XIX
ON THE CANAL
The skating season had commenced unusually early; our boys were by nomeans alone upon the ice. The afternoon was so fine, that men, women,and children, bent upon enjoying the holiday, had flocked to the grandcanal from far and near. Saint Nicholas had evidently remembered thefavorite pastime; shining new skates were everywhere to be seen. Wholefamilies were skimming their way to Haarlem or Leyden or the neighboringvillages. The ice seemed fairly alive. Ben noticed the erect, easycarriage of the women, and their picturesque variety of costume. Therewere the latest fashions, fresh from Paris, floating past dingy,moth-eaten garments that had seen service through two generations;coal-scuttle bonnets perched over freckled faces bright with holidaysmiles; stiff muslin caps, with wings at the sides, flapping besidecheeks rosy with health and contentment; furs, too, encircling thewhitest of throats; and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddywith exercise--In short every quaint and comical mixture of dry-goodsand flesh that Holland could furnish, seemed sent to enliven the scene.
There were belles from Leyden, and fishwives from the border villages;cheese women from Gouda, and prim matrons from beautiful country-seatson the Haarlemmer Meer. Gray-headed skaters were constantly to be seen;wrinkled old women, with baskets upon their heads; and plump littletoddlers on skates clutching at their mother's gowns. Some womencarried their babies upon their backs, firmly secured with a brightshawl. The effect was pretty and graceful as they darted by, or sailedslowly past, now nodding to an acquaintance, now chirruping, andthrowing soft baby-talk, to the muffled little ones they carried.
Boys and girls were chasing each other, and hiding behind the one-horsesleds, that, loaded high with peat or timber, pursued their cautious wayalong the track marked out as "safe." Beautiful, queenly women werethere, enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Sometimes a long file ofyoung men, each grasping the coat of the one before him, flew by withelectric speed; and sometimes the ice squeaked under the chair of somegorgeous old dowager, or rich burgomaster's lady--who, very red in thenose, and sharp in the eyes, looked like a scare-thaw invented by oldfather Winter for the protection of his skating grounds. The chair wouldbe heavy with footstoves and cushions, to say nothing of the old lady.Mounted upon shining runners it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest ofservants, who, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent himselfto his task while she cast direful glances upon the screaming littlerowdies who invariably acted as body-guard.
As for the men, they were pictures of placid enjoyment. Some wereattired in ordinary citizen's dress; but many looked odd enough withtheir short woolen coats, wide breeches, and big silver buckles. Theseseemed to Ben like little boys who had, by a miracle, sprung suddenlyinto manhood, and were forced to wear garments that their astonishedmothers had altered in a hurry. He noticed, too, that nearly all the menhad pipes, as they passed him whizzing and smoking like so manylocomotives. There was every variety of pipes from those of common clayto the most expensive meerschaums mounted in silver and gold. Some werecarved into extraordinary and fantastic shapes, representing birds,flowers, heads, bugs, and dozens of other things; some resembled the"Dutchman's pipe" that grows in our American woods; some were red, andmany were of a pure snowy white; but the most respectable were thosewhich were ripening into a shaded brown--The deeper and richer thebrown, of course the more honored the pipe, for it was a proof that theowner, if honestly shading it, was deliberately devoting his manhood tothe effort--What pipe would not be proud to be the object of such asacrifice!
For a while, Ben skated on in silence. There was so much to engage hisattention that he almost forgot his companions. Part of the time he hadbeen watching the ice-boats as they flew over the great Haarlemmer Meer(or Lake), the frozen surface of which was now plainly visible from thecanal. These boats had very large sails, much larger, in proportion,than those of ordinary vessels, and were set upon a triangular framefurnished with an iron "runner" at each corner,--the widest part of thetriangle crossing the bow, and its point stretching beyond the stern.They had rudders for guiding, and brakes for arresting their progress;and were of all sizes and kinds, from small, rough affairs managed by aboy, to large and beautiful ones filled with gay pleasure parties, andmanned by competent sailors, who smoking their stumpy pipes, reefed andtacked and steered with great solemnity and precision.
Some of the boats were painted and gilded in gaudy style and flauntedgay pennons from their mastheads; others white as snow, with everyspotless sail rounded by the wind, looked like swans borne onward by aresistless current. It seemed to Ben as, following his fancy, he watchedone of these in the distance, that he could almost hear its helpless,terrified cry, but he soon found that the sound arose from a nearer andless romantic cause--from an ice-boat not fifty yards from him, usingits brakes to avoid a collision with a peat-sled.
It was a rare thing for these boats to be upon the canal and theirappearance generally caused no little excitement among skaters,especially among the timid; but to-day every ice-boat in the countryseemed afloat or rather aslide, and the canal had its full share.
Ben, though delighted at the sight, was often startled at the swiftapproach of the resistless, high-winged things threatening to dart inany and every possible direction. It required all his energies to keepout of the way of the passers-by, and to prevent those screaming littleurchins from upsetting him with their sleds. Once he halted to watchsome boys who were making a hole in the ice preparatory to using theirfishing spears. Just as he concluded to start again, he found himselfsuddenly bumped into an old lady's lap. Her push chair had come upon himfrom the rear. The old lady screamed, the servant who was propelling hergave a warning hiss--In another instant Ben found himself apologizing toempty air; the indignant old lady was far ahead.
This was a slight mishap compared with one that now threatened him. Ahuge ice-boat, under full sail, came tearing down the canal, almostparalyzing Ben with the thought of instant destruction. It was closeupon him! He saw its gilded prow, heard the schipper shout, felt thegreat boom fairly whizz over his head, was blind, deaf and dumb all inan instant, then opened his eyes, to find himself spinning some yardsbehind its great, skate-like rudder. It had passed within an inch of hisshoulder, but he was safe! safe to see England again, safe to kiss thedear faces that for an instant had flashed before him one byone--father, mother, Robby and Jenny--that great boom had dashed theirimages into his very soul. He knew now how much he loved them. Perhapsthis knowledge made him face complacently the scowls of those on thecanal who seemed to feel that a boy in danger was necessarily a _bad_boy needing instant reprimand.
Lambert chided him roundly.
"I thought it was all over with you, you careless fellow! Why don't youlook where you are going? Not content with sitting on all the oldladies' laps, you must make a Juggernaut of every ice-boat that comesalong. We shall have to hand you over to the aanspreekers yet, if youdon't look out!"
"Please don't," said Ben, with mock humility--then seeing how paleLambert's lips were, added in a low tone:
"I do believe I _thought_ more in that one moment, Van Mounen, than inall the rest of my past life."
There was no reply, and, for a while, the two boys skated on in silence.
Soon a faint sound of distant bells reached their ears.
"Hark!" said Ben, "what is that?"
"The carillons," replied Lambert. "They are trying the bells in thechapel of yonder village. Ah! Ben, you should hear the chimes of the'New Church' at Delft; they are superb--nearly five hundred sweet-tonedbells, and one of the best carilloneurs of Holland to play upon them.Hard work, though; they say the fellow often has to go to bed frompositive exhaustion, after his performances. You see, the bells areattached to a kind of keyboard, something like they have onpiano-fortes; there are also a set of pedals for the feet; when a brisktune is going on, the player looks like a kicking frog fastened to hisseat with a skewer."
"For shame," said Ben, indignantly.
Peter had, for the present, e
xhausted his stock of Haarlem anecdotes,and now, having nothing to do but to skate, he and his three companionswere hastening to "catch up" with Lambert and Ben.
"That English lad is fleet enough," said Peter; "if he were a bornHollander he could do no better. Generally these John Bulls make but asorry figure on skates--Hollo! Here you are, Van Mounen; why, we hardlyhoped for the honor of meeting you again. Who were you flying from insuch haste?"
"Snails," retorted Lambert. "What kept you?"
"We have been talking--and, beside, we halted once to give Poot a chanceto rest."
"He begins to look rather worn out," said Lambert in a low voice.
Just then a beautiful ice-boat with reefed sail, and flying streamers,swept leisurely by. Its deck was filled with children muffled up totheir chins. Looking at them from the ice you could see only smilinglittle faces imbedded in bright-colored, woolen wrappings. They weresinging a chorus in honor of Saint Nicholas. The music, starting in thediscord of a hundred childish voices, floated, as it rose, intoexquisite harmony:
Friend of sailors, and of children! Double claim have we, As in youthful joy we're sailing, O'er a frozen sea! Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! Let us sing to thee.
While through Wintry air we're rushing, As our voices blend, Are you near us? Do you hear us, Nicholas, our friend? Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! Love can never end.
Sunny sparkles, bright before us, Chase away the cold! Hearts where sunny thoughts are welcome Never can grow old-- Nicholas! Saint Nicholas!-- Never can grow old!
Pretty gift and loving lesson, Festival and glee, Bid us thank thee as we're sailing O'er the frozen sea-- Nicholas! Saint Nicholas! So we sing to thee!
Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates Page 22