Hans Brinker/Silver Skates/etc | Page 5

answered Hans, as without looking at her
he performed a wonderful cat's cradle step on the ice.
"How can I? The string is too short."
Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which was
that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered toward her.
"You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a stout
leather pair. Your klompen *{Wooden shoes.} would be better than
these."
"Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful 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 can skate with these, but not with my
wooden ones. Be careful now--"
Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as he knelt
beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel's skate with all the force of his
strong young arm.
"Oh! oh!" she cried in real pain.
With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would have cast it
on the ground in true big-brother style, had he not just then spied a tear
trickling down his sister's cheek.
"I'll fix it--never fear," he said with sudden tenderness, "but we must be
quick. The mother will need us soon."
Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the ground, next at some
bare willow branches above his head, and finally at the sky, now
gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson, and gold.
Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his need, his eye
suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellow who knew what he was

about, he took off his cap and, removing the tattered lining, adjusted it
in a smooth pad over the top of Gretel's worn-out shoe.
"Now," he cried triumphantly, at the same time arranging the strings as
briskly as his benumbed fingers would allow, "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 whether the ice would bear
them or not, for in Holland ice is generally an all-winter affair. It settles
itself upon the water in a determined kind of way, and so far from
growing thin and uncertain every time the sun is a little severe upon it,
it gathers its forces day by day and flashes defiance to every beam.
Presently, squeak! squeak! sounded something beneath Hans' feet. next
his strokes grew shorter, ending oftimes with a jerk, and finally, he lay
sprawling upon the ice, kicking against the air with many a fantastic
flourish.
"Ha! ha!" laughed Gretel. "That was a fine tumble!" But a tender heart
was beating under her coarse blue jacket, and even as she laughed, she
came, with a graceful sweep, close to her prostrate brother.
"Are you hurt, Hans? Oh, you are laughing! Catch me now!" And she
darted away, shivering no longer, but with cheeks all aglow and eyes
sparkling with fun.
Hans sprang to his feet and started in brisk pursuit, but it was no easy
thing to catch Gretel. Before she had traveled very far, her skates, too,
began to squeak.
Believing that discretion was the better part of valor, she turned
suddenly and skated into her pursuer's arms.
"Ha! ha! I've caught you!" cried Hans.
"Ha! ha! I caught YOU," she retorted, struggling to free herself.
Just then a clear, quick voice was heard calling, "Hans! Gretel!"
"It's the mother," said Hans, looking solemn in an instant.
By this time the canal was gilded with sunlight. The pure morning air
was very delightful, and skaters were gradually increasing in numbers.
It was hard to obey the summons. But Gretel and Hans were good
children; without a thought of yielding to the temptation to linger, they
pulled off their skates, leaving half the knots still tied. Hans, with his

great square shoulders and bushy yellow hair, towered high above his
blue-eyed little sister as they trudged homeward. He was fifteen years
old and Gretel was only twelve. He was a solid, hearty-looking boy,
with honest eyes and a brow that seemed to bear a sign GOODNESS
WITHIN just as the little Dutch zomerhuis *{Summer house} wears a
motto over its portal. Gretel was lithe and quick; her eyes had a dancing
light in them, and while you looked at her cheek the color paled and
deepened just as it does upon a bed of pink and white blossoms when
the wind is blowing.
As soon as the children turned from the canal, they could see their
parents' cottage. Their mother's tall form, arrayed in jacket and petticoat
and close-fitting cap, stood, like a picture, in the crooked frame of the
doorway.