The Silver Skates

by Mary Mapes Dodge

  “Jolly beginning!” interposed Lambert.

  “Now, don’t interrupt. He was a poor, friendless orphan at sixteen, but he was so persevering and industrious, so determined to gain knowledge, that he made his way, and in time became one of the most learned men of Europe. All the… What is that?”

  “Where? What do you mean?”

  “Why, that paper on the door opposite. Don’t you see? Two or three persons are reading it. I have noticed several of these papers since I’ve been here.”

  “Oh, that’s only a health bulletin. Somebody in the house is ill, and to prevent a steady knocking at the door the family write an account of the patient’s condition on a placard and hang it outside the door, for the benefit of enquiring friends. A very sensible custom, I’m sure. Nothing strange about it that I can see. Go on, please – you said ‘all the’, and there you left me hanging.”

  “I was going to say,” resumed Ben, “that all the – all the – how comically persons do dress here, to be sure! Just look at those men and women with their sugar-loaf hats, and see this woman ahead of us with a straw bonnet like a scoop-shovel, tapering to a point in the back. Did ever you see anything so funny? And those tremendous wooden shoes too. I declare she’s a beauty!”

  “Oh, they are only backcountry folk,” said Lambert, rather impatiently. “You might as well let old Boerhaave drop, or else shut your eyes…”

  “Ha, ha! Well, I was going to say – all the big men of his day sought out this great professor. Even Peter the Great,* when he came over to Holland from Russia to learn shipbuilding, attended his lectures regularly. By that time, Boerhaave was professor of medicine and chemistry and botany in the University of Leiden. He had grown to be very wealthy as a practising physician, but he used to say that the poor were his best patients, because God would be their paymaster. All Europe learnt to love and honour him. In short, he became so famous that a certain mandarin of China addressed a letter ‘To the illustrious Boerhaave, physician in Europe’, and the letter found its way to him without any difficulty.”

  “My Goodness! That is what I call being a public character. The boys have stopped. How now, Captain van Holp, what next?”

  “We propose to move on,” said van Holp. “There is nothing to see at this season in the Bosch. The Bosch is a noble wood, Benjamin – a grand park where they have most magnificent trees, protected by law – do you understand?”

  “Ya!” nodded Ben, as the captain proceeded:

  “Unless you all desire to visit the Museum of Natural History, we may go on the grand canal again. If we had more time it would be pleasant to take Benjamin up the Blue Stairs.”

  “What are the Blue Stairs, Lambert?” asked Ben.

  “They are the highest point of the dunes. You have a grand view of the ocean from there, besides a fine chance to see how wonderful these dunes are. One can hardly believe that the wind could ever heap up sand in so remarkable a way. But we have to go through Bloemendaal to get there – not a very pretty village, and some distance from here. What do you say?”

  “Oh, I am ready for anything. For my part, I would rather steer direct for Leiden, but we’ll do as the captain says – hey, Jacob?”

  “Ya, dat ish goot,” said Jacob, who felt decidedly more like taking another nap than ascending the Blue Stairs.

  The captain was in favour of going to Leiden.

  “It’s four long miles from here. (Full sixteen of your English miles, Benjamin.) We have no time to lose if you wish to reach there before midnight. Decide quickly, boys – Blue Stairs or Leiden?”

  “Leiden,” they answered, and were out of Haarlem in a twinkling, admiring the lofty, tower-like windmills and pretty country seats as they left the city behind them.

  “If you really wish to see Haarlem,” said Lambert to Ben, after they had skated awhile in silence, “you should visit it in summer. It is the greatest place in the world for beautiful flowers. The walks around the city are superb, and the ‘Wood’, with its miles of noble elms, all in full feather, is something to remember. You need not smile, old fellow, at my saying ‘full feather’ – I was thinking of waving plumes, and got my words mixed up a little. But a Dutch elm beats everything. It is the noblest tree on earth, Ben – if you except the English oak…”

  “Ay,” said Ben solemnly, “if you except the English oak” – and for some moments he could scarcely see the canal because Robby and Jenny kept bobbing in the air before his eyes.

  Chapter 18

  Friends in Need

  Meantime, the older boys were listening to Peter’s account of an incident which had long ago occurred in a part of the city where stood an ancient castle, whose lord had tyrannized over the burghers of the town to such an extent that they surrounded his castle and laid siege to it. Just at the last extremity, when the haughty lord felt that he could hold out no longer, and was preparing to sell his life as dearly as possible, his lady appeared on the ramparts, and offered to surrender everything, provided she was permitted to bring out, and retain, as much of her most precious household goods as she could carry upon her back. The promise was given – and forth came the lady from the gateway, bearing her husband upon her shoulders. The burghers’ pledge preserved him from the fury of the troops, but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle.

  “Do you believe that story, Captain Peter?” asked Carl in an incredulous 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 anyone they really cared for,” said Ludwig.

  Jacob, who, in spite of his fat and sleepiness, was of rather a sentimental 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 not be 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 too much of the future Mrs Poot. “But she must be willing, that is all.”

  “Ay,” responded Peter’s cheery voice. “Willing heart makes nimble foot – and who knows but it may make strong arms also.”

  “Peter,” asked Ludwig, changing the subject, “did you tell me last night that the painter Wouwerman was born in Haarlem?”

  “Yes, and Jacob van Ruisdael and Berchem too. I like Berchem because he was always good-natured. They say he always sang while he painted, and though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had a wife as cross as Xanthippe.”*

  “They balanced each other finely,” said Ludwig. “He was kind and she was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn’t that picture of St Hubert and the horse painted by Wouwerman? You remember Father showed us an engraving 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 skated on.

  “Wouwerman,” began the captain oratorically, “was born in 1620, just four years before Berghem.* He was a master of his art, and especially excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long finding out his merits that, even after he had arrived at the height of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry prices. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and, worse than all, was over head and ears in debt. One day he was talking over his troubles with his father confessor, who was one of the few who recognized his genius. The priest determined to assist him, and accordingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same time to demand a better price for his picture
s. Wouwerman did so, and in the mean time paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude Wouwerman sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor 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 another look at the engraving as soon as we get home.”

  At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside the Holland 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 of Holland, a sunny-haired boy of gentle disposition. His father was a sluicer – that is, a man whose business it was to open and close the sluices, or large oaken gates that are placed at regular distances across the entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of water that shall flow into them.

  “The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity of water required, and closes them carefully at night in order to avoid all possible danger of an oversupply running into the canal, or the water would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As a great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the waters are kept from flooding the land only by means of strong dykes, or barriers, and by means of these sluices, which are often strained to the utmost by the pressure of the rising tides. Even the little children in Holland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep the rivers and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a moment’s neglect of the 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, he obtained his parents’ consent to carry some cakes to a blind man who lived out in the country, on the other side of the dyke. The little fellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having spent an hour with his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and started on his homewards walk.

  “Trudging stoutly along by the canal, he noticed how the autumn rains had swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, childish song, he thought of his father’s brave old gates and felt glad of their strength, for, thought he, ‘if they gave way, where would Father and Mother be? These pretty fields would be all covered with the angry waters. Father always calls them the angry waters. I suppose he thinks they are mad at him for keeping them out so long.’ And with these thoughts just flitting across his brain, the little fellow stooped to pick the pretty blue flowers that grew along his way. Sometimes he stopped to throw some feathery seed ball in the air, and watch it as it floated away. Sometimes he listened to the stealthy rustling of a rabbit speeding through the grass, but oftener he smiled as he recalled the happy light he had seen arise on the weary, listening face of his blind 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 that the sun was setting. Now he saw that his long shadow on the grass had vanished. It was growing dark. He was still some distance from home, and in a lonely ravine, where even the blue flowers had turned to grey. He quickened his footsteps, and with a beating heart recalled many a nursery tale of children belated in dreary forests. Just as he was bracing himself for a run, he was startled by the sound of trickling water. Whence did it come? He looked up and saw a small hole in the dyke through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will shudder at the thought of a leak in the dyke! The boy understood the danger at a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed to trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation would be the result.

  “Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, the boy clambered up the heights until he reached the hole. His chubby little finger was thrust in, almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped! ‘Ah!’ he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, ‘the angry waters must 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 vapours filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with cold and dread. He shouted loudly – he screamed: ‘Come here! Come here!’ but no one came. The cold grew more intense. A numbness, commencing in the tired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and soon his whole body was filled with pain. He shouted again, ‘Will no one come? Mother! Mother!’ Alas, his mother – good, practical soul – had already locked the doors, and had fully resolved to scold him on the morrow for spending the night with blind Janssen without her permission. He tried to whistle – perhaps some straggling boy might heed the signal – but his teeth chattered, so it was impossible. Then he called on God for help, and the answer came through a holy resolution: ‘I will stay here till morning.’”

  “Now, Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher. Jenny’s eyes were glistening, but she took a long breath and commenced.

  “The midnight moon looked down upon that small solitary form sitting upon a stone halfway up the dyke. His head was bent, but he was not asleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed feebly the outstretched arm that seemed fastened to the dyke – and often the pale, tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied sound.

  “How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch – what falterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the boy as he thought of the warm little bed at home, of his parents, his brothers and sisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night! If he drew away that tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrier still, would rush forth, and never stop until they had swept over the town. No, he would hold it there till daylight – if he lived! He was not very sure of living. What did this strange buzzing mean? And then the knives that seemed pricking and piercing him from head to foot? He was not certain now that he could draw his finger away, even if he wished to.

  “At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of a sick parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top of the dyke. Bending, he saw, far down on the side, a child apparently writhing 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 the little 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 cannot control your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until you recover yourself.”

  “Yes, sir!” said Jenny, quite startled.

  It was strange, but at that very moment, Ben, far over the sea, was saying to Lambert:

  “The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with an account of the incident, but I never knew, till now, that it was really true.”

  “True! Of course it is,” said Lambert, kindling. “I have given you the story just as Mother told it to me, years ago. Why, there is not a child in Holland who does not know it. And, Ben, you may not think so, but that little boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leak can show itself anywhere, either in its politics, honour or public safety, 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 Ben wisely resolved to make no further comment.

  Chapter 19

  On the Canal

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nbsp; The skating season had commenced unusually early. Our boys were by no means alone upon the ice. The afternoon was so fine that men, women and children, bent upon enjoying the holiday, had flocked to the grand canal from far and near. St Nicholas had evidently remembered the favourite pastime: shining new skates were everywhere to be seen. Whole families were skimming their way to Haarlem or Leiden or the neighbouring villages. The ice seemed fairly alive. Ben noticed the erect, easy carriage of the women, and their picturesque variety of costume. There were 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 holiday smiles; stiff muslin caps, with wings at the sides, flapping beside cheeks rosy with health and contentment; furs, too, encircling the whitest of throats; and scanty garments fluttering below faces ruddy with exercise. In short, every quaint and comical mixture of dry goods and flesh that Holland could furnish seemed sent to enliven the scene.

  There were belles from Leiden, and fishwives from the border villages; cheese-women from Gouda, and prim matrons from beautiful country seats on the Haarlemmermeer.* Grey-headed skaters were constantly to be seen; wrinkled old women, with baskets upon their heads; and plump little toddlers on skates clutching at their mothers’ gowns. Some women carried their babies upon their backs, firmly secured with a bright shawl. The effect was pretty and graceful as they darted by or sailed slowly past, now nodding to an acquaintance, now chirruping and throwing soft baby talk to the muffled little ones they carried.

  Boys and girls were chasing each other and hiding behind the one-horse sleds that, loaded high with peat or timber, pursued their cautious way along the track marked out as “safe”. Beautiful, queenly women were there, enjoyment sparkling in their quiet eyes. Sometimes a long file of young men, each grasping the coat of the one before him, flew by with electric speed, and sometimes the ice squeaked under the chair of some gorgeous old dowager or rich burgomaster’s lady, who, very red in the nose, and sharp in the eyes, looked like a scare-thaw invented by old Father Winter for the protection of his skating grounds. The chair would be heavy with foot stoves and cushions, to say nothing of the old lady. Mounted upon shining runners, it slid along, pushed by the sleepiest of servants, who, looking neither to the right nor the left, bent himself to his task while she cast direful glances upon the screaming little rowdies who invariably acted as bodyguard.