href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@34378@[email protected]#Page_249" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">249

XXXVII. The Father's Return 254

XXXVIII. The Thousand Guilders 259

XXXIX. Glimpses 265

XL. Looking for Work 269

XLI. The Fairy Godmother 275

XLII. The Mysterious Watch 281

XLIII. A Discovery 290

XLIV. The Race 299

XLV. Joy in the Cottage 316

XLVI. Mysterious Disappearance of Thomas Higgs 325

XLVII. Broad Sunshine 328

XLVIII. Conclusion 334

ILLUSTRATIONS

Gretel on her stilts
(See page 29)

HANS BRINKER

Or, The Silver Skates

I

HANS AND GRETEL

On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in Holland.

The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was parted near the horizon, and its edges shone crimson with the coming day. Most of the good Hollanders were enjoying a placid morning nap; even Mynheer von Stoppelnoze, that worthy old Dutchman, was still slumbering "in beautiful repose."

Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well filled basket upon her head, came skimming over the glassy surface of the canal; or a lusty boy, skating to his day's work in the town, cast a good-natured grimace toward the shivering pair as he flew along.

Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the brother and sister, for such they were, seemed to be fastening something upon their feet—not skates, certainly, but clumsy pieces of wood narrowed and smoothed at their lower edge, and pierced with holes, through which were threaded strings of rawhide.

These queer looking affairs had been made by the boy Hans. His mother was a poor peasant-woman, too poor to even think of such a thing as buying skates for her little ones. Rough as these were, they had afforded the children many a happy hour upon the ice; and now as with cold, red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the strings—their solemn faces bending closely over their knees—no vision of impossible iron runners came to dull the satisfaction glowing within.

In a moment the boy arose, and with a pompous swing of the arms, and a careless "come on, Gretel," glided easily across the canal.

"Ah, Hans," called his sister plaintively, "this foot is not well yet. The strings hurt me on last Market day; and now I cannot bear them tied in the same place."

"Tie them higher up, then," 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[1] would be better than these."