Chapter 1:  Hans and Gretel
            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.