XVIII
FRIENDS IN NEED
Meantime, the other boys were listening to Peter's account of anincident which had long ago occurred[22] in a part of the city wherestood an ancient castle, whose lord had tyrannized over the burghers ofthe town to such an extent, that they surrounded his castle, and laidsiege to it. Just at the last extremity, when the haughty lord felt thathe could hold out no longer, and was preparing to sell his life asdearly as possible, his lady appeared on the ramparts, and offered tosurrender everything, provided she was permitted to bring out, andretain, as much of her most precious household goods as she could carryupon her back. The promise was given--and forth came the lady from thegateway bearing her husband upon her shoulders. The burghers' pledgepreserved him from the fury of the troops, but left them free to wreaktheir vengeance upon the castle.
[Footnote 22: Sir Thomas Carr's Tour through Holland.]
"Do you _believe_ that story, Captain Peter?" asked Carl, in anincredulous tone.
"Of course, I do; it is historical. Why should I doubt it?"
"Simply because no woman could do it--and, if she could, she wouldn't.That is _my_ opinion."
"And _I_ believe there are many who _would_.--That is, to save any onethey really cared for," said Ludwig.
Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness, was of rather asentimental turn, had listened with deep interest.
"That is right, little fellow," he said, nodding his head approvingly."I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman who would notbe glad to do as much for _me_."
"Heaven help her!" cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker; "why,Poot, three _men_ couldn't do it!"
"Perhaps not," said Jacob quietly--feeling that he had asked rather toomuch of the future Mrs. Poot. "But she must be _willing_, that is all."
"Aye," responded Peter's cheery voice, "willing heart makes nimblefoot--and who knows, but it may make strong arms also."
"Pete," asked Ludwig, changing the subject, "did you tell me last nightthat the painter Wouvermans was born in Haarlem?"
"Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael and Berghem too. I like Berghem because he wasalways good-natured--they say he always sang while he painted, andthough he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions stillafloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he hada wife as cross as Xantippe."
"They balanced each other finely," said Ludwig; "he was kind and she wascross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn't that picture of St. Hubertand the Horse painted by Wouvermans? You remember father showed us anengraving from it last night."
"Yes, indeed; there is a story connected with that picture."
"Tell us!" cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skatedon.
"Wouvermans," began the captain, oratorically, "was born in 1620, justfour years before Berghem. He was a master of his art, and especiallyexcelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so longfinding out his merits, that, even after he had arrived at the height ofhis excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltryprices. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and, worse thanall, was over head and ears in debt. One day he was talking over histroubles with his father-confessor, who was one of the few whorecognized his genius. The priest determined to assist him, andaccordingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same timeto demand a better price for his pictures. Wouvermans did so, and in themeantime paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybodyappreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grewrich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude,Wouvermans sent also a work which he had painted, representing hisbenefactor as St. Hubert kneeling before his horse--the very picture,Ludwig, of which we were speaking last night."
"So! so!" exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest. "I must take anotherlook at the engraving as soon as we get home."
* * * * *
At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside theHolland dyke, Robby and Jenny stood in their pretty English schoolhouse,ready to join in the duties of their reading class.
"Commence! Master Robert Dobbs," said the teacher, "page 242; now, sir,mind every stop."
And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at schoolroom pitch:
"LESSON 62.--THE HERO OF HAARLEM.
"Many years ago, there lived in Haarlem, one of the principal cities ofHolland, a sunny-haired boy, of gentle disposition. His father was a_sluicer_, that is, a man whose business it was to open and close thesluices, or large oaken gates, that are placed at regular distancesacross the entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of water thatshall flow into them.
"The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity ofwater required, and closes them carefully at night, in order to avoidall possible danger of an over supply running into the canal, or thewater would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As agreat portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the watersare kept from flooding the land, only by means of strong dykes, orbarriers, and by means of these sluices, which are often strained to theutmost by the pressure of the rising tides. Even the little children inHolland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep the riversand ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a moment's neglect ofthe sluicer's duty may bring ruin and death to all."
["Very good," said the teacher; "now, Susan."]
"One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about eight years old, heobtained his parents' consent to carry some cakes to a blind man wholived out in the country, on the other side of the dyke. The littlefellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having spent anhour with his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and started onhis homeward walk.
"Trudging stoutly along by the canal, he noticed how the autumn rainshad swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, childish song,he thought of his father's brave old gates and felt glad of theirstrength, for thought he, 'if _they_ gave way, where would father andmother be? These pretty fields would be all covered with the angrywaters--father always calls them the _angry_ waters; I suppose he thinksthey are mad at him for keeping them out so long.' And with thesethoughts just flitting across his brain, the little fellow stooped topick the pretty blue flowers that grew along his way. Sometimes hestopped to throw some feathery seed-ball in the air, and watch it as itfloated away; sometimes he listened to the stealthy rustling of arabbit, speeding through the grass, but oftener he smiled as he recalledthe happy light he had seen arise on the weary, listening face of hisblind old friend."
["Now, Henry," said the teacher, nodding to the next little reader.]
"Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He had not noticed thatthe sun was setting: now he saw that his long shadow on the grass hadvanished. It was growing dark, he was still some distance from home, andin a lonely ravine, where even the blue flowers had turned to gray. Hequickened his foot-steps; and with a beating heart recalled many anursery tale of children belated in dreary forests. Just as he wasbracing himself for a run, he was startled by the sound of tricklingwater. Whence did it come? He looked up and saw a small hole in the dykethrough which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland willshudder at the thought of a _leak in the dyke_! The boy understood thedanger at a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed totrickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundationwould be the result.
"Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, the boyclambered up the heights, until he reached the hole. His chubby littlefinger was thrust in, almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped!'Ah!' he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, 'the angry watersmust stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while _I_ am here!'
"This was all very well at first, but the night was falling rapidly;chill vapors filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with coldand dread. He shouted loudly; he screamed 'Come here! come here!' but noone came.
The cold grew more intense, a numbness, commencing in thetired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and soon his wholebody was filled with pain. He shouted again, 'Will no one come? Mother!mother!' Alas, his mother, good, practical soul, had already locked thedoors, and had fully resolved to scold him on the morrow, for spendingthe night with blind Jansen without her permission. He tried to whistle;perhaps some straggling boy might heed the signal; but his teethchattered so, it was impossible. Then he called on God for help; and theanswer came, through a holy resolution--'I will stay here tillmorning.'"
["Now, Jenny Dobbs," said the teacher. Jenny's eyes were glistening, butshe took a long breath and commenced:]
"The midnight moon looked down upon that small solitary form, sittingupon a stone, half-way up the dyke. His head was bent but he was notasleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed feebly theout-stretched arm that seemed fastened to the dyke--and often the pale,tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied sounds.
"How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch--whatfalterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the boy as hethought of the warm little bed at home, of his parents, his brothers andsisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night!
"If he drew away that tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrierstill, would rush forth, and never stop until they had swept over thetown. No, he would hold it there till daylight--if he lived! He was notvery sure of living. What did this strange buzzing mean? and then theknives that seemed pricking and piercing him from head to foot? He wasnot certain now that he could draw his finger away, even if he wishedto.
"At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bed-side of a sickparishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top ofthe dyke. Bending, he saw, far down on the side, a child apparentlywrithing with pain.
"'In the name of wonder, boy,' he exclaimed, 'what are you doing there?'
"'I am keeping the water from running out,' was the simple answer of thelittle hero. 'Tell them to come quick.'
"It is needless to add that they did come quickly and that----"
["Jenny Dobbs," said the teacher, rather impatiently, "if you cannotcontrol your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until yourecover yourself."
"Yes, sir!" said Jenny, quite startled.]
It was strange; but at that very moment, Ben, far over the sea, wassaying to Lambert:
"The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with an account of theincident, but I never knew, till now, that it was really true."
"True! Of course it is," said Lambert, kindling. "I have given you thestory just as mother told it to me, years ago. Why, there is not a childin Holland who does not know it. And, Ben, you may not think so, butthat little boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leakcan show itself anywhere either in its politics, honor, or publicsafety, that a million fingers are not ready to stop it, at any cost."
"Whew!" cried Master Ben, "big talking that!"
"It's _true_ talk anyway," rejoined Lambert, so very quietly that Benwisely resolved to make no further comment.
_The ice seemed fairly alive_]
Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates Page 21