 CHAPTER IX. THE FESTIVAL OF ST. NICOLAS. We all know how, before the Christmas tree began to flourish in the home life of our country, a certain right jolly old elf with eight-tonny reindeer used to drive his sleigh-load of toys up to our house-tops, and then bounded down the chimney to fill the stockings so hopefully hung by the fireplace. His friends called him Santa Claus, and those who were most intimate ventured to say, Old Nick. It was said that he originally came from Holland. Doubtless he did, but if so he certainly, like many other foreigners, changed his ways very much after landing upon our shores. In Holland St. Nicholas is a veritable saint and often appears in full costume, with his embroidered robes, glittering with gems and gold, his miter, his crozier, and his jeweled gloves. Here Santa Claus comes rollicking along on the 25th of December, our holy Christmas morn. But in Holland St. Nicholas visits earth on the fifth, a time especially appropriated to him. Early on the morning of the sixth he distributes his candies, toys, and treasures, then vanishes for a year. Christmas Day is devoted by the Hollanders to church rites and pleasant family visiting. It is on St. Nicholas's eve that their young people become half-wild with joy and expectation. To some of them it is a sorry time, for the saint is very candid, and if any of them have been bad during the past year he is quite sure to tell them so. Sometimes he gives a birch rod under his arm, and advises the parents to give them scoldings in place of confections and fluggings instead of toys. It was well that the boys hastened to their abodes on that bright winter evening, for in less than an hour afterward the saint made his appearance in half the homes of Holland. He visited the King's Palace, and in the self-same moment appeared in Annie Bowman's comfortable home. Probably one of our half-dollars would have purchased all that his saintship left at the peasant Bowmans, but a half-dollars worth will sometimes do for the poor what hundreds of dollars may fail to do for the rich. It makes them happy and grateful, fills them with new peace and love. Hilda von Gleck's little brothers and sisters were in a high state of excitement that night. They had been admitted into the Grand Parlor. They were dressed in their best, and had been given two cakes a piece at supper. Hilda was as joyous as any. Why not? St. Nicholas would never cross a girl of fourteen from his list, just because she was tall and looked almost like a woman. On the contrary, he would probably exert himself to do honour to such an august-looking damsel. Who could tell? So she sported and laughed and danced as gaily as the youngest, and was the soul of all their merry games. Her father, mother, and grandmother looked on approvingly. So did her grandfather, before he spread his large red handkerchief over his face, leaving only the top of his skullcap visible. This kerchief was his ensign of sleep. Earlier in the evening all had joined in the fun. In the general hilarity there had seemed to be a difference only in bulk between grandfather and the baby. Indeed, a shade of solemn expectation, now and then flitting across the faces of the younger members, had made them seem rather more thoughtful than their elders. Now the spirit of fun reigned supreme. The very flames danced and capered in the polished grate. A pair of primmed candles that had been staring at the astral lamp began to wink at other candles far away in the mirrors. There was a long bell-rope suspended from the ceiling in the corner, made of glass beads netted over a cord nearly as thick as your wrist. It is generally hung in the shadow and made no sign, but tonight it twinkled from end to end. Its handle of crimson glass sent reckless dashes of red at the papered wall, turning its dainty blue stripes into purple. Passers-by halted to catch the merry laughter floating through curtain and sash into the street, then skipped on their way with a startled consciousness that the village was wide awake. At last matters grew so uproarious that the grand sire's red kerchief came down from his face with a jerk. What decent old gentleman could sleep in such a racket? My near van Gleck regarded his children with astonishment. The baby even showed symptoms of hysterics. It was high time to attend to business. Madam suggested that if they wished to see the good St. Nicholas they should sing the same loving invitation that had brought him the year before. The baby stared and thrust his fist into his mouth as my near put him down upon the floor. Soon he sat erect and looked with a sweet scowl at the company. With his lace and embroideries and his crown of blue ribbons and whale-bone, for he was not quite past the tumbling age, he looked like the king of the babies. The other children, each holding a pretty willow basket, formed a ring at once, and moved slowly around the little fellow, lifting their eyes, for the saint to whom they were about to address themselves was yet in mysterious quarters. Madam commenced playing softly upon the piano. Soon the voices rose, gentle, youthful voices rendered all the sweeter for their tremor. Welcome, friend, St. Nicholas, welcome. Bring no rod for us to-night. While our voices bid thee welcome, every heart with joy is light. Tell us every fault in failing. We will bear thy keenest railing. So we sing. So we sing. Thou shalt tell us everything. Welcome, friend, St. Nicholas, welcome. Welcome to this merry band. Happy children greet thee. Welcome. Thou art gladdening all the land. Fill each empty hand and basket, tis thy little ones who ask it. So we sing. So we sing. Thou wilt bring us everything. During the chorus, sundry glances, half in eagerness, half in dread, had been cast toward the polished folding doors. Now a loud knocking was heard. The circle was broken in an instant. Some of the little ones, with a strange mixture of fear and delight, pressed against their mother's knee. Grandfather bent forward with his chin rusting upon his hand. Grandmother lifted her spectacles. My near van Gleck, seated by the fireplace, slowly drew his mere shum from his mouth while Hilda and the other children settled themselves beside him in an expectant group. The knocking was heard again. Come in, said Madame Softly. The door slowly opened, and St. Nicholas, in full array, stood before them. You could have heard a pin drop. Soon he spoke. What a mysterious majesty in his voice! What kindliness in his tones! Carl van Gleck, I am pleased to greet thee, and thy honoured frow, Catherine, and thy son, and his good frow, Annie. Children I greet ye all, Hendrick, Hilda, Broome, Katie, Huggins, and Lucretia, and thy cousins, Wolfert, Dietrich, Macon, Woost, and Katrina. Good children ye have been, in the main, since I last accosted ye. Dietrich was rude at the harem fair last fall, but he has tried to atone for it since. Macon has failed of late in her lessons, and too many sweets and trifles have gone to her lips, and too few stifers to her charity box. Dietrich, I trust, will be a polite manly boy for the future, and Macon will endeavor to shine as a student. Let her remember, too, that economy and thrift are needed in the foundation of a worthy and generous life. Little Katie has been cruel to the cat more than once. St. Nicholas can hear the cat cry when his tail is pulled. I will forgive her if she will remember from this hour that the smallest dumb creatures have feelings and must not be abused. As Katie burst into a frightened cry, the saint graciously remained silent until she was soothed. Master Broom, he resumed. I warn thee that the boys who are in the habit of putting snuff upon the footstove of the schoolmistress may one day be discovered and receive a flogging. Master Broom colored and stared in great astonishment. But thou art such an excellent scholar, I shall make thee no further reproof. Thou, Hendrick, didst distinguish thyself in the archery match last spring, and hit the duel, bullseye. Though the bird was swung before it to unsteady thine eye, I give thee credit for excelling in manly sport and exercise, though I must not unduly countenance thy boat-racing since it leaves the little time for thy proper studies. Lucretia and Hilda shall have a blessed sleep tonight. The consciousness of kindness to the poor, devotion in their souls, and cheerful hearty obedience to household rule will render them happy. With one and all I avow myself well content. Goodness, industry, benevolence, and thrift have prevailed in your midst. Therefore, my blessing upon you, and may the New Year find all treading the paths of obedience, wisdom, and love. Tomorrow you shall find more substantial proofs that I have been in your midst. Farewell! With these words came a great shower of sugar-plums upon a linen sheet spread out in front of the doors. A general scramble followed. The children fairly tumbled over each other in their eagerness to fill their baskets. Madam cautiously held the baby down in their midst till the chubby little fists were filled. Then the bravest of the youngsters sprang up and burst open the closed doors. In vain they peered into the mysterious apartment. St. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. Soon there was a general rush to another room, where stood a table covered with the finest and widest of linen damask. Each child, in a flutter of excitement, laid a shoe upon it. The door was then carefully locked, and its key hidden in the mother's bedroom. Next followed good-night kisses, a grand family procession to the upper floor, merry farewells at bedroom doors, and silence at last reigned in the vanglok mansion. Early the next morning the door was solemnly unlocked, and opened in the presence of the assembled household, when low a sight appeared proving St. Nicholas to be a saint of his word. Every shoe was filled to overflowing, and beside each stood many a colored pile. The table was heavy with its load of presents, candies, toys, trinkets, books, and other articles. Everyone had gifts, from the grandfather down to the baby. But Katie clapped her hands with glee, and vowed inwardly that the cat should never know another moment's grief. Hendrick capered about the room, flourishing a superb bow and arrows over his head. Hilda laughed with delight as she opened a crimson box and drew forth its glittering contents. The rest chuckled and said, Oh, and, Ah! over their treasures, very much as we did here in America on last Christmas day. With her glittering necklace in her hands, and a pile of books in her arms, Hilda stalled toward her parents and held up her beaming face for a kiss. There was such an earnest, tender look in her bright eyes that her mother breathed a blessing as she leaned over her. I am delighted with this book. Thank you, Father, she said, touching the top one with her chin. I shall read it all day long. I, sweetheart, said my near, you cannot do better. There is no one like Father Katz. If my daughter learns his moral emblems by heart, the mother and I may keep silent. The work you have there is the emblems, his best work. You will find it enriched with rare engravings from von Devend. Considering that the back of the book was turned away, my near certainly showed a surprising familiarity with an unopened volume presented by St. Nicholas. It was strange, too, that the saint should have found certain things made by the elder children and had actually placed them upon the table, labelled with parents and grandparents' names. But all were too much absorbed in happiness to notice slight inconsistencies. Hilda saw, on her father's face, the rapt expression he always wore when he spoke of Jacob Katz. So she put her armful of books upon the table and resigned herself to listen. Old Father Katz, my child, was a great poet, not a writer of plays like the Englishman, Shakespeare, who lived in his time. I have read them in the German, and very good they are. Very, very good. But not like Father Katz. Katz sees no daggers in the air. He has no white women falling in love with dusky moors. No young fools sighing to be a lady's glove. No crazy princes mistaking respectable old gentlemen for rats. No, no, he writes only sense. It is great wisdom in little bundles, a bundle for every day of your life. You can guide a state with Katz poems, and you can put a little baby to sleep with his pretty songs. He was one of the greatest men of Holland. When I take you to the Hague I will show you the Klusterkerk where he lies buried. There was a man for you to study my sons. He was good through and through. What did he say? Oh, Lord, let me obtain this from thee to live with patience and to die with pleasure. Oh, Herrera, lot me dot von uwen haunt ver verven, te leven maat she dolt, an maat ver maat disturbing. Did patience mean folding his hands? No, he was a lawyer, statesman, ambassador, farmer, philosopher, historian, and poet. He was keeper of the great seal of Holland. He was a, bah, there is too much noise here. I cannot talk. And my near, looking with great astonishment into the bowl of his mirsham, for it had gone out, nodded to his frau and left the apartment in great haste. The fact is, his discourse had been a-copneyed throughout with a subdued course of barking dogs, squeaking Katz, and bleeding lambs, to say nothing of a noisy ivory cricket that the baby was whirling with infinite delight. At the last little hudgens, taking advantage of the increasing loudness of my near's tones, had ventured a blast on his new trumpet, and Wolfert had hastily attempted an accompaniment on the drum. This had brought matters to a crisis, and it was good for the little creatures that it had. The saint had left no ticket for them to attend the lecture on Jacob Katz. It was not an appointed part of the ceremonies. Therefore, when the youngsters saw that the mother looked neither frightened nor offended, they gathered new courage. The grand chorus rose triumphant, and frolic and joy reigned supreme. Good saint Nicholas! For the sake of the young hollarders, I for one am willing to acknowledge him and defend his reality against all unbelievers. Carl Schummel was quite busy during that day, assuring little children, confidentially, that not saint Nicholas but their own fathers and mothers had produced the oracle and loaded the tables. But we know better than that. And yet if this were a saint, why did he not visit the Brinker Cottage that night? Why was that one home, so dark and sorrowful, passed by? CHAPTER X. WHAT THE BOYS SAW AND DID IN AMPSTER-DAMB Are we all here? cried Peter, in high glee, as the party assembled upon the canal early the next morning, equipped for their skating journey. Let me see, as Jacob has made me, Captain, I must call the roll. Carl Schummel, you hear? YAH. Jacob boot. YAH. Benjamin Dobbs. YAH. Lumberd von Mohnen. YAH. That's lucky, couldn't get on without you, as you're the only one who can speak English. Ludwig von Hope. YAH. Bustenvalbert Schimmelpenning. No answer. Ah, the little rogue has been kept at home. Now, boys, it's just eight o'clock glorious weather, and the eye is as firm as a rock, will be at Amsterdam in thirty minutes. One, two, three, start! True enough, in less than half an hour they had crossed a dyke of solid masonry, and were in the very heart of the great metropolis of the Netherlands, a walled city of ninety-five islands and nearly two hundred bridges. Although Ben had been there twice since his arrival in Holland, he saw much to excite wonder. But his Dutch comrades, having lived nearby all their lives, considered it the most matter-of-course place in the world. Everything interested Ben, the tall houses with their forked chimneys and gable ends facing the street, the merchants' ware rooms perched high up under the roofs of their dwellings, with long, arm-like cranes hoisting in lowering goods past the household windows. The grand public buildings erected upon wooden piles driven deep into the marshy ground, the narrow streets, the canals crossing the city everywhere, the bridges, the locks, the various costumes, and, strangest of all, shops and dwellings crouching close to the fronts of the churches, sending their long, disproportionate chimneys far upward along the sacred walls. If he looked up, he saw tall, leaning houses, seeming to pierce the sky with their shunning roofs. If he looked down, there was the queer street, without crossing or curb, nothing to separate the cobblestone pavement from the footpath of Brick. And if he rested his eyes half way, he saw complicated little mirrors, spewin'en, fastened upon the outside of nearly every window, arranged that the inmates of the houses could observe all that was going on in the street, or inspect whoever might be knocking at the door, without being seen themselves. Sometimes a dog-cart, heaped with wooden ware, passed him, then a donkey bearing a pair of panniers filled with crockery or glass, then a sled driven over the bare cobblestones the runners kept greased with the dripping oil rags so that it might run easily. And then, perhaps, a showy but clumsy family carriage, drawn by the brownest of Flanders horses, swinging the whitest of snowy tails. The city was in full festival array. Every shop was gorgeous in honor of St. Nicholas. Captain Peter was forced, more than once, to order his men away from the tempting show windows, where everything that is, has been, or can be, thought of in the way of toys, was displayed. Holland is famous for this branch of manufacture. Every possible thing is copied in miniature for the benefit of the little ones. The intricate mechanical toys that a Dutch youngster tumbles about and stolid unconcerned would create a stir in our patent office. Ben laughed outright at some of the mimic fishing boats. They were so heavy and stumpy, so like the queer craft that he had seen about Rotterdam. The tiny trekscoitan, however, only a foot or two long, and fitted out complete, made his heart ache. He so longed to buy one at once for his little brother in England. He had no money to spare, for with true Dutch prudence, the party had agreed to take with him merely the sum required for each boy's expenses, and to consign the purse to Peter for safekeeping. Consequently, Master Ben concluded to devote all his energies to sightseeing, and to think as seldom as possible of little Robbie. He made a hasty call at the marine school, and envied the sailor's students their full rigged brig, and their sleeping berths swung over their trunks or lockers. He peeped into the Jew's quarter of the city, where the rich diamond-cutters and squalid old clothesmen dwell, and wisely resolved to keep away from it. He also enjoyed hasty glimpses of the four principal avenues of Amsterdam, the Prinzenkracht, Keiserskracht, Herringkracht, and Singel. These are semicircular in form, and the first three average more than two miles in length. A canal runs through the centre of each, with a well-paved road on either side, lined with stately buildings. Rows of naked elms, bordering the canal, cast a network of shadows over its frozen surface, and everything was so clean and bright that Ben told Lambert, it seemed to him like petrified neatness. Fortunately the weather was cold enough to put a stop to the usual street-flooding and window-washing, or our young excursionist might have been drenched more than once. Sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing form a passion with Dutch housewives, and to soil their spotless mansions is considered scarcely less than a crime. Everywhere a hearty contempt is felt for those who neglect to rub the soles of their shoes to a polish before crossing the door sill, and in certain places visitors are expected to remove their heavy shoes before entering. Sir William Temple, in his memoirs of What Passed in Christendom from 1672 to 1679, tells a story of a pompous magistrate going to visit a lady of Amsterdam. A stout Holland lass opened the door and told him in a breath that the lady was at home and that his shoes were not very clean. Without another word she took the astonished man up by both arms, threw him across her back, carried him through two rooms, set him down at the bottom of the stairs, seized a pair of slippers that stood there and put them on upon his feet. Then and not until then she spoke, telling him that his mistress was on the floor above and that he might go up. While Ben was skating with his friends upon the crowded canals of the city, he found it difficult to believe that the sleepy Dutchman he saw around him, smoking their pipe so leisurely and looking as though their hats might be knocked off their heads without their making any resistance, were capable of those outbreaks that had taken place in Holland, that they were really fellow countrymen of the brave, devoted heroes of whom he had read in Dutch history. As his party skimmed lightly along he told Van Monen of a burial riot which in 1696 had occurred in that very city where the women and children turned out as well as the men and formed mock funeral processions through the town to show the burgomasters that certain new regulations with regard to burying the dead would not be exceeded to, how at last they grew so unmanageable and threatened so much damage to the city that the burgomasters were glad to recall the offensive law. There's the corner, said Jacob pointing to some large buildings, where about fifteen years ago the great corn houses sank down in the mud. They were strong affairs and set up on good piles but they had over seven million pounds of corn in them and that was too much. It was a long story for Jacob to tell and he stopped to rest. How do you know that there were seven million pounds in them? asked Carl sharply. You were in your swaddling clothes then. My father knows all about it, was Jacob's suggestive reply. Rousing himself with an effort he continued, Ben likes pictures, show him some. All right, said the captain. If we had time, Benjamin, said Lambert Vamona in English, I should like to take you to the city hall or Stathurst. There are building piles for you. It is built on nearly fourteen thousand of them, driven seventy feet into the ground. But what I wish you to see there is the big picture of Van Spake blowing up his ship. Great picture. Van who? asked Ben. Van Spake, don't you remember? He was in the height of an engagement with the Belgians and when he found that they had the better of him and would capture his ship, he blew it up and himself too, rather than yield to the enemy. Wasn't that Van Trompf? Oh no, Van Trompf was another brave fellow. They have a monument to him down at Dalleshaven, the place where the pilgrims took ship for America. Well, what about Van Trompf? He was a great Dutch admiral, wasn't he? Yes, he was in more than thirty sea fights. He beat the Spanish fleet and an English one and then fastened a broom to his masthead to show that he had swept the English from the sea. Takes the Dutch to beat, my boy. Hold up, cried Ben. Broom or no broom, the English conquered him at last. I remember all about it now. He was killed somewhere on the Dutch coast in an engagement in which the English fleet was victorious. Too bad, he added maliciously. Wasn't it? Where are we? exclaimed Lumbert, changing the subject. Halloo! The others are way ahead of us, all but Jacob. How fat he is! He'll break down before we're halfway. Ben, of course, enjoyed skating beside Lumbert, who, though a staunch harlander, had been educated near London and could speak English as fluently as Dutch. But he was not sorry when Captain Van Hulp called out, Skates off, there's the museum. It was open and there was no charge on that day for admission. In they went, shuffling, as boys will when they have a chance just to hear the sound of their shoes on the polish floor. This museum is, in fact, a picture gallery where some of the finest works of the Dutch masters are to be seen, besides nearly two hundred portfolios of rare engravings. Ben noticed at once that some of the pictures were hung on panels fastened to the wall with hinges. These could be swung forward like a window shutter, thus enabling the subject to be seen in the best light. The plans served them well in viewing a small group by Gérac d'Eau, called the Evening School, enabling then to observe its exquisite finish and the wonderful way in which the picture seemed to be lit through its own windows. Peter pointed out the beauties of another picture by D'Eau, called the Hermit, and he also told them some interesting anecdotes of the artist who was bored in Layton in 1613. Three days painting a broom-handle echoed Carl in astonishment, while the captain was giving some instances of D'Eau's extreme slowness of execution. Yes, sir, three days, and it is said that he spent five in finishing one hand in a lady's portrait. You see how very bright and minute everything is in this picture. His unfinished works were kept carefully covered, and his painting materials were put away in airtight boxes as soon as he had finished using them for the day. According to all accounts, the studio itself must have been as close as a band-box. The artist always entered in on tiptoe, besides sitting still, before he commenced work until the slight dust caused by his entrance had settled. I have read somewhere that his paintings are improved by being viewed through a magnifying glass. He strained his eyes so badly with the extra finishing that he was forced to wear spectacles before he was thirty. At forty he could scarcely see to paint, and he couldn't find a pair of glasses anywhere that would help his sight. At last a poor old German woman asked him to try hers. They suited him exactly, and enabled him to go on painting as well as ever. exclaimed Ludwig indignantly. That was high. What did she do without them, I wonder. Oh! said Peter, laughing. Likely she had another pair. At any rate she insisted upon his taking them. He was so grateful that he painted a picture of the spectacles for her, case and all, and she sold it to a bergamaster for a yearly allowance that made her comfortable for the rest of her days. Boys! called Lumberton a loud whisper. Come look at this bear-hunt! It was a fine painting by a poor putter, a Dutch artist of the seventeenth century, who produced excellent works before he was sixteen years old. The boys admired it because the subject pleased them. They passed carelessly by the masterpieces of Rembrandt and Wander helst, and went to do raptures over an ugly picture by Wander Wiener, representing a sea-fight between the Dutch and English. They also stood spellbound before a painting of two little urchins, one of whom was taking soup, and the other eating an egg. The principal merit in this work was that the young egg-eater had kindly slobbered his face with the yolk for their entertainment. An excellent representation of the feast of St. Nicholas, next had the honour of attracting them. Look, Vamonen, said Ben de Lumbert. Could anything be better than this youngster's face? He looks as if he knows he deserves a whipping, but hopes St. Nicholas may not have found him out. That's the kind of painting I like, something that tells a story. Come, boys, cried the captain. Ten o'clock, time we were off. They hastened to the canal. Skates on. Are you ready? One, two, hello, where's Pute? Sure enough, where was Pute? A square opening had just been cut in the ice, not ten yards off. Peter observed it, and without a word skated rapidly towards it. All the others followed, of course. Peter looked in. They all looked in, then stared anxiously at each other. Pute! Peering into the hole again. All was still. The black water gave no sign. It was already glazing on top. Vamonen turned mysteriously to Ben. Didn't he have a fit once? My goodness! Yes! answered Ben in a great fright. Then, depend upon it, he's been taken with one in the museum. The boys caught his meaning. Every skate was often a twinkling. Peter had the presence of mind to scoop up a cap full of water from the hole, and off they scampered to the rescue. Alas! they did indeed find poor Jacob in a fit, but it was a fit of sleepiness. There he lay in a recess of the gallery, snoring like a trooper. The chorus of laughter that followed this discovery brought an angry official to the spot. What now? None of this racket. Here, you beer-barrel! Wake up! And Master Jacob received a very unceremonious shaking. As soon as Peter saw that Jacob's condition was not serious, he hastened to the street to empty his unfortunate cap. While he was stuffing in his handkerchief to prevent the already frozen crown from touching his head, the rest of the boys came down, dragging the bewildered and indignant Jacob in their midst. The order to start was again given. Master Pute was wide awake at last. The ice was a little rough and broken just there, but every boy was in high spirits. Shall we go on by the canal or the river? asked Peter. Oh, the river by all means, said Carl. It will be such fun. They say it is perfect skating all the way, but it's much farther. Jacob Pute instantly became interested. I vote for the canal, he cried. Well, the canal it shall be, responded the Captain. If all are agreed. Agreed, they echoed, in rather a disappointed tone, and Captain Peter led the way. All right, come on. We can reach Hallam in an hour. End of chapter. Chapter 11 of Hans Brinker This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates by Mary Mapes Dodge. Chapter 11 Big Manias and Little Oddities While skating along at full speed, they heard the cars from Amsterdam coming close behind them. Halloo! cried Ludwig, glancing toward the rail track. Who can't beat a locomotive? Let's give it a race! The whistles screamed at the very idea. So did the boys, and at it they went. For an instant the boys were ahead, hurrying with all their might. Only for an instant, but even that was something. Their excitement over they began to travel more leisurely and indulging conversation in frolic. Sometimes they stopped to exchange a word with the guards who were stationed at certain distances along the canal. These men, in winter, attend to keeping the surface free from obstruction and garbage. After a snowstorm they are expected to sweep the feathery coating away before it hardens into a marble, pretty to look at, but very unwelcome to skaters. Now and then the boys so far forgot their dignity as to clamber among the ice-bound canal boats crowded together in a widened harbor off the canal. But the watchful guards would soon spy them out and order them down with a growl. Nothing could be straighter than the canal upon which our party were skating, and nothing straighter than the long rows of willow trees that stood, bare, and wispy along the bank. On the opposite side, lifted high above the surrounding country, lay the carriage-road on top of the great dike built to keep the harem lake within bounds, stretching out far in the distance until it became lost in a point. It was the glassy canal with its many skaters, its brown winged ice-boats, its pushed chairs, and its queer little sleds light as cork, flying over the ice by means of iron-pronged sticks in the hands of the riders. Ben was in ecstasy with the scene. Ludwig van Hulp had been thinking how strange it was that the English boy should know so much of Holland. According to Lumbert's account, he knew more about it than the Dutch did. This did not quite please our young Hollander. Suddenly he thought of something that he believed would make the Sean pool, open his eyes. He drew near Lumbert with a triumphant, tell him about the tulips. Ben caught the word tulpin. Oh, yes, said he eagerly in English. The tulip mania, are you speaking of that? I have often heard it mentioned, but know very little about it. It reached its height in Amsterdam, didn't it? Ludwig moaned. The words were hard to understand, but there was no mistaking the enlightened expression on Ben's face. Lumbert happily was quite unconscious of his young countryman's distress, as he replied. Yes, here and in Haerlem, principally, but the excitement ran high all over Holland and in England too, for that matter. Hardly in England. Although the tulip mania did not prevail in England as in Holland, the flower soon became an object of speculation and brought very large prices. In 1636 tulips were publicly sold on the exchange of London. Even as late as 1800, a common price was fifteen guineas for one bulb. Ben did not know that in his own day a single tulip plant, called the Fanny Kemble, had been sold in London for more than seventy guineas. Mr. McKay, in his memoirs of popular delusions, tells a funny story of an English botanist who happened to see a tulip bulb lying in the conservatory of a wealthy Dutchman. Ignored of its value, he took out his pen knife and, cutting the bulb in two, became very much interested in his investigations. Suddenly the owner appeared, and pouncing furiously upon him, asked if he knew what he was doing. Peeling a most extraordinary onion, replied the philosopher. Honder-thousand-dweevil! shouted the Dutchman. It's an Admiral van der Aek. Thank you, replied the traveller, immediately writing the name in his notebook. Pray, are these very common in your country? Death and the Dweevil! screamed the Dutchman. Come before the Zindig and you shall see. In spite of his struggles the poor investigator, followed by an indignant mob, was taken through the streets to a magistrate. Soon he learned to his dismay that he had destroyed a bulb worth four thousand florins, or sixteen hundred dollars. He was lodged in prison until securities could be procured for the payment of the sum. I think, said Ben, but I am not sure as I was not there at the time. That's true, unless you are over two hundred years old. Well, I tell you, sir, there never was anything like it before nor since. Why, persons were so crazy after tulip bulbs in those days that they paid their weight in gold for them. What? The weight of a man! cried Ben, showing such astonishment in his eyes that Ludwig fairly capered. No, no, the weight of a bulb! The first tulip was sent here from Constantinople about the year fifteen-sixty. It was so much admired that the rich people of Amsterdam sent to Turkey for more. From that time they grew to be the rage, and it lasted for years. Single roots brought from one to four thousand florins, and one bulb, the Semper Augustus, brought fifty-five hundred. That's more than four hundred guineas of our money, interposed Ben. Yes, and I know I'm right, for I read it in a translation from Beckman only day before yesterday. Well, sir, it was great. Everyone speculated in tulips, even bargemen and rag women, and chimney sweeps. The richest merchants were not ashamed to share the excitement. People bought bulbs and sold them again at a tremendous profit without ever seeing them. It grew into a kind of gambling. Some became rich by it in a few days, and some lost everything they had. Land, houses, cattle, and even clothing went for tulips when people had no ready money. Ladies sold their jewels and finery to enable them to join in the fun. Nothing else was thought of. At last the state's general interfered. People began to see what dunces they were making of themselves, and down went the price of tulips. Old tulip debts couldn't be collected. Creditors went to law, and the law turned its back upon them. Dets made in gambling were not binding, it said. Then there was a time. Thousands of rich speculators were reduced to beggary in an hour. As old Beckman says, the bubble was burst at last. Yes, and a big bubble it was, said Ben, who had listened with great interest. By the way, did you know that the name tulip came from a Turkish word signifying turban? I had forgotten that, answered Lombard. But it's a capital idea. Just fancy a party of Turks and full headgear squatted upon a lawn. Perfect tulip bed! Ha ha ha! Capital idea! There, groaned Ludwig to himself, he's been telling Lombard something wonderful about tulips. I knew it. The fact is, continued Lombard, you can conjure up quite a human picture of a tulip bed in bloom, especially when it is nodding and bobbing in the wind. Did you ever notice it? Not I. It strikes me, Van Monen, that you hollanders are prodigiously fond of the flower to this day. Certainly you can't have a garden without them. Prettiest flower that grows, I think. My uncle has a magnificent bed of the finest varieties at his summer house on the other side of Amsterdam. I thought your uncle lived in the city? So he does, but his summer house, or pavilion, is a few miles off. He has another one built out over the river. We passed near it when we entered the city. Everybody in Amsterdam has a pavilion somewhere, if he can. Do they ever live there? asked Ben. Bless you, no. They are small affairs, suitable only to spend a few hours in on summer afternoons. There are some beautiful ones on the southern end of the Haerlem Lake. Now that they've commenced to drain it into polders it will spoil that fun. By the way, we've passed some red-roofed ones since we left home. You noticed them, I suppose, with their little bridges and ponds and gardens and their mottos over the doorway? Ben nodded. They make but little show now, continued Lombard. But in warm weather they are delightful. After the willows sprout, uncle goes to a summer house every afternoon. He dozes and smokes. Aunt Nitz, with her feet perched upon a foot stove, never mind how hot the day. My cousin Rika and the other girls fish in the lake from the windows or chat with her friends rowing by, and the youngsters tumble about or hang upon the little bridges over the ditch. Then they have coffee and cakes beside a great bunch of water lilies on the table. It's very fine, I can tell you, only between ourselves, though I was born here, I shall never fancy the odor of stagnant water that hangs about most of the summer houses. Nearly every one you see is built over a ditch. Probably I feel it more from having lived so long in England. Perhaps I shall notice it, too, said Ben. If a thaw comes, the early winter has covered up the fragrant waters for my benefit, much obliged to it. Holland without this glorious skating wouldn't be the same thing at all. How very different you are from the poots! exclaimed Lombard, who had been listening in a sort of brown study. And yet you are cousins. I cannot understand it. We are cousins, or rather we have always considered ourselves such, but the relationship is not very close. Our grandmothers were half-sisters. My side of the family is entirely English, while he is entirely Dutch. Old great-grandfather Poot married twice, you see, and I am a descendant of his English wife. I like Jacob, though, better than half of my English cousins put together. He is the truest-hearted, best-natured boy I ever knew. Strange as you may think it, my father became accidentally acquainted with Jacob's father while on a business visit to Rotterdam. They soon talked over their relationship, in French, by the way, and they have corresponded in the language ever since. Queer things come about in this world. My sister Jenny would open her eyes at some of Aunt Poot's ways. Aunt is a thorough lady, but no different from mother, and the house too, and furniture, and way of living, everything is different. Of course, assented Lumbert complacently, as if to say you could scarcely expect such general perfection anywhere else than in Holland. But you will have all the more to tell Jenny when you go back. Yes, indeed, I can say one thing. If cleanliness is, as they claim, next to godliness, Brooke is safe. It is the cleanest place I ever saw in my life. Why, my Aunt Poot, rich as she is, scrubs half the time, and her house looks as if it were varnished all over. I wrote to mother yesterday that I could see my double always with me, feet to feet, in the polished floor of the dining-room. Your double, that word puzzles me. What do you mean? Oh, my reflection, my apparition. Ben Dobbs, number two. Ah, I see, exclaimed Van Moonen. Have you ever been in your Aunt Poot's grand parlor? Ben laughed. Only once, and that was on the day of my arrival. Jacob says I shall have no chance of entering it again until the time of his sister Kenos' wedding, the week after Christmas. Father has consented that I shall remain to witness the great event. Every Saturday Aunt Poot and her fat Kate go into that parlor and sweep, and polish and scrub. Then it is darkened and closed until Saturday comes again. Not a soul enters it in the mean time, but the schoonmachen, as she calls it, must be done just the same. That is nothing. Every parlor in brook meets with the same treatment, said Lumbert. What do you think of those moving figures in her neighbor's garden? Oh, they're well enough. The swans must seem really alive gliding about the pond in summer, but that knotting maddened urine in the corner under the chestnut trees is ridiculous, only fit for children to laugh at. And then the stiff garden patches, and the trees all trimmed and painted. Excuse me, Van Moonen, but I shall never learn to admire Dutch taste. It will take time, answered Lumbert condescendingly. But you are sure to agree with it at last. I saw much to admire in England, and I hope I shall be sent back with you to study at Oxford. But take everything together. I like Holland best. Of course you do, said Ben, in a tone of hearty approval. You wouldn't be a good Hollander if you didn't. Nothing like loving one's country. It is strange, though, to have such a warm feeling for such a cold place. If we were not exercising all the time we should freeze outright. Lumbert laughed. That's your English blood, Benjamin. I'm not cold, and look at the skaters here on the canal. They're red as roses and happy as lords. Halloe, good Captain Van Hope! cold out Lumbert in Dutch. What say you to stopping at Yonder Farmhouse and warming our toes? Who's cold? asked Peter, turning around. Benjamin Dobbs. Benjamin Dobbs shall be warmed, and the party was brought to a halt. Chapter 12 of Hans Brinker This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simseville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates by Mary Mapestage Chapter 12 On the Way to Harlem On approaching the door of the farmhouse the boys suddenly found themselves in the midst of a lively domestic scene. A burly Dutchman came rushing out, closely followed by his dear fro, and she was beating him smartly with her long handled warming-pan. The expression on her face gave our boys so little promise of a kind reception that they prudently resolved to carry their toes elsewhere to be warmed. The next cottage proved to be more inviting. Its low roof of bright red tiles extended over the cow's stable that, clean as could be, nestled close to the main building. A neat, peaceful-looking old woman sat at one window, knitting. At the other could be discerned part of the profile of a fat figure that, pipe in mouth, sat behind the shining little panes and snowy curtain. In answer to Peter's subdued knock, a fair-haired, rosy-cheeked lass in holiday attire opened the upper half of the green door, which was divided across the middle, and inquired their errand. May we enter and warm ourselves, you fro? asked the captain respectfully. Yes, and welcome! was the reply as the lower half of the door swung softly towards its mate. Every boy, before entering, rubbed long and faithfully upon the rough mat, and each made his best bow to the old lady and gentleman at the window. Ben was half inclined to think that these personages were automata, like the moving figures in the garden at Brooke, for they both knotted their heads slowly and precisely the same way, and both went on with their employment as steadily and stiffly as though they worked by machinery. The old man puffed, puffed, and his fro clicked her knitting needles as if regulated by internal cog-wheels. Even the real smoke issuing from the motionless pipe gave no convincing proof that they were human. But the rosy-cheeked maiden, ah, how she bustled about. How she gave the boys polished high-back chairs to sit upon. How she made the fire blaze as if it were inspired. How she made Jacob Pute almost weep for joy by bringing forth a great square of gingerbread and a stone jug of sour wine. How she laughed and knotted as the boys ate like wild animals on good behavior, and how blank she looked when Ben politely but firmly refused to take any black bread and sauerkraut. How she pulled off Jacob's mitten, which was torn at the thumb, and mended it before his eyes, biting off the thread with her white teeth, and saying, now it will be warmer as she bit. And finally how she shook hands with every boy in turn, and throwing a deprecating glance at the female automaton insisted upon filling their pockets with gingerbread. All this time the knitting needles clicked on, and the pipe never missed a puff. When the boys were fairly on their way again they came inside of the Zwanenburg Castle with its massive stone front and its gateway towers, each surmounted with a sculptured swan. Huff, Feg! Halfway. Boys, said Peter, off with your skates. You see, explained Lambert to his companions, the eye in the harem lake meeting here make it rather troublesome. The river is five feet higher than the land, so we must have everything strong in the way of dykes and sluice-gates, or there would be wet work at once. The sluice arrangements are supposed to be something extra. We will walk over them, and you shall see enough to make you open your eyes. The spring water of the lake, they say, has the most wonderful bleaching powers of any in the world. All the great harem bleachers use it. I can't say much upon that subject, but I can tell you one thing from personal experience. What is that? Why, the lake is full of the biggest eels you ever saw. I've caught them here often, perfectly prodigious. I tell you there's sometimes a match for a fellow. They'd almost wriggle your arm from the socket if you were not on your guard. But you're not interested in eels, I perceive. The castle's a big affair, isn't it? Yes. What do those swans mean, anything? asked Ben, looking up at the stone gate-towers. The swan is held almost in reverence by us hollanders. These give the building its name, Swanenburg, Swan Castle. That is all I know. This is a very important spot, for it is here that the wise ones hold counsel with regard to dyke-matters. The castle was once the residence of the celebrated Christian broonings. What about him? asked Ben. Peter could answer you better than I, said Lambert, if you could only understand each other, or were not such cowards about leaving your mother tongues. But I have often heard my grandfather speak of broonings. He is never tired of telling us of the great engineer, how good he was, and how learned, and how, when he died, the whole country seemed to mourn as for a friend. He belonged to a great many learned societies, and was at the head of the State Department, entrusted with the care of the dykes and other defenses against the sea. There's no counting the improvements he made in dykes, and sluices, and water-mills, and all that kind of thing. We Hollander's, you know, consider our great engineers as the highest of public benefactors. Broonings died years ago. They've a monument to his memory in the Cathedral of Haarlem. I have seen his portrait, and I tell you, Ben, he was right noble-looking. No wonder the castle looks so stiff and proud. It is something to have given shelter to such a man. Yes, indeed, said Ben. I wonder, Van Monen, whether you or I will ever give any old building a right to feel so proud. Hi-ho! There's a great deal to be done yet in this world, and some of us, who are boys now, will have to do it. Look to your shoe, Lachit, Van. It's unfastened. CHAPTER XIII. A It was nearly one o'clock when Captain Van Hopp and his command entered the grand old city of Haarlem. They had skated nearly seventeen miles since morning, and were still as fresh as young eagles. From the youngest, Ludwig Van Hopp, who was just fourteen, to the eldest, no less a personage than the captain himself, a veteran of seventeen, there was but one opinion that this was the greatest frolic of their lives. To be sure, Jacob Pood had become rather short of breath during the last mile or two, and perhaps he felt ready for another nap, but there was enough jollity in him yet for a dozen. Even Carl Schummel, who had become very intimate with Ludwig during the excursion, forgot to be ill-natured. As for Peter, he was the happiest of the happy, and had sung and whistled so joyously while skating that the status passersby had smiled as they listened. Come, boys, it's nearly tiffan-hour. He said as they neared a coffee house on the main street. We must have something more solid than the pretty maiden's gingerbread. And the captain plunged his hands into his pockets as if to say, there's money enough here to feed an army. Halloo! cried Lumbert. What ails the man? Peter, pale and staring, was clapping his hands upon his breast and sides. He looked like one suddenly becoming deranged. He's sick, cried Ben. No, he's lost something, said Carl. Peter could only gasp. The pocket-book with all our money in it—it's gone. For an instant all were too much startled to speak. Carl at last came out with a gruff, no sense in letting one fellow have all the money. I said so from the first, looking your other pocket. I did. It isn't there. Open your under-jacket. Peter obeyed him mechanically. He even took off his hat and looked into it. Then thrust his hand desperately into every pocket. It's gone, boys! he said at last in a hopeless tone. No tiffin' for us, nor dinner, either. What is to be done? We can't get on without money. If we were in Amsterdam I could get as much as we want, but there is not a man in Haarlem from whom I can borrow a stiver. Doesn't one of you know any one here who would lend us a few guilders? Each boy looked into five blank faces. Then something like a smile passed around the circle, but it got sadly knotted up when it reached Carl. That wouldn't do, he said crossly. I know some people here, rich ones, too, but father would flog me soundly if I borrowed a cent from any one. He has an honest man need not borrow written over the gateway of his summer house. Responded Peter, not particularly admiring the sentiment just at that moment. The boys grew desperately hungry at once. It was my fault, said Jacob, in a penitent tone to Ben. I say first, Petter, all the boys put their purse into Van Hopes' monish. Nonsense, Jacob, you did it all for the best. Ben said this in such a sprightly tone that the two Van Hopes and Carl felt sure that he had proposed a plan that would relieve the party at once. What? What? Tell us Van Monan, they cried. He says it is not Jacob's fault that the money is lost, that he did it for the best when he proposed that Van Hopes should put all of our money into his purse. Is that all? said Ludwig Dismally. He did not have made such a fuss in just saying that. How much money have we lost? Don't you remember? said Peter. We each put in exactly ten guilders. The purse had sixty guilders in it. I am the stupidest fellow in the world. Little shimmel-penic would have made you a better captain. I could pummel myself for bringing such a disappointment upon you. Do it then, growled Carl. Poo! he added. We all know that it was an accident, but that doesn't help matters. We must have money, Van Hopes, even if you have to sell your wonderful watch. Sell my mother's birthday present? Never! I will sell my coat, my hat, anything but my watch. Come, come! said Jacob pleasantly. We are making too much of this affair. We can go home and start again in a day or two. You may be able to get another ten-guilder piece, said Carl, but the rest of us will not find it so easy. If we go home, we stay home. You may depend. Our captain, whose good nature had not yet forsaken him for a moment, grew indignant. Do you think that I will let you suffer for my carelessness? he exclaimed. I have three times sixty-guilders in my strong box at home. Oh, I beg your pardon, said Carl hastily, adding in a surlier tone. Well, I see no better way than to go back hungry. I see a better plan than that, said the captain. What is it? cried all the boys. Why, to make the best of a bad business and go back pleasantly and like men, said Peter, looking so gallant and handsome as he turned his frank face in clear blue eyes upon them that they caught his spirit. Ho for the captain! they shouted. Now, boys, we may as well make up our minds there is no place like Brook after all, and that we mean to be there in two hours. Is that agreed, too? Agreed! cried all as they ran to the canal. On with your skates. Are you ready? Here, Jacob, let me help you. Now, one, two, three, start! And the boyish faces that left hair-limit that signal were nearly as bright as those that had entered it with Captain Peter half an hour before. End of Chapter 14 of Hans Brinker This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates by Mary Maeve Stodge Chapter 14 Hans Dunder and Blixon cried Carl angrily before the party had skated twenty yards from the city gates, if here isn't that wooden skate ragamuffin in the patched leather breaches. That fellow is everywhere, confound him. We'll be lucky, he added, in his sneering atone as he dared to assume, if our Captain doesn't order us to halt and shake hands with him. Your Captain is a terrible fellow, said Peter pleasantly. But this is a false alarm, Carl. I cannot spy your bugbear anywhere among the skaters. Ah, there he is. Why, what is the matter with the lad? Poor Hans. His face was pale, his lips compressed. He skated like one under the effects of a fearful dream. Just as he was passing, Peter hailed him. Good day, Hans Brinker. Hans's countenance brightened at once. Ah, my dear, is that you? It is well we meet. Just like his impertinence, his Carl Schummel, darting scourfully past his companions, who seemed inclined to linger with their Captain. I'm glad to see you, Hans, responded Peter cheerfully. But you look troubled. Can I serve you? I have a trouble, my dear, answered Hans, casting down his eyes. Then, lifting them again with almost a happy expression, he added, But it is Hans who can help my dear van Holp this time. How, asked Peter, making in his blunt Dutch way, no attempt to conceal his surprise. By giving you this, my dear, and Hans held forth the missing purse. Hurrah! shouted the boys, taking their cold hands from their pockets to wave them joyfully in the air. But Peter said, Thank you, Hans Brinker, in a tone that made Hans feel as if the King had knelt to him. The shout of the delighted boys had reached the muffled ears of the fine young gentleman who, under a full pressure of pent-up wrath, was skating toward Amsterdam. A Yankee boy would have wheeled about at once and hastened to satisfy his curiosity. But Carl only halted, and with his back toward his party, wondered what on earth had happened. There he stood, immovable, until, feeling sure that nothing but the prospect of something to eat could have made them hurrah so heartily, he turned and skated slowly towards his excited comrades. In the meantime Peter had drawn Hans aside from the rest. How did you know it was my purse? he asked. You paid me three guilders yesterday, my dear, for making the whitewood chain, telling me that I must buy skates. Yes, I remember. I saw your purse then. It was of yellow leather. And where did you find it today? I left my home this morning, my dear, in great trouble, and as I skated, I took no heed until I stumbled against some lumber, and while I was rubbing my knee I saw your purse nearly hidden under a log. That place! Ah! I remember now. Just as we were passing it, I pulled my tippet from my pocket and probably flipped out the purse at the same time. It would have been gone but for you, Hans. Here, pouring out the contents, you must give us the pleasure of dividing the money with you. No, my dear! answered Hans. He spoke quietly without pretense or any grace of manner, but Peter somehow felt rebuked and put the silver back without a word. I like that boy, rich or poor, he thought to himself, then added aloud. May I ask about this trouble of yours, Hans? Ah, my dear, it is a sad case, but I have waited here too long. I am going to laden to see the great Dr. Bulkman. Dr. Bulkman! exclaimed Peter in astonishment. Yes, my dear, and I have not a moment to lose. Good day! Stay! I am going that way. Come, my lads, shall we return to hell him! Yes! cried the boys, eagerly, and off they started. Now, said Peter, drawing near Hans, both skimming the ice so easily and lightly as they skated on together that they seemed scarcely conscious of moving. We are going to stop at laden, and if you are going there only with the message to Dr. Bulkman, cannot I do the errand for you? The boys may be too tired to skate so far today, but I will promise to see him early to-morrow if he is to be found in the city. Ah, my dear, that would be serving me indeed. It is not the distance I dread but leaving my mother so long. Is she ill? No, my dear, it is the father. You may have heard it, how he has been without wit for many a year, ever since the great Schlossen mill was built, but his body has been well and strong. Last night the mother knelt upon the hearth to blow the peat. It is his only delight to sit and watch the live embers, and she will blow them into a blaze every hour of the day to please him. Before she could stir, he sprang upon her like a giant and held her close to the fire, all the time laughing and shaking his head. I was on the canal, but I heard the mother scream and ran to her. The father had never loosened his hold and her gown was smoking. I tried to deaden the fire, but with one hand he pushed me off. There was no water in the cottage or I could have done better. And all that time he laughed. Such a terrible laugh, my dear, hardly a sound, but all in his face. I tried to pull her away, but that only made it worse. Then it was dreadful, but could I see the mother burn? I beat him. Beat him with a stool. He tossed me away. The gown was on fire. I would put it out. I can't remember well after that. I found myself upon the floor and the mother was praying. It seemed to me that she was in a blaze and all the while I could hear that laugh. Gretel flew to the closet and filled a pour-insher with the food he liked and put it upon the floor. Then, my dear, he left the mother and crawled to it like a little child. She was not burned, only a part of her clothing. Ah, how kind she was to him all night, watching and tending him. He slept in a high fever with his hands pressed to his head. The mother says he has done that so much of late as though he felt pain there. Ah, my dear, I did not mean to tell you if the father was himself he would not harm even a kitten. For a moment the two boys moved on in silence. It is terrible, said Peter at last. How is he today? Very sick, my dear. Why go for Dr. Bookman, Hans? There are others in Amsterdam who could help him, perhaps. Bookman is a famous man, sought only by the wealthiest, and they often wait upon him in vain. He promised, my dear, he promised me yesterday to come to the father in a week. But now that the change has come, we cannot wait. We think the poor father is dying. Oh, my dear, you can plead with him to come quick. He will not wait a whole week, and our father dying. The good master is so kind. So kind! echoed Peter in astonishment. Why, he is known as the crossest man in Holland. He looks so, because he has no fat, and his head is busy, but his heart is kind, I know. Tell the master what I have told you, my dear, and he will come. I hope so, Hans, with all my heart. You are in haste to turn homeward, I see. Promise me that should you need a friend, you will go to my mother in Brooke. Tell her I bade you see her. And Hans Brinker, not as a reward, but as a gift, take a few of these gilders. Hans shook his head resolutely. No, no, my dear, I cannot take it. If I could find work in Brooke, or at the south mill, I would be glad, but it is the same story everywhere. Wait until spring. It is well you speak of it, said Peter eagerly. For my father needs help at once. Your pretty chain pleased him much. He said, that boy has a clean cut. He would be good at carving. There is to be a carved portal to our new summer house, and father will pay well for the job. God is good! cried Hans in sudden delight. Oh, my dear, that would be too much joy! I have never tried big work, but I can do it. I know I can. Well, tell my father you are the Hans Brinker of whom I spoke. He will be glad to serve you. Hans stared in honest surprise. Thank you, my dear. Now, captain, shouted Carl, anxious to appear as good-humored as possible by way of atonement, here we are in the midst of Haerlem, and no word from you yet. We await your orders, and we're as hungry as wolves. Peter made a cheerful answer, and turned hurriedly to Hans. Come, get something to eat, and I will detain you no longer. What a quick, wistful look Hans threw upon him. Peter wondered that he had not noticed before that the poor boy was hungry. Ah, my dear, even now the mother may need me. The father may be worse. I must not wait. May God care for you. And nodding hastily, Hans turned his face homeward, and was gone. Come, boys, sighed Peter. Now for our tiffin. CHAPTER XV. HOMES It must not be supposed that our young Dutchman had already forgotten the great skating race which was to take place on the twentieth. On the contrary, they had thought and spoken of it very often during the day. Even Ben, though he had felt more like a traveller than the rest, had never once, through all the sight seeing, lost a certain vision of silver skates which, for a week past, had haunted him night and day. Like a true John Bull, as Jacob had called him, he never doubted that his English fleetness, English strength, English everything, could at any time enabled him on the ice to put all Holland to shame, and the rest of the world too, for that matter. Ben certainly was a superb skater. He had enjoyed not half the opportunities for practicing that had fallen to his new comrades, but he had improved his share to the utmost, and was, besides, so strong a frame, so supple of limb, in short, such a tight, trim, quick, graceful fellow in every way, that he had taken to skating as naturally as a chamois to leaping, or an eagle to soaring. Only to the heavy heart of poor Hans had the vision of the silver skates failed to appear during that starry winter night and the brighter, sunlit day. Even Gretel had seen them flitting before her as she sat beside her mother, through those hours of weary watching. Not as prizes to be won, but as treasures passing hopelessly beyond her reach. Richie, Hilda, and Katrinca. Why, they had scarcely known any other thought than, the race, the race, it will come off on the twentieth. These three girls were friends. Though of nearly the same age, talent, and station, they were as different as girls could be. Hilda van Gleck, as you already know, was a warm-hearted, noble girl of fourteen. Richie Corb's was beautiful to look upon, far more sparkling and pretty than Hilda, but not half so bright and sunny within. Clouds of pride, of discontent, and envy, had already gathered in her heart and were growing bigger and darker every day. Of course, these often relieved themselves very much after the manner of other clouds. But who saw the storms and the weeping? Only her maid or her father, mother, and little brother, those who loved her better than all. Like other clouds, too, hers often took queer shapes, and what was really but missed and vapory fancy assumed the appearance of monster wrongs and mountains of difficulty. To her mind the poor peasant girl Gretel was not a human being, a God-created creature like herself. She was only something that meant poverty, rags, and dirt. Such as Gretel had no right to feel, to hope. Above all, they should never cross the paths of their betters. That is, not in a disagreeable way. They could toil and labor for them at a respectful distance, even admire them if they would do it humbly. But nothing more. If they rebel, put them down. If they suffer, don't trouble me about it, was Richie's secret motto. And yet how witty she was, how tastefully she dressed, how charmingly she sang, how much feeling she displayed, for pet kittens and rabbits, and how completely she could be which sensible, honest-minded lads like Lambert von Monen and Ludwig von Hoppe. Carl was too much like her within to be an earnest admirer, and perhaps he suspected the clouds. He, being deep and surly and always uncomfortably an earnest, of course preferred the lively Kutrinka, whose nature was made of a hundred tinkling bells. She was a coquette in her infancy, a coquette in her childhood, and now a coquette in her school days. Without a thought of harm she coquetted with her studies, her duties, even her little troubles. She coquetted with her mother, her pet lamb, her baby brother, even with her own golden curls, tossing them back as if she despised them. Everyone liked her, but who could love her? She was never an earnest, a pleasant face, a pleasant heart, a pleasant manner, these satisfy for an hour. Poor happy Kutrinka! she tinkled, tinkled so merrily through their early days, but life is so apt to coquette with them and turn, to put all their sweet bells out of tune or to silence them one by one. How different were the homes of these three girls from the tumbling old cottage where Gretel dwelt? Richie lived in a beautiful house near Amsterdam, where the carved sideboards were laden with services of silvering gold and where silk and tapestries hung in folds from ceiling to floor. Hilda's father owned the largest mansion in Brook. Its glittering roof of polished tiles and its boarded front, painted in half a dozen various colors, were the admiration of the neighborhood. Kutrinka's home, not a mile distant, was the finest of Dutch country seats. The garden was so stiffly laid out in little paths and patches that the birds might have mistaken it for a great Chinese puzzle with all the pieces spread out ready for use. But in summer it was beautiful. The flowers made the best of their stiff quarters, and when the gardener was not watching, glowed and bent about each other in the prettiest way imaginable. Such a tulip bed! Why the queen of the fairies would never care for a grander city in which to hold her court. But Kutrinka preferred the bed of pink and white hyacinths. She loved their freshness and fragrance, and the light-hearted way in which their bell-shaped blossoms swung in the breeze. Carl was both right and wrong when he said that Kutrinka and Richie were furious at the very idea of the peasant Gretel joining in the race. He had heard Richie declare that it was disgraceful, shameful, too bad. Which in Dutch, as in English, is generally the strongest expression an indignant girl can use. And he had seen Kutrinka nod her pretty head and heard her sweetly echo, shameful, too bad. As nearly like Richie as tinkling bells can be like the voice of real anger. This had satisfied him. He had never suspected that had Hilda, not Richie, first talked with Kutrinka upon the subject, the bells would have jingled as willing an echo. She would have said, Certainly, let her join us! and would have skipped off thinking no more about it. But now Kutrinka, with sweet emphasis, pronounced it a shame that a goose-girl, a forlorn little creature like Gretel, should be allowed to spoil the race. Richie Korbs, being rich and powerful, in a schoolgirl way, had other followers besides Kutrinka who were induced to share her opinions because they were either too careless or too cowardly to think for themselves. Poor little Gretel. Her home was sad and dark enough now. Raftbrinker lay moaning upon his rough bed, and his frow, forgetting and forgiving everything, bathed his forehead, his lips, weeping and praying that he might not die. Huns, as we know, had started in desperation for laden to search for Dr. Bookman and induce him, if possible, to come to their father at once. Gretel, filled with a strange dread, had done the work as well as she could, wiped the rough brick floor, brought Pete to build up the slow fire, and melted ice for her mother's use. This accomplished she seated herself upon a low stool near the bed and begged her mother to try to sleep a while. You are so tired, she whispered. Not once have you closed your eyes since that dreadful hour last night. See, I have straightened the willow bed in the corner and spread everything as soft upon it I could find, so that the mother might lie in comfort. Here is your jacket. Take off that pretty dress. I'll fold it away very carefully, and put it in the big chest before you go to sleep. Dame Brinker shook her head without turning her eyes from her husband's face. I can watch, mother, urged Gretel, and I'll wake you every time the father stirs. You are so pale, and your eyes are so red. Oh, dear, do! The child pleaded in vain. Dame Brinker would not leave her post. Gretel looked at her in troubled silence, wondering whether it was very wicked to care more for one parent than for the other, and sure, yes, quite sure, that she dreaded her father while she clung to her mother with a love that was almost idolatry. Hans loves the father so well, she thought. Why cannot I? Yet I could not help crying when I saw his hand bleed that day, last month when he snatched the knife, and now, when he moans, how I ache, ache all over. Perhaps I love him after all, and God will see that I am not such a bad wicked girl as I thought. Yes, I love the poor father, almost as Hans does. Not quite, for Hans is stronger and does not fear him. Oh, will that moaning go on forever and ever! Poor mother, how patient she is! She never pouts, as I do, about the money that went away so strangely. If he only could for one instant open his eyes and look at us, as Hans does, and tell us where mother's gilders went, I would not care for the rest. Yes, I would care. I don't want the poor father to die, to be all blue and cold like any bowman's little sister. I know I don't, dear God, I don't want father to die. Her thoughts merged into a prayer. When it ended, the poor child scarcely knew. Soon she found herself watching a little pulse of light at the side of the fire, beating fately but steadily, showing that somewhere in the dark pile there was warmth and light that would overspread it at last. A large earthing cup filled with burning peat stood near the bedside. Gretel had placed it there to stop the father shivering, she said. She watched it as it sent a glow around the mother's form, tipping her faded skirt with light and shedding a sort of newness over the threadbare bodice. It was a relief to Gretel to see the lines in that weary face soften as the firelight flickered gently across it. Next she counted the window panes, broken and patched as they were, and finally, after tracing every crack and seam in the walls, fixed her gaze upon a carved shelf made by Hans. The shelf hung as high as Gretel could reach. It held a large leather-covered Bible with brass clasps, a wedding present to Dane Brinker from the family at Heidelberg. Ah, how handy Hans is! If he were here he could turn the father some way so the moans would stop. Dear, dear, if this sickness lasts, we shall never skate any more. I must send my new skates back to the beautiful lady. Hans and I will not see the race, and Gretel's eyes that had been dry before grew full of tears. Never cry, child, said her mother soothingly. The sickness may not be as bad as we think. The father has lain this way before. Gretel sobbed now. Oh, mother, it is not that alone. You do not know all. I am very, very bad and wicked. You, Gretel, you so patient and good, and a bright, puzzled look beamed for an instant upon the child. Hush, lovey, you'll wake him. Gretel hid her face in her mother's lap and tried not to cry. Her little hand, so thin and brown, lay in the coarse palm of her mother's, creased with many a hard day's work. Richie would have shuddered to touch either. Yet they pressed warmly upon each other. Soon Gretel looked up with that dull, homely look which, they say, poor children in shanties are apt to have, and said in a trembling voice, The father tried to burn you. He did. I saw him. And he was laughing. Hush, child! The mother's words came so suddenly and sharply that Raph Brinker, dead as he was to all that was passing around him, twitched slightly upon the bed. Gretel said no more but plucked drearily at the jagged edge of a hole in her mother's holiday gown. It had been burned there. Well for Dame Bricker that the gown was woollen. End of chapter Chapter 16 This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates by Mary Mae P. Stodge. Chapter 16 Haerlem, the boys hear voices. Refreshed and rested, our boys came forth from the coffee house, just as the big clock in the square, after the manner of certain Holland timekeepers, was striking two with its half hour bell for half past two. The captain was absorbed in thought. At first, for Hans Brinker's sad story still echoed in his ears. Not till Ludwig rebuked him with a laughing, Wake up, grandfather! Did he re-assume his position as gallant boy-leader of his band? This way, young gentlemen! They were walking through the city, not on a curbed sidewalk, for such a thing is rarely to be found in Holland, but on the brick pavement that lay on the borders of the cobblestone carriageway without breaking its level expanse. Haerlem, like Amsterdam, was gayer than usual in honor of St. Nicholas. A strange figure was approaching them. It was a small man dressed in black with short cloak. He wore a wig and a cocked hat from which a long crepe streamer was flying. Who comes here? cried Ben. What a queer-looking object! That's the Hans Brinker, said Lombard. Someone is dead. Is that the way men dress in mourning in this country? Oh, no. The Hans Brinker attends funerals, and it is his business when any one dies to notify all the friends and relatives. What a strange custom! Well, said Lombard, we needn't feel very badly about this particular death, for I see another man has lately been born to the world to fill up the vacant place. Ben stared. How do you know that? Don't you see that pretty red pin-cushion hanging on yonder door? Asked Lombard in return. Yes. Well, that's a boy. A boy? What do you mean? I mean that in here in Haerlem, whenever a boy is born, the parents have a red pin-cushion put out at the door. If our young friend had been a girl instead of a boy, the cushion would have been white. In some places they have much more fanciful affairs, all trimmed with lace, and even among the very poorest houses you will see a bit of ribbon or even a string tied on the door latch. Look! screamed Ben. There is a white cushion at the door of that double-joined house with the funny roof. I don't see any house with a funny roof. Oh, of course not, said Ben. I forgot you're a native, but all the roofs are queer to me, for that matter. I mean the house next to that green building. True enough, there's a girl. I tell you what, Captain, called out Lombard, slipping easily into Dutch. We must get out of this street as soon as possible. It's full of babies. They'll set up a squall in a moment. The Captain laughed. I shall take you to hear better music than that, he said. We are just in time to hear the organ of Saint-Bavon. The church is open to-day. What! the great Haerlem organ? asked Ben. That will be a treat, indeed. I have often read of it with its tremendous pipes and its vox-humana, which is an organ stop which produces an effect resembling the human voice. That sounds like a giant singing. The same, answered Lombard von Monen. Peter was right. The church was open, though not for religious services. Someone was playing upon the organ. As the boys entered, a swell of sound rushed forth to meet them. It seemed to bear them one by one into the shadows of the building. Louder and louder it grew until it became like the den and roar of some mighty tempest, or like the ocean surging upon the shore. In the midst of the tumult a tinkling bell was heard. Another answered. Then another, and the storm paused as if to listen. The bells grew bolder. They rang out loud and clear. Other deep- toned bells joined in. They were tolling in solemn concert. Ding-dong, ding-dong. The storm broke forth with redoubled fury, gathering its distant thunder. The boys looked at each other but did not speak. It was growing serious. What was that? Who screamed? What screamed? That terrible musical scream. Was it man or demon? Or was it some monster shut up behind that carved brass frame, behind those great silver columns, some despairing monster begging, screaming for freedom? It was the Vox Humana. At last an answer came. Soft, tender, loving, like a mother's song. The storm grew silent. Hidden birds sprang forth filling the air with glad ecstatic music, rising higher and higher until the last faint note was lost in the distance. The Vox Humana was still, but in the glorious hymn of thanksgiving that now arose one could almost hear the throbbing of a human heart. What did it mean? That man's imploring cry should in time be met with a deep content? That gratitude would give us freedom? To Peter and Ben it seemed that the angels were singing. Their eyes grew dim and their souls dizzy with a strange joy. At last, as if born upward spy, invisible hands, they were floating away on the music, all fatigue forgotten, and with no wish but to hear forever those beautiful sounds. When suddenly Van Halp's sleeve was pulled impatiently and a gruff voice beside him asked, How long are you going to stay here, Captain? Blinking at the ceiling like a sick rabbit. It's high time we started. Hush! whispered Peter, only half aroused. Come, man, let's go! said Carl, giving the sleeve a second pull. Peter turned reluctantly. He would not detain the boys against their will. All but Ben were casting rather reproachful glances upon him. Well, boys, he whispered, We will go, softly now. That's the greatest thing I've seen or heard since I've been in Holland! cried Ben enthusiastically as soon as they reached the open air. It's glorious! Ludwig and Carl laughed slyly at the English boy's vartile or gibberish. Jacob yawned, and Peter gave Ben a look that made him instantly feel that he and Peter were not so very different after all, though one hailed from Holland and the other from England. And Lumbert, the interpreter, responded with a brisk, You may well say so. I believe there are one or two organs nowadays that are said to be as fine, but for years and years this organ of St. Bavon was the grandest in the world. Do you know how large it is? asked Ben. I noticed that the church itself was prodigiously high, and at the organ filled the end of the great isle almost from floor to roof. That's true, said Lumbert. And how superb the pipes looked, just like grand columns of silver! They're only for show, you know, the real pipes are behind them, some big enough for a man to crawl through, and some smaller than a baby's whistle. Well, sir, for size, the church is higher than Westminster Abbey to begin with, and as you say, the organ makes a tremendous show even then. Father told me last night that it is 108 feet high, 50 feet wide, and has over 5,000 pipes. It has 64 stops, if you know what they are, I don't, and three keyboards. Good for you, said Ben, you have a fine memory. My head is a perfect colander for figures. They slip through as fast as their poured in. But other facts and historical events stay behind. That's some consolation. There we differ, returned Van Monen. I'm great on names and figures, but history? Take it all together. Seems to me to be the most hopeless kind of jumble. Meantime, Carl and Ludwig were having a discussion concerning some square wooden monuments they had observed in the interior of the church. Ludwig declared that each bore the name of the person buried beneath, and Carl insisted that they had no names but only the heraldic arms of the deceased painted on a black ground, with the date of the death and guilt letters. I ought to know, said Carl, for I walked across to the east side, to look for the cannon-ball mother told me was embedded there. It was fired into the church, in the year 1500 and something, by those rascally Spaniards, while the services were going on. There it was in the wall, sure enough, and while I was walking back I noticed the monuments. I tell you they haven't the sign of a name on them. Asked Peter, said Ludwig, only half convinced. Carl is right, replied Peter, who, though conversing with Jacob, had overheard their dispute. Well, Jacob, as I was saying, handled the great composer, chanced to visit Haerlem, and of course he had once hunted up this famous organ. He gained admittance and was playing upon it with all his might when the regular organist chanced to enter the building. The man stood awestruck. He was a good player himself, but he had never heard such music before. Who is there? he cried. If it is not an angel or the devil, it must be Handel. When he discovered that it was the great musician, he was still more mystified. But how is this? he said. You have done impossible things. No ten fingers on earth can play the passages you have given. Human fingers couldn't control all the keys and stops. I know it, said Handel Cooley, and for that reason I was forced to strike some notes with the end of my nose. Donder, just think how the old organist must have stared. Hey, what! exclaimed Jacob, startled when Peter's animated voice suddenly became silent. Haven't you heard me, you rascal? was the indignant rejoinder. Oh, yesh, no, no. The fact is, I heard you at first. I'm awake now, but I do believe I've been walking beside you half asleep. Stammered Jacob, with such a doleful, bewildered look on his face that Peter could not help laughing. CHAPTER XVII of Hans Brinker This is a Lieberbox recording. All Lieberbox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lieberbox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simserville, South Carolina. Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates, by Mary Mapes Dodge. CHAPTER XVII The Man with Four Heads After leaving the church the boys stopped nearby in the open market place to look at the bronze statue of Lawrence John Sune Koster, who is believed by the Dutch to have been the inventor of printing. This is disputed by those who award the same honor to Johannes Gutenberg of Mainz, whence many maintain that Faustus, a servant of Koster, stole his master's wooden types on a Christmas Eve when the latter was at church, and fled with his booty and his secret to Mainz. Koster was a native of Haerlem, and the Hollenders are naturally anxious to secure the credit of the invention for their illustrious townsmen. Certain it is that the first book he printed is kept by the city in a silver case, wrapped in silk, and is shown with great caution as a precious relic. It is said that he first conceived the idea of printing from cutting his name upon the bark of a tree, and afterward pressing a piece of paper upon the characters. Of course Lumbert and his English friend fully discussed this subject. They also had a rather warm argument concerning another invention. Lumbert declared that the honor of giving both the telescope and the microscope to the world lay between Metius and Janssen, both Hollenders, while Ben estoutly insisted that Roger Bacon, an English monk of the 13th century, wrote out the whole thing, sir, perfect descriptions of microscopes and telescopes too, long before either of those other fellows was born. On one subject, however, they both agreed that the art of curing and pickling herrings was discovered by William Burkles of Holland, and that the country did perfectly right in honoring him as a national benefactor, for its wealth and importance had been in a great measure due to its herring trade. It is astonishing, said Ben, in what prodigious quantities those fish are found. I don't know how it is here, but on the coast of England, off Yarmouth, the herring shoals have been known to be six and seven feet deep with fish. That is prodigious indeed, said Lumbert, but you know your herring is derived from the German hair, an army, on account of a way the fish have of coming in large numbers. Soon afterward, while passing a cobbler's shop, Ben exclaimed, Halloo! Lumbert, here is the name of one of your greatest men over a cobbler's stall. Boraheva! If it were only Hermann Boraheva, instead of Hendrick, it would be complete. Lumbert knit his brows reflectively, as he replied, Boraheva! Boraheva! The name is perfectly familiar. I remember, too, that he was born in 1668. But the rest is all gone, as usual. There have been so many famous hollanders, you see, that it is impossible for a fellow to know them all. What was he? Did he have two heads? Or was he one of your great natural swimmers like Marco Polo? He had four heads, answered Ben, laughing, for he was a great physician, naturalist, botanist, and chemist. I am full of him just now, for I read his life a few weeks ago. Pour out a little, then, said Lumbert. Only walk faster, or we shall lose sight of the other boys. Well, resumed Ben, quickening his pace, and looking with great interest at everything going on in the crowded street. This Dr. Boraheva was a great unspooker. A great what? roared Lumbert. Oh, I beg pardon. I was thinking of that man over there with a cocked hat. He's an unspooker, isn't he? Yes, he's an unspraker, if that's what you mean to say. But what about your friend with the four heads? Well, as I was going to say, the doctor was left a penniless orphan at 16, without education or friends. Jolly beginning, interposed Lumbert. Now, don't interrupt. He was a poor, friendless orphan at 16, 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 hanging it outside the door for the benefit of inquiring 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 sugarloaf hats, and see this woman ahead of us with a straw bonnet, like a scoop shovel tapering to a point in the back. Did you ever see anything so funny? And those tremendous wooden shoes, too. I declare, she's a beauty. Oh, they are only back-country folk, said Lumbert, rather impatiently. You might as well let old Borheva drop, or else shut your eyes. 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 Borheva was professor of medicine and chemistry and botany in the university at Leiden. He'd grown to be very wealthy as a practicing physician, but he used to say that the poor were his best patients because God would be their paymaster. All Europe learned to love and honor him. In short, he became so famous that a certain Mandarin of China addressed a letter to the illustrious Borheva, 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 Hoppe, where next? We propose to move on, said Van Hoppe. 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? Yeah, not it, 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, Lumbert, has been. 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 a Blomendal to get there, not a very pretty village, and some distance from here. What do you say? Oh, I'm ready for anything. For my part, I would rather steer direct for Leiden, but we'll do as the captain says. Hey, Jacob. Yeah, that is good, said Jacob, who felt decidedly more like taking a nap than ascending the blue stairs. The captain was in favor of going to Leiden. It's four long miles from here, full 16 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 harem and 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 harem, said Lumbert to Ben, after they had skated a while 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, but 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 accept the English oak. I, said Ben solemnly, if you accept the English oak. And for some moments he could scarcely see the canal because Robbie and Jenny kept bobbing in the air before his eyes.