Hans Brinker; or, the Silver Skates , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Mary Mapes Dodge

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

170 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. This little work aims to combine the instructive features of a book of travels with the interest of a domestic tale. Throughout its pages the descriptions of Dutch localities, customs, and general characteristics have been given with scrupulous care. Many of its incidents are drawn from life, and the story of Raff Brinker is founded strictly upon fact.

Informations

Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	27 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819928737
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

HANS BRINKER
OR THE SILVER SKATES
By Mary Mapes Dodge
To my father
James J. Mapes
this book is dedicated
in gratitude and love
Preface
This little work aims to combine the instructivefeatures of a book of travels with the interest of a domestic tale.Throughout its pages the descriptions of Dutch localities, customs,and general characteristics have been given with scrupulous care.Many of its incidents are drawn from life, and the story of RaffBrinker is founded strictly upon fact.
While acknowledging my obligations to manywell-known writers on Dutch history, literature, and art, I turnwith especial gratitude to those kind Holland friends who, withgenerous zeal, have taken many a backward glance at their countryfor my sake, seeing it as it looked twenty years ago, when theBrinker home stood unnoticed in sunlight and shadow.
Should this simple narrative serve to give my youngreaders a just idea of Holland and its resources, or present truepictures of its inhabitants and their every-day life, or free themfrom certain current prejudices concerning that noble andenterprising people, the leading desire in writing it will havebeen satisfied.
Should it cause even one heart to feel a deepertrust in God's goodness and love, or aid any in weaving a life,wherein, through knots and entanglements, the golden thread shallnever be tarnished or broken, the prayer with which it was begunand ended will have been answered.
— M. M. D.
A LETTER FROM HOLLAND
Amsterdam, July 30, 1873
DEAR BOYS AND GIRLS AT HOME: If you all could behere with me today, what fine times we might have walking throughthis beautiful Dutch city! How we should stare at the crookedhouses, standing with their gable ends to the street; at the littleslanting mirrors fastened outside of the windows; at the woodenshoes and dogcarts nearby; the windmills in the distance; at thegreat warehouses; at the canals, doing the double duty of streetsand rivers, and at the singular mingling of trees and masts to beseen in every direction. Ah, it would be pleasant, indeed! But hereI sit in a great hotel looking out upon all these things, knowingquite well that not even the spirit of the Dutch, which seems ableto accomplish anything, can bring you at this moment across themoment. There is one comfort, however, in going through thesewonderful Holland towns without you— it would be dreadful to haveany of the party tumble into the canals; and then these lumberingDutch wagons, with their heavy wheels, so very far apart; whatshould I do if a few dozen of you were to fall under THEM? And,perhaps, one of the wildest of my boys might harm a stork, and thenall Holland would be against us! No. It is better as it is. Youwill be coming, one by one, as years go on, to see the whole thingfor yourselves.
Holland is as wonderful today as it was when, morethan twenty years ago, Hans and Gretel skated on the frozen Y. Infact, more wonderful, for every day increases the marvel of its notbeing washed away by the sea. Its cities have grown, and some ofits peculiarities have been washed away by contact with othernations; but it is Holland still, and always will be— full ofoddity, courage and industry— the pluckiest little country onearth. I shall not tell you in this letter of its customs, itscities, its palaces, churches, picture galleries and museums— forthese are described in the story— except to say that they are herestill, just the same, in this good year 1873, for I have seen themnearly all within a week.
Today an American boy and I, seeing some childrenenter an old house in the business part of Amsterdam, followed themin— and what do you think we found? An old woman, here in themiddle of summer, selling hot water and fire! She makes her livingby it. All day long she sits tending her great fires of peat andkeeping the shining copper tanks above them filled with water. Thechildren who come and go carry away in a curious stone pail theirkettle of boiling water and their blocks of burning peat. For thesethey give her a Dutch cent, which is worth less than half of one ofours. In this way persons who cannot afford to keep a fire burningin hot weather may yet have their cup of tea or coffee and bit ofboiled fish and potato.
After leaving the old fire woman, who nodded apleasant good-bye to us, and willingly put our stivers in her greatoutside pocket, we drove through the streets enjoying the singularsights of a public washing day. Yes, in certain quarters of thecity, away from the canals, the streets were lively withwasherwomen hard at work. Hundreds of them in clumsy wooden shoes,with their tucked-up skirts, bare arms, and close-fitting caps,were bending over tall wooden tubs that reached as high as theirwaists— gossiping and rubbing, rubbing and gossiping— with perfectunconcern, in the public thoroughfare, and all washing with coldwater instead of using hot, as we do. What a grand thing it wouldbe for our old fire woman if boiling water were suddenly to becomethe fashion on these public washing days!
And now goodbye. Oh! I must tell you one more thing.We found today in an Amsterdam bookstore this story of Hans Brinkertold in Dutch. It is a queer-looking volume, beautifully printed,and with colored pictures, but filled with such astounding wordsthat it really made me feel sorry for the little Hollanders who areto read them.
Good-bye again, in the touching words of our Dutchtranslator with whom I'm sure you'll heartily agree: Toch ben ik ermijn landgenooten dank baar voor, die mijn arbeid steeds zoowelwillend outvangen en wier genegenheid ik voortdurend hoop teverdienen.
Yours affectionately, The Author.
Hans and Gretel
On a bright December morning long ago, two thinlyclad children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal inHolland.
The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky wasparted near the horizon, and its edges shone crimson with thecoming day. Most of the good Hollanders were enjoying a placidmorning nap. Even Mynheer von Stoppelnoze, that worthy oldDutchman, was still slumbering “in beautiful repose”.
Now and then some peasant woman, poising awell-filled basket upon her head, came skimming over the glassysurface of the canal; or a lusty boy, skating to his day's work inthe town, cast a good-natured grimace toward the shivering pair ashe flew along.
Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, thebrother and sister, for such they were, seemed to be fasteningsomething to their feet— not skates, certainly, but clumsy piecesof wood narrowed and smoothed at their lower edge, and pierced withholes, through which were threaded strings of rawhide.
These queer-looking affairs had been made by the boyHans. His mother was a poor peasant woman, too poor even to thinkof such a thing as buying skates for her little ones. Rough asthese were, they had afforded the children many a happy hour uponthe ice. And now, as with cold, red fingers our young Hollanderstugged at the strings— their solemn faces bending closely overtheir knees— no vision of impossible iron runners came to dull thesatisfaction glowing within.
In a moment the boy arose and, with a pompous swingof the arms and a careless “Come on, Gretel, ” glided easily acrossthe canal.
“Ah, Hans, ” called his sister plaintively, “thisfoot is not well yet. The strings hurt me on last market day, andnow I cannot bear them tied in the same place. ”
“Tie them higher up, then, ” answered Hans, aswithout looking at her he performed a wonderful cat's cradle stepon the ice.
“How can I? The string is too short. ”
Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, theEnglish of which was that girls were troublesome creatures, hesteered toward her.
“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, whenyou have a stout leather pair. Your klompen *{Wooden shoes. } wouldbe better than these. ”
“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw mybeautiful new shoes in the fire. Before I knew what he had done,they were all curled up in the midst o the burning peat. I canskate with these, but not with my wooden ones. Be careful now—”
Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming atune as he knelt beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel's skatewith all the force of his strong young arm.
“Oh! oh! ” she cried in real pain.
With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. Hewould have cast it on the ground in true big-brother style, had henot just then spied a tear trickling down his sister's cheek.
“I'll fix it— never fear, ” he said with suddentenderness, “but we must be quick. The mother will need us soon.”
Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at theground, next at some bare willow branches above his head, andfinally at the sky, now gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson, andgold.
Finding nothing in any of these localities to meethis need, his eye suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellowwho knew what he was about, he took off his cap and, removing thetattered lining, adjusted it in a smooth pad over the top ofGretel's worn-out shoe.
“Now, ” he cried triumphantly, at the same timearranging the strings as briskly as his benumbed fingers wouldallow, “can you bear some pulling? ”
Gretel drew up her lips as if to say, “Hurt away, ”but made no further response.
In another moment they were all laughing together,as hand in hand they flew along the canal, never thinking whetherthe ice would bear them or not, for in Holland ice is generally anall-winter affair. It settles itself upon the water in a determinedkind of way, and so far from growing thin and uncertain every timethe sun is a little severe upon it, it gathers its forces day byday and flashes defiance to every beam.
Presently, squeak! squeak! sounded something beneathHans' feet. Next his strokes grew shorter, ending oftimes with ajerk, and finally, he lay sprawling upon the ice, kicking againstthe air with many a fantastic flourish.
“Ha! ha! ” laughed Gretel. “That was a fine tumble!” But a tender heart was beating under her coars