Eee Loss Te AOD a ee The Baldwin Library 2 RmB vt THE LARD OF PLUCK @ther Books by SMlary Mapes Donge ® DONALD AND DOROTHY. HANS BRINKER. THEOPHILUS AND OTHERS. ALONG THE WAY. RHYMES AND JINGLES. WHEN LIFE IS YOUNG, ETC., ETC., ETC. TWO BOYS OF HOLLAND. Crom an old Dutch painting.) THE LAND OF PLUCK STORIES AND SKETCHES FOR YOUNG FOLK BY MARY MAPES DODGE AUTHOR OF ‘* HANS BRINKER” ‘© pONALD AND DOROTHY” ‘C RHYMES AND JINGLES” ETC., ETC. NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1894 Copyright, 1894, by THE CENTURY Co. THe DEVINNE PRESS. AUTHOR'S NOTE The paper on Holland which constitutes Part I of this book has now been expanded to more than double the proportions of ‘The Land of Pluck” as printed a few years ago in “St. Nicholas.” The stories and sketches composing Part II are here for the first time collected in book form. The frontispiece ‘ Two Boys of Holland” has been engraved from a fine Dutch painting, attributed to Cuyp, and owned by Mr. Charles T. Barney of New York, who courteously allowed it to be copied for use in this volume. CONTENTS Tur LAND OF PLUCK. CHAPTER I. On Boru SIDES OF THE DIKE....... CHAPTER II. Brrp’s-nryYE VIEWS ............... Craprer III. WIntTER AND SUMMER... ........... CHaprer IV. SrREETS AND Byways............... CHAPTER V. DurcH ODDITIES.................... CHaprerR VI. THe BaTavIANS AND THEIR Goop MEADOW ............... 0.000000, CHapteR VII. Tor Durcu Have TAKEN ITIOLUAND . Cuaprer VIII. THe DurcH ar Home anp ABROAD . CHapreR IX. Ho~uanp To-pay................. . Day-DREAMS ON THE DIKE ............. ...... 0.0... PART IT.—STORIES AND SKETCHES WonNDERING TOM....... Paes ee Say satan eae Lirrte VemBa Brown ...... gee) AOS ee eee ae Tur CROW-CHILD.................. bee Gn be ee bese TRAPPER JOB 0.0... eee eee THE BRIGHTON CATS.....0.0.0..0.0 cece eee ee eee WortTH YOUR WEIGHT IN GOLD.... ....... .......... BIANCA AND BEPPO.........0.0.0.000.0 00000002000. . A Law TuHat CouLD NoT BE BROKEN................. A GARRET ADVENTURE..... ...............000. 7 BoRROWING TROUBLE.............0....... Pah basse HIBAVIER THAN ATR .... 0... 0.00 ec ee ee Wuat THe Snow-Man Dip......0 ........0 0.00... Karry’s CANARY...............2.0-. aera sh oe GRANDMOTHER .......00.0 0000 cece eee ee eee dee pes Two May-QuUEENS........0...000..0.0 cece eee eee Littum Haw’s RICHES ..... 0.0.0... ce eee ee eee ONLY A ROSE ..... 00 eee eee LIMPETTY JACK 0.0.00 e eee, BUBBLES 0.000000 00 eee eee tence ee PAGE 1 11 17 29 43 57 76 85 103 115 137 145 161 175 185 195 203 21] 225 231 241 253 261 269 279 287 299 307 THE LAND OF PLUCK CHAPTER I ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DIKE SAR over the sea is a famous little country generally known as Holland; but that Z name, even if it should mean Hollow land, or How land?’ does not describe it half so well as this—The Little Land of Pluck. Verily, a queerer bit of earth was never shone upon by the sun nor washed by the tide. It is the oddest, funniest country that ever raised its head from the waves (and, between ourselves, it does not quite do that), the most topsyturvy landscape, the most amphibious spot in the universe,—as the Man in the Moon cannot deny,— the chosen butt of the elements, and good-naturedly the laughing-stock of mankind. Its people are the queerest and drollest of all the nations; and yet so plucky, so wise and resolute and strong, that “beating the Dutch” has 1 1 2 THE LAND OF PLUCK become a familiar byword for expressing the limits of mortal performance. As for the country, for centuries it was not exactly anywhere; at least it objected to remaining just the same for any length of time, in any one place. It may be said to have lain around loose on the waters of a certain portion of Europe, playing peek-a-boo with its inhabitants; now coming to the surface here and there to attend to matters, then taking a dive for change of scene,—and a most disastrous dive it often proved. tip Van Winkle himself changed less between his great sleeping and waking than Holland has altered many a time, between sunset and dawn. All its firm- ness and permanence seems to have been soaked out of it, or rather to have filtered from the land into the people. Every field hesitates whether to turn into a pond or not, and the ponds always are trying to leave the country by the shortest cut. One would suppose that under this con- dition of things the only untroubled creatures would be turtles and ducks; but no, strangest and most mysterious of all, every living thing in Holland appears to be thor- oughly placid and content! The Dutch mind, so to speak, is at once anti-dry and waterproof. Little children run about in fields where once their grandfathers sailed over the billows; and youths and maidens row their pleasure- ? boats where their ancestors played “tag” among the hay- stacks. When the tide sweeps unceremoniously over Mynheer’s garden, he lights his pipe, takes his fishing-rod, and sits down on his back porch to try his luck. If his pet pond breaks loose and slips away, he whistles, puts up ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DIKE eo adam so that it cannot come back, and decides upon the crop to be raised in its place. None but the Dutch could live so tranquilly in Holland; though, for that matter, if ‘“*MYNHEER SITS DOWN ON HIS BACK PORCH TO TRY HIS LUCK.” it had not been for the Dutch, we may be sure that by this time there would be no Holland at all. And yet this very Holland, besides holding its own place, has managed to gain a foothold on almost every 4 - THE LAND OF PLUCK quarter of the globe. An account of its colonies is a history in itself. In the East Indies alone it has under its authority more than thirty million people. It is said that the Greenlanders, in spite of the discom- forts of their country, become so very fond of it that even the extreme cold is considered a luxury. In some such way, I suppose, the Hol- lander becomes infatuated with water. He deems no landscape, no pleasure- spot complete without it. It is Yu.) funny to see the artificial pond that a Dutchman will have be- neath his very window; and funny, also, to see how soon the pond will try to look like land, by filming itself over with a coat of green. Many of the city peo- ple have little summer-houses, or pavilions, near the outskirts — _ of the town. They are built : just large enough for the family to sit in. Each zomeriuis, as it is called, is sure to be surrounded by a ditch, if indeed it is not built out over the water. Its chief ornaments are its little bridges, its fanciful roof, and its Dutch motto painted over the entrance. Hither the family repair on summer afternoons.. Mynheer sips his coffee, smokes his pipe, and gazes at the water. His vrouw knits or sews; and the children fish from the win- ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DIK 5 dows, or climb the little bridges, or paddle about in skiffs, ° gathering yellow water-liies. Near by, perhaps, they can hear some bargeman’s wife singing her cheery song while busy at her housekeeping, or rather homekeeping, for she lives on the canal-boat. That is her flower-gatden grow- ing on a corner of the deck, quite unconscious that it is doing anything remarkable in blooming over the water. In fact, it is in much less danger of sinking there than it would be on shore. Now, these oddities arise mainly from the fact thet though mankind cannot help admiring this Land of Pluck, the ocean has always looked down upon it. A large por- tion of Holland lies below the level of the sea,—in some places as much as twenty or thirty feet. Besides, the country abounds with lakes and rivers that persist in swelling and choking and overflowing to such a degree that, as I said before, none but the Dutch could do anything with them. All this disturbs an unpleasant phantom named Fog, who has a cousin in London. He sometimes rises like a great smoke over the land, shutting out the sunlight, and wrapping everything and everybody in a veil of mist, so that it is almost as much as a person’s life is worth to venture out of doors, for fear of tumbling into a canal. Again, the greater part of Holland is so flat that the wind sweeps across it in every direction, putting the waters up to no little mischief, and blowing about ‘all the dry sand it can find, heaping it, scattering it, in the wildest possible way. What wonder the Dutch have always been wise, plucky, and strong? They have had to struggle for a foothold 1* 6 THE LAND OF PLUCK upon the very land of their birth. They have had to push back the ocean to prevent it from rolling in upon them. They have had to wall in the rivers and lakes to keep them within bounds. They have been forced to decide which should be land and which should be water, forever digging, building, embanking, and pumping for dear existence. They had no stones, no timber, that they had not themselves procured from elsewhere. Added to this, they have had the loose, blowing sand in their mind’s eye for ages; never forgetting it, gov- erning its drifts, and where its vast, silent heapings (as in the great dunes along the coast) have proved use- ful as a protection, they have planted sea-bent and other vegetation to fasten it in its place. Even the riotous wind has been made their slave. Caught by thousands of long-armed windmills, it does their grinding, pumping, draining, sawing. When it ceases to blow, those great white sleeve-like sails all over the country hang limp and listless in the misty air, or are tucked trimly out of sight ; but let the first breath of a gale be felt, and straightway, with one flutter of preparation, every arm is turning slowly, steadily, with a peculiar plenty-of-time air, or is whirling as if the spirit of seventy Dutchmen had taken posses- sion of it. You scarcely can stand anywhere in Holland without seeing from one to twenty windmills. Many of them are built in the form of a two-story tower, the second story being smaller than the first, with a balcony at its base from which it tapers upward until the cap-like top is reached. High up, near the roof, the great axis juts from ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DIKE 7 ONE OF THE WINDMILLS. the wall; and to this are fastened two prodigious arms, formed somewhat like ladders, bearing great sheets of can- vas, whose business it is to catch the mischief-maker and set him at work. These mills stand like huge giants guarding the country. Their bodies are generally of a dark red; and their heads, or roofs, are made to turn this way and that, according to the direction of the wind. Their round eye-window is always staring. Altogether, they seem to be keeping a vigilant watch in every direc- E o ¢ 8 THE LAND OF PLUCK tion. Sometimes they stand clustered together; some- times alone, like silent sentinels ; sometimes in long rows a like ranks of soldiers. You see them rising from the midst of factory buildings, by the cottages, on the polders (the polders are lakes pumped dry and turned into farms) ; ? on the wharves; by the rivers; along the canals; on the dikes; Holland would n’t “ALONG THE CANAL.” be Holland without its windmills, any more than it would be Holland without its dikes and its Dutchmen. A certain zealous dame is said to have once attempted to sweep the ocean away with a broom. The Dutch have heen wiser than she. They area slow and deliberate people. Desperation may use brooms, but deliberation prefers clay and solid masonry. So, slowly and deliberately, the dikes, those great walls of cement and stone, have risen to breast the Iuffeting waves. And the queer part of it is, ON BOTH SIDES OF THE DIKE 9 A DUTCH DIKE AS SEEN FROM THE LAND SIDE, they are so skilfully slanted and paved on the outside with flat stones that the efforts of the thumping waves to beat them down only make them all the firmer! These Holland dikes are among the wonders of the world. I cannot say for how many miles they stretch along the coast, and throughout the interior ; but you may be sure that wherever a dike is necessary to keep back the encroaching waters, there it is. Otherwise, nothing would be there—at least, nothing in the form of land; nothing but a fearful illustration of the principal law of hydrostatics: Water always seeks its level. Sometimes the dikes, however carefully builded, will spring a leak, and if this be not promptly attended to, terri- ble results are sure to follow. In threatened places guards are stationed at intervals, and a steady watch is kept up night and day. At the first signal of danger, every Dutchman within hearing of the startling bell is ready to rush to the rescue. When the weak spot is discovered, what do you think is used to meet the emergency ? What, but straw— everywhere else considered the most helpless of all things 10 THE LAND OF PLUCK in water! Yet straw, in the hands of the Dutch, has a will of its own. Woven into huge mats and securely pressed against the embankment, it defies even a rush- ing tide, eager to sweep over the country. These dikes form almost the only perfectly dry land to be seen from the ocean-side. They are high and wide, with fine carriage-roads on top, sometimes lined with buildings, windmills, and trees. On one side of them, and nearly on a level with the edge, is the sea, lake, canal, or river, as the case may be; on the other, the flat fields stretching damply along at their base. Cottage roofs, therefore, may be lower than the shining line of the water; frogs squatting on the shore can take quite a bird’s-eye view of the landscape; and little fish wriggle their tails higher than the tops of the willows near by. Horses look complacently down upon the bell-towers ; and men in skiffs and canal-boats cannot know when they are passing Dirk’s cottage close by, except by seeing the smoke from its chimney, or perhaps the cart-wheel that he has perched upon the peak of its overhanging thatched roof, in the hope that some stork will build her nest there, and so bring him good luck. A butterfly may take quite an upward flight in Holland, leaving flowers and shrubs and trees beneath her, and, after all, mount only to where a snail is sunning himself on the water’s edge; or a toad may take a reckless leap from the land side of the dike, and, alighting on a tree- top, be obliged to reach earth in monkey-fashion, by leaping from branch to branch! CHAPTER II go BIRD’S-EYE VIEWS O the birds, skimming high over the country, it must be a fanciful sight—this i Holland. There are the fertile farms or AY polders, studded with cattle and bright red cottages ; shortwaisted men, women, and children, moving about in wide jackets and big wooden shoes; trees-everywhere clipped into fantastical shapes, with their trunks colored white, yellow, or brick red; country man- sions too, and farm-houses gaudy with roofs of brightly tinted tiles.. These tiles are made of a kindof glazed earthen- ware,and make one feel as if all the pie-dishes in the country were lapped in rows on top of the buildings. Then the great slanting dikes, with their waters held up as if to catch the blue of the sky ; the ditches, canals, and rivers trailing their shining lengths in every direction ; shining lines of railway, too, that now connect most of the principal points of the Netherlands; then, the thousands of bridges, little and big ; “the sluice- gates, canal-locks, and windmills; the silver and golden weathercocks perched on one foot, and twitching right and left to show their contempt for the ul 12 THE LAND OF PLUCK wind. All this,as you must know, makes the sun jeweler- in-chief to the landscape, which shines and glitters and trembles with motion and light. Yet that is only one way of looking at it. A low-spirited bird might still see CAPSIZING ! only marshes and puddles, though he might learn a good lesson or two in seeing jolly Dutch folk, young and old, making merry over every-day affairs. Or one of the prac- tical every-day sort might notice only commonplace things —such as the country roads paved with yellow bricks; cabbage-plots scarcely greener than the ponds nestling everywhere among the reeds; cottages, with roofs ever so BIRD S-HYH VIEWS 13 much too big for them, perched upon wooden legs to keep them from sinking in the marsh; and horses wearing wide, stool-like shoes for the same reason. Or they might watch the wagons bumping along with drivers sitting out- side, kicking the funny little crooked pole; or horses yoked three abreast, dragging obstinate loads; or women and boys harnessed to long towing-ropes, meekly drawing their loads of market-stuff up and down the canal. Then there are the boats, large and small, of every pos- sible Dutch style; wonderful ships made to breast the rough seas of the coast; fishing-smacks (smakschepen), heavy with fresh catches; the round-sterned craft by the cities, with their gilded prows and gaily painted sides; trekschuiten, or water-omnibuses, plying up and down the canals for the conveyance of passengers; brown-sailed pakschuiten, or water-carts, for carrymg coal and mer- chandise upon these same water-roads; barges loaded = ff | H t fh j A WATER OMNIBUS. 14 THE LAND OF PLUCK with peat; pleasure-boats with their showy sails; the little skiffs, the rafts, the chip boats launched by white- haired urchins kneeling in the mud. fi IRGE MRO Po oearos, cof nant rr eee nie co rit OVER THE CHIMNEYS AND HOUSE-TOPS (AMSTERDAM). - bares Then, mingling confusedly with masts, and windmills, and sails are the long rows of willows, firs, beeches, or elms, planted on the highways wherever root-hold can be found or manufactured ; the stiff, symmetrical gardens, with their nodding tulips and brilliant shrubs; the great white storks flying to and fro with outstretched necks and legs, busily attending to family needs, or settling upon the quaint gabled roofs, perhaps, of Amsterdam; water-fowl BIRD S-EYHE VIEWS 15 dipping with soft splashings into the tide ; rabbits scudding here and there; water-rats slyly slipping into their cran- nies, and bright water-insects rocking at the surface on reed and tangleweed. Seeing all this, our birds have not seen half; but they have ample time to look, for bird-life is not the uncertain thing in Holland that it is here. They are citizens loved and respected, and protected by rigorous laws. Stones are not thrown at their heads, nor is “ salt sprinkled upon their tails.” They are not afraid of guns, for the law has its eye on the gunners; and, strangest of all, they see nothing terrible in small boys! Young eyes, to be sure, often peep into their nests; but the owners have been taught not to rob nor molest. Human mothers and bird mothers are in secret league. Indeed, the softest, warmest nest is not softer nor warmer than the Dutch heart has proved itself to the birds. MYNHEER ON HIS WAY TO BUSINESS, CHAPTER III WINTER AND SUMMER HEN the coldest days of winter come, and the little songsters—and their greedy cou- sins, the storks—have flown away in search of warmer climes, the country still is in a glitter, for its waters are frozen. Then all Holland puts on its skates, and gets atop of its beloved water, in which before it has only dabbled. Everybody, young and old, little and big, goes skimming and sliding along the canals, over the lakes, and on the rivers. The entire country seems one vast skating-rink. No “need of red balls to tell the people that everything is ready for the sport. They know that, in their land, a cold winter means ice,—and good solid ice, too,— some- times for weeks together. Then come out the skaters ; and the sleighs; and the happy, sliding-chair folk who are pushed swiftly over the ice by friends, or by liveried lackeys, gliding close behind. Then appear,—swiftest, most dazzling of all,—the ice-boats, perhaps with merry loads of laughing boys and singing school-children. Lis- tening to these sweet choruses, as they suddenly burst 2 iv 18 THE LAND OF PLUCK upon you and then as suddenly die away with the vanish- ing boat, you feel that not the wind but the joyous music fills the sails skimming so swiftly over the ice. As you may well believe, these flying, whizzing ice- boats always get the right of way, for nobody would willingly come into collision with them. They seem to THE ICE-BOATS ARE ouUT! know that their season is brief, at the best, and they make speed while the ice shines. Now, there is a new sensation among the pleasure-seek- ers. Distant shouts of men are heard, and faint crashing sounds slowly growing louder. The ~¢sbrekers are out! These, as you may guess by trying to pronounce the word, are provided with pikes for clearing a way throuch the ice, so that barges and other vessels may pass. Sometimes they are rather small affairs, worked by hand, and some- times are large and heavy, and drawn by as many as WINTER AND SUMMER 19 twenty or even thirty horses. There is no little excite- ment among the boys and girls when a big ice-breaker comes out for the first time in the season. The great crashing thing inspires them with wonder and admiration; yet with all its power it cuts only a narrow pathway for the boats. The main face of the country belongs to the skaters. For miles and miles the glassy ice spreads its mirror under the blinking and dazzled sun. Everywhere is one shining network of slippery highway. Who would walk or ride then? Not one. Doctors skate to their patients; clergymen to their parishioners; marketwomen to town with baskets upon their heads. Laborers go skimming by, with tools on their shoulders; and tradespeople, busily planning the day’s affairs; fat old burgomasters, too, with gold-headed canes cautiously flourished to keep them in balance ; laughing girls with arms entwined ; long files of young men, shouting as they pass; children with school- satchels slung over their shoulders,— all whizzing by, this way and that, until you can see nothing but the flashing of skates, and a rushing confusion of color. And while all this is happening in the open air, the simple indoor life is steadily going on, in the homes, the shops, the churches, the schools, the workshops, the picture-galleries. Ah, the picture-galleries! All Hollanders, from the very richest and most cultivated to almost the very humblest, visit and enjoy the rare collections of paintings that en- noble their principal towns and cities. And what pictures those old Dutchmen have painted! The Dutchmen of to- 20 THE LAND OF PLUCK day well may be proud of them. There was Rembrandt Van Ryn (of the Rhine), perhaps the greatest portrait- painter this world has ever known; and Franz Hals and Van der Helst and Van Ostade, and the careful Gerard Dou, and Mieris and the two Cuyps, father and son, and Teniers and Adriaen Hanneman, and other great paint- ers by the score. You must read about them, and some day see their pictures, if indeed you have not already come upon them either in your books or on your travels. But if you visit no other, you surely must plan some day to go to the Ryks Museum at Amsterdam, and see its collection of priceless Rembrandts and other treasures of Dutch art. If you go to Holland in summer and look at the people, you will wonder when all the work was done, and who did it. The country folk move so slowly and serenely, looking as if to smoke their pipes were quite as much as they care to do,—they have so little to say, and seem to see you only because their eyes happen to be open. You feel sure if by any accident the lids dropped they would not be lifted again in a hurry. Yet there are the dikes, the’ water-roads, the great ship-canals, the fine old towns, the magnificent cities, the colleges, the galleries, the charit- able institutions, the churches. There are the public parks, the beautiful country-seats, the immense factories, the herring-packeries, the docks, the shipping-yards, the railways, and the telegraphs. Surely these Hollanders must work in their sleep ! But though the men outside of Amsterdam and the large cities may screen themselves with a mask of dull- HIMSELF, F 0 rr PORTRAI s MBRANDT” RE! WINTER AND SUMMER 23 ness, it is not so with the women. They are as lively as one could wish, taller in proportion than the men, with fresh, rosy faces, and hair that matches the sun- shine. Many of them are elegant and graceful. As for work,—well, if there could be such a thing as a Dutch Barnum, he would make his fortune by exhibiting a lazy Dutchwoman—if he could find one! Ah! how they work!—brush- ing, mopping, scrubbing, and polishing. Judging from some houses that I have seen in Holland, I do believe the tiniest Lillipu- tian that Gulliver ever saw could not fill his pockets with dust if he searched through dozens of Dutch homes. Brock, a little village near beautiful Amster- dam, that city of ninety islands, is said to be the cleanest place in the world. It used to be quite famous for its North-Holland pe- cca tna culiarities—and even to-day it has strong characteristics of its own. It is inhabited mainly by retired Dutch mer- chants and their families, who seem determined to enjoy 24 THE LAND OF PLUCK the world as it appears when scrubbed to a polish. Every morning the village shines forth as fresh as if it had just taken a bath. The wooden houses are as bright and gay as paint can make them. Their shining tiled roofs and polished facings flash up a defiance to the sun to find a speck of dust upon them. Certain dooryards, curiously paved with shells and stones, look like enormous mosaic brooches pinned to the earth ; the little canals and ditches, instead of crawling sluggishly as many of their kindred do, flow with a limpid cleanliness; the streets of fine yellow brick are carefully sanded. Even the children walk as if they were trying to make their wooden shoes express a due respect for sand and pebbles. Horses and wheeled vehicles of any kind are not allowed within the borders of the town. The pea-green window-shutters usually are closed; and the main entrances of cottages never are opened except on the occasion of a christening ge, a wedding, or a funeral, or when the dazzling brass knobs and knock- ers are to be rendered more dazzling still. The gardens are as trim and complete as the houses; but in summer the flower-beds, all laid out in little patches, are bright with audacious blossoms nodding saucily to the prim box-border that incloses them. Most of you have seen the stocky, thick-stemmed box-plant, with its dense growth of dark, glossy little leaves. Every old-fashioned country-place in our own Middle States has had its box- bordered flower-beds, with occasional taller clumps of the shrub, looking like dumpy little trees. Well, the box- plants in Broek -grow in a similar way, but they are very old, and the work of trimming and shaping their hedges PORTRAIT OF A BOY, BY ADRIAEN HANNEMAN (BORN 1610, DIED 1666). WINTER AND SUMMER Q7 may have been handed down from father to son for gener- ations. Nearly every garden in Broek has its zomerhwis and its pond. Some of these ponds have queer automata —or self-moving figures—upon them: sometimes a duck that paddles about and flaps its wooden wings; some- times a wooden sportsman standing upon the shore, jerkily taking aim at the duck, but never quite succeeding in getting his range accurate enough to warrant firing; and sometimes a dog stands among the shrubbery and snaps his jaws quite fiercely when he is not too damp to work. Queer things, too, are seen in the growing box, which is trimmed so as to fail in resembling peacocks and wolves. Altogether, Broek is a very remarkable place. The dairy-ly inclined inhabitants regard their kine as friends and fellow-lodgers, and so the very cattle there live in fine style. Pet cows, it is said, sometimes rejoice in pretty blue ribbons tied to their tails, they not uncommonly find themselves daintily housed and in winter beneath the family roof. In some Dutch houses the rooms are covered with two or three carpets, laid one over the other, and others have no carpets at all, but the floors are polished, or perhaps made of tiles laid in regular patterns. Sometimes doors are curtained like the windows, and the beds are nearly concealed by heavy draperies. Many among the poorer classes sleep in rough boxes, or on shelves fixed in recesses against the wall; so that sometimes the best bed in the cottage looks more like a cupboard than anything else. Whether having so much water about suggested the idea or not, T cannot say, but certain it is that big blocks 28 THE LAND OF PLUCK of imported cork are quite in fashion for footstools. They stand one on each side of the great open fireplace, as though the household intended to have at least a couple of life-preservers on hand, in case of a general flood. The large earthen cup, or fire-pot, that you may see standing near, filled with burning peat, and casting a bright glow over the Dutch sentence inscribed on the tiles arching the fireplace, is very: useful for warming the room on chilly days, when it is not quite cold enough for a fire. For that matter, it is a general custom in Holland to use little tin fire-boxes (with a handle, and with holes in the top lid) for warming the feet. Our Dutch ancestors brought some of them over to America long ago, and many grown-up New-Yorkers can remember seeing similar ones in use. In Holland every lady has her voet stoof, or foot-stove. Churches are provided with a large number; and on Sun- day, boys and sometimes old women, bearing high piles of them, move softly about, distributing them among the congregation. A DUTCH FOOT-STOVE, CHAPTER IV STREETS AND BYWAYS NLY an hours ride on the railroad \. from Broek to Amsterdam—and yet M\ how.different are the two! Here, as in the other large Dutch cities, you see a brisk business look on the men’s faces. They are slighter in build than the rustic folk; and, a not having such broad backs and short legs, not wearing leather breeches and wide jackets and big waist-buckles as the countrymen do, they quite make you forget that they are Dutch. In fact they look like New-Yorkers. Nowadays, the fashions and the stiff mas- culine costume of Paris and London tend to make nearly all city folk of the Christian world look alike. Still, often in Dutch cities you see something distinctive in costume,—huge coal-scuttle bonnets on the women; and wooden shoes, that clatter-clatter at every step. Some of the women and girls have their hair cropped short and wear close-fitting caps; and these caps and head- 29 30 THE LAND OF PLUCK dresses are seen in great variety. Some have plain gold bands over the forehead, others have gold or silver plates at the back, and some have deep folds of rich lace hanging from them. The writer once saw two young women walk- ing together in Rotterdam, one of whom wore a fashion- able French bonnet, and the other a queer head-gear with > rosettes and golden “ blinders” projecting on each side of her forehead. Little girls often are very charming with their sweet, bright faces, their clean, trig, simple attire, and their queer white caps decked with a gold band over the forehead and small gold twirls dangling at each side. The little visitor in the picture on page 31 is one of these, and you see how carefully she has slipped off her wooden shoes so as not to soil her hostess’s spotless floors. Then there are the boys, cheerful, clean, and sturdy; some dressed in modern-looking hats and suits; but others wearing such short jackets and loose knee-breeches, you would declare they had borrowed the former from their little brothers and the latter from their erandfathers. Now and then, in our own country, we hear vague ru- mors of a person having been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. As a rule, we scorn to credit such stories, but if we were told that all Dutchmen were born with pipes in their mouths, we probably should not consider it worth while to doubt. In making an inventory of a Dutch rus- tic’s face, you would need to mention two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth, and one pipe. To be sure, there might be but one eye, or one ear, or no nose; but there certainly would be a pipe. The pipe-rack on the wall, and a large box of tobacco attached beneath, so that any guest A LITTLE VISITOR, STREETS AND BYIVAYS 33 or stranger may help himself, may frequently be seen in Dutch farm-houses. The men, and too often the boys, smoke, smoke, smoke, as if some malicious fairy had given them a perpetual season- ticket for enjoying the priv- ilege. Perhaps that is why they seem sosleepy ; and yet, with what a sudden glow both pipe and Dutcliman can brighten at a whiff! Instead of seeming to shrivel up, inside and out, as constant smokers in other lands are apt to do, A MAIDEN FROM MONNIKENDAM. a Dutchman grows sleeker and fatter behind his pipe; as if the same fairy who gave him the season-ticket had perched herself invisibly on the bowl and was continually blowing him out like a rubber balloon. All things are reversed in Holland. The main entrance to the finest public building in the country, The Palace, or late town-hall, of Amsterdam, is its back door. Bash- ful maidens hire beaus to escort them to the Kermis, or fair, on festival-days. Timid citizens are scared in the dead of the night by their own watchmen, who at every quarter of the hour make such a noise with their wooden clappers, one would suppose the town to be on fire. You 1A noble town-hall it is, too ; but the building, to be safe and dry, has Do to stand on more ‘than thirteen thousand piles driven deep into the spongy soil. 2 3 THE PALACE, OR TOWN-HALL, AT AMSTERDAM. STREETS AND BYWAYS 35 « will see sleds used in summer there. They go bumping over the bare cobblestones, while the driver holds a drip- ping oil-rag in advance of the runners to lessen the fric- tion. You will see streets of water; and the country roads paved as carefully as Broadway. You will see vessels hitched, like horses, to their owners’ door-posts ; and whole rows of square-peaked houses with overlapping stories and roofs seeming to lean over the street, just as if they were getting ready to tumble. Instead of sol- emn, striking clocks, you will hear church chimes playing snatches of operatic airs. every quarter of an hour, by way of marking the time. You will see looking-glasses hanging outside of the dwellings; and, occasionally, mysterious pincushions dis- played on the street-doors. The first are called spionnen (or spionnetjen), and are so arranged outside of the win- dows, that persons sitting inside can, without being seen, enjoy a reflection of all that is going on in the street. They can learn, too, what visitor may: be coming, and watch him rubbing his soles to a polish before entering. The pincushion means that a new baby has appeared in the household. If white or blue, the new-comer is a girl; if red, it is a little Dutchman. Some of these signals are very showy affairs; some are not cushions at all, but merely shingles trimmed with ribbon or lace; and, among the poorest class, it is not uncommon to see merely a white or red string tied to the door-latch—fit token of the meager life the poor little stranger is destined to lead. Sometimes, instead of either pincushion or shingle, you will see a large placard hung outside of the front 36 THE LAND OF PLUCK SOME ONE AT THE WINDOW IS WATCHING! door. Then you may know that somebody in the house is ill, and his or her present condition is described on the placard for the benefit of inquiring friends; and sometimes, when such a placard has been taken down, you may meet a grim-looking man on the street, dressed in black tights, a short cloak, and a high hat, from which a long black streamer is flying. This is the Aanspreker, going from house to house to tell certain persons that their friend is dead. He attends to funerals, and bears invitations to all friends whose presence may be desired. A strange weird-looking figure he is; and he wears a peculiar, professional cast of countenance that is any- thing but refreshing. Ah! here is something more cheerful! For now a little cart rattles past, drawn by a span of orderly dogs, ROTTERDAM. A_ STREET IN 38 THE LAND OF PL UCK and filled with shining brass kettles that were brimming with milk when it started on its round. How nimbly the little ani- mals trot over the stones ! How promptly they heed the voice of their young master stalking leisurely along the sidew— no, not on the — sidewalk, but on the narrow foot- path of yellow brick that stretches along near the houses! Excepting this, the cobble pavement, if Tee ar ecu: there be no canal, reaches entirely across the street from door to door. Occasionally one may see dogs dragging tiny fish-carts. They jog oo READY FOR CUSTOMERS. STREETS AND BYWAYS 39 along in such practised style, we may be sure they were taught at the dog-school in Amsterdam. But oftener, in Holland, the small milk-cart or water-cart is drawn by a robust boy, or a pretty rosy-cheeked girl with eyes brighter than the shining brass water-jar she may CARRYING MILK AND CHEESE TO MARKET. carry. Those canal-boats around the corner, wending their way among the houses, are loaded with peat for the people to burn; coal is a luxury used only by the rich. That barge by the market-place, drawn up to the street’s edge (for many of the principal thoroughfares 40 THE LAND OF PLUCK A WATER-BARGE. are half water and half street), is laden with— what do you think?) What should you suppose these people would, least of all, need to buy? You see these canals, following and crossing the streets in every direction; you see the mastheads and sails rising everywhere, in among the trees and steeples, showing that river or sea always is close at hand; you know that all Holland is a kind of wet sponge; and the guide-books will tell you that every house is built wpon long wooden piles driven deep into the marsh, or it could not stand there at all. Now, what do you think these barges contain? What but water !— water for the people to drink. It is brought for the purpose from Utrecht, or the river Vecht, or from some favored inland spot. All along the coast, just where Hol- land is wettest, our poor Dutchmen must go without any drinking-water, for there is none fit to swallow, unless they buy from the barges, or catch the rain almost as soon as it falls. NEAR SUPPER-TIME, “See < SA Wesss ON THE BEACH AT SCHEVENINGEN. CHAPTER V DUTCIL ODDITIES Now, is not Holland a funny land? Where else do the people pray for fish and never pray for rain? Where else do they build enormous factories for the cutting and polishing of such little things as diamonds? Where else do peasant women wear solid gold and costly old lace on their heads? Where else do persons carry foot- stoves about in their hands? Where else do crowds of folk sit on the sea-shore as at Scheveningen, every one in a great high hut-like wicker chair with a window on each side? In what other country are over eighteen hun- 43 44 THE LAND OF PLUCK dred varieties of tulips cultivated ?— tulips ranging from the palest tints to the most brilliant hues and gorgeous combinations of colors. Where else do funny wooden heads or gapers at the apothecaries’ windows “make faces” for all who have to take physic? Where else is fire —in the form of red-hot peat—sold in summer by the pailful ? Is not water often as fertile as land, in Holland? Cannot the frogs there look down upon chimney-swal- lows? Did not the learned Erasmus, who knew how the piles were driven in, say that their city people lived like crows, on the tops of trees? And does not every- body know that “Dutch pink” is as yellow as gold? In what other land do men cut down willow-trees to make shoes of ? and where else are shoes not only worn on the feet but made to serve on occasion as improvised flower-pots, hammers, toy boats, boxes and baskets, and Christmas stockings ? These wooden shoes, or Alompen,— well named from the noise they make upon hard roads and cobbled streets,— are of all degrees, from the huge affairs worn by heavy working-men to the dainty bits of clumsiness in which lit- tle children trudge about. The well-to-do peasant of Hol- land, on winter evenings, loves to carve pretty patterns upon these small klompen for the delight of his darling Jantje and Kassy. Dainty or not, the shoes must be slipped off by their wearer upon entering any tidy cottage. A row of klompen standing outside some prim doorway is ho uncommon sight; and if, in addition, a pretty juffrouw! 1Pronounced yuffrow. 46 THE LAND OF PLUCK DRYING SHOES BEFORE THE FIRE. or maiden on the threshold peers expectantly up the street, one may well suspect that still another guest will soon arrive, and add his klompen to the row. French shoe-polish is not for klompen. What they like is plenty of soap and water and a good scraping and serub- bing, inside and out, on Saturday, and a thorough drying by the fire or a bleaching in the sunshine. All Dutch folk love to be spick and span for Sunday. So, if ever you visit Holland and see a klompen-bush in full bloom, you DUTCH ODDITIES 47 will know that it is only the family shoes hung out to dry after their Saturday “shine,” —and, of course, a Dutch ? “shine” must be snowy white! Even in their formal courtesies, the Dutch have queer ways of their own. For instance, it is said that in certain towns when, in walking along the street, they come upon the home of a friend, or a house at which they have been socially entertained, they bow in passing it— yes, bow tothe house, bow to the windows, evenif not a person can be seen there. And a very pretty custom it is, for it shows good feeling and kindly remem- brance of hospitality enjoyed. We are told, too, that at Kit- wyk, during the morning hours — indeed, from the first break- fast of early morning to the second breakfast — a noon serv- ing of biscuitand hoffs (coffee) ladies and maids do not make any attempt at fine dressing. : And, strange to say, if in this A KLOMPEN-BUSH IN BLOOM. magic space of time, they choose to go out of doors, either about their own homes, or to the market-place, or ‘to the great town-pump, they are supposed to be invisible! In other words, one must not recognize them nor even ap- pear to see them, so long as they are in their clogs, crimps, 48 THE LAND OF PLUCK nightcaps, and jackets, or wrappers,—which, it seems, constitute the forenoon undress uniform of many a Dutch lady who may shine resplendent later in the day. And now comes the greatest oddity of all—the Tulip Craze, or Tulipomania, as it is called, which raged over Holland early in the seven- teenthcentury. Have you not read of it ?— how the cul- tivating and owning of tu- lips seemed for a while to be the only thing men cared for ? The first speci- men seen in Holland came from Constan- tinoplein1599. Therarebeauty of the flower— called tulip on THE TOWN PUMP AT KITWYK. account of its resemblance to a turban (tulipa)—at once attracted great attention. Rich Hollanders sent to Constantinople direct for the bulbs. They vied with one another in ol staining the most beautiful varieties, and in having the finest tulip- DUTCH ODDITIES 49 beds. At last this taste, growing to a fancy, then to an ambition, became a mania. The same thing would now be called “tulip on the brain.” Everybody had ° “Ho! HO! I THOUGHT HER LITTLE TULIP-BULB WAS AN ONION, AND 1 SWALLOWED IT!” it—old, young, rich, and poor. One rich man at Haarlem gave half of his fortune for a single root. By the year 1635, persons were known to invest 100,000 florins? for thirty or forty roots. A tulip of the species Admiral Lief- ken sold for 4400 florins. The Semper Augustus easily brought 2000 florins. And one superb specimen of the Semper Augustus actually sold for 13,000 florins,— or 5200 dollars. At one time there were but two roots of this variety in Holland; one belonged to a gentleman of Haarlem, the other to a trader in Amstetdam. Both of these were eagerly sought for by infatuated tulip-men. 1A Dutch florin is equal to about forty cents in United States currency. 4 50 THE LAND OF PLUCK The owner of the first refused an offer for it of the fee simple of twelve acres of building lots. The second, that of Am- sterdam, was finally sold for 4600 florins (1840 dollars), a new carriage, two gray horses, and a complete suit of har- ness! This statement is well attested, and is printed in the records of the day. One Munsing, who wrote a large volume on the tulipo- mania, gives this list of articles which were delivered for a single root of the variety called The Viceroy: “Two lasts [loads] of wheat; four lasts of rye; four fat oxen; eight fat swine; twelve fat sheep; two hogsheads of wine; four tuns of beer; one thousand pounds of cheese ; a suit of clothes; a silver cup; a bed, complete, and two tuns of butter— the whole valued at twenty-five hundred florins [or one thousand dollars].” And all for one root! Still the mania grew. Men parted not only with their money, but with their lands, household goods, apparel, watches —anything, for the purchase of tulips. DUTCIE ODDITIES 51 People of all grades, from the rich burgomaster to the chimney-sweep, speculated in the flower. Ladies bought bulbs in the hope of making large profits upon them. The rise and fall in tulip stocks were the excitement of the day. At last, the government, becoming alarmed for the state of society, checked the traffic, and so burst the bubble. Then things were worse than ever. Disappointed and en- raged speculators went to law; but the law turned its back upon them. It was decided that debts contracted under tulip-speculation were not leeal. Then there was trouble! 3ut time, the great consoler quieted matters before very A TULIP FANTASY. long, and Holland settled down to its tobacco and meer- schaum again. There had also been great tulip excitements in England and Paris, but these, too, died out in time. To this day, however, the Hollanders are fond of their 52 THE LAND OF PLUUK turban-flower, as well they may be. A great tulip-bed, with its stately rows of gay flowers in their setting of soft, waving green, is a beautiful sight. But, to enjoy it to the utmost, one must love the flowers with true Dutch fond- ness and pride. Not only this, but he must dwell upon the special traits and charms of each specimen, as though it were a personal friend. Verily, as I said at first, Holland is the queerest country that ever the sun shone upon! But the queerest thing of all is, when you really know much about it you feel more like crying than laughing; for this land that lies so loosely wpon the sea has many a time been forced to be as a rock against a legion of foes. Its stanch- hearted people have suffered as never nation suffered be- fore. Dutch country-folk look sleepy, I know, and have some very odd ways; but —Motley’s history of the Rise of the Dutch Republic is not a funny book. There is no more heartrending, terrible story in all his- tory than that of the siege of Haarlem by the Spaniards in the sixteenth century. It cannot be told here; but one of its opening incidents shows the Spanish forces, unused to ice, tramping and tumbling toward Haarlem upon the frozen, slippery sea. Their object was to capture the Dutch ships that lay near the city, tightly held in by the ice. Suddenly they were overpowered. How? By a body of armed men on skates, who, springing from ice-trenches, flew swiftly upon the astonished Spaniards, shooting them down by hundreds. It was a day of victory for the Dutch patriots. But what months of terrible suffering, of almost superhuman endurance, came to them afterward! GHARGE OF THE DUTCH SOLDIERS ON SKATES. DUTCH ODDITIES 55 The ocean, too, could tell tales of Dutch sea-fights and Dutch ships bound on great enterprises; though it has a funny story of the brave admiral Van Tromp, which you may already have heard. He was born a little Dutch- man, two hundred and ninety-seven years ago,—just two summers before the first tulip bowed upon Dutch soil. His father, who was an admiral, in due time took his lit- tle boy to sea. One day in a naval fight with the British, the father was killed, and little Marten Harpertzoon Van Tromp was taken prisoner. He was made to work as cabin-boy for many a weary month, but he did not des- par. He was a Dutch boy. In two years he was free again. Soon better fortunes came to him. In early manhood he entered the Dutch navy, and finally became Admiral of Holland, sometimes fighting against the Spaniards, sometimes beaten on the high seas, but oftener victorious. In fact, in the course of his career, he was winner of more than thirty battles. He had many a fierce sea-fight with Admiral Blake of England, and, though conquered by this enemy at last, he had the satisfaction of one victory over Blake so bril- lant and thorough that he celebrated the event by sail- ing the British Channel with a broom fastened to his masthead. This was his way of proclaiming that he had swept his enemy from the seas. CHAPTER VI THE BATAVIANS AND THEIR GOOD MEADOW ND now let us see how Holland, from its earliest history, has proved itself to be truly a Land of Pluck: \ Y In the old, old time, when many who now are called the heroes of antiquity were cutting their baby-teeth, men began to quarrel for the possession of the country which is now known as Holland; and in one form or another, the contest has been going on nearly ever since. Why any should have coveted it, is a mystery to me. It was then only a low tract. of spongy marsh, a network of queer rivers that seemed never to know where they be- longed, but insisted every spring upon paying unwelcome visits to the inland—hiding here, running into each other there, and falling asleep in pleasant places. It was a great land-and-water kaleidoscope, girt about with a rim of gloomy forest; or a sort of dissected puzzle, with half of the pieces in soak; and its owners were a scanty, savage, 57 58 THE LAND OF PLUCK fish-eating tribe, living like beavers on mounds of their own raising. What could have tempted outsiders to disturb them ? What, indeed, unless it were the same feeling that often makes a small boy holding either a kaleidoscope, or a puzzle, an object of persecution to all the big boys around him. “Let me take a look!” they ery; “I want my turn” ; or, “Give me the puzzle! Let ’s see what I can make out of it!” You know how it is too apt to be. First, their attention is arrested by seeing the small boy peculiarly happy and absorbed. They begin to nudge, then to bully him. Small Boy shakes his head and tries to enjoy himself in peace and quietness. Bullying increases—the nudges become dangerous. In despair he soon gives in, or, rather, gives up, and the big boys slide into easy possession. But suppose the small boy is plucky, and will not give up? Suppose he would see the puzzle crushed to atoms first? Suppose only positive big-boy power can overcome his as positive resistance? What then ? So began the history of Holland. The first who held possession of Dutch soil—not the first who ever had lived upon it, but the first who had per- sistently enjoyed the kaleidoscope, and busied themselves with the puzzle—were a branch of the great German race. Driven by circumstances from their old home, they had settled upon an empty island in the river Rhine, which, you know, after leaving its pleasant southern country, strageles through Holland in a bewildered search for the sea. This island they called Betauw, or “Good Meadow,” THE BATAVIANS AND THEIR GOOD MLADOW 59 and so, in time, themselves came to be called Batavii, or Batavians. Other portions of the country were held by various tribes living upon and beyond a great tract of land which afterward, in true Holland style, was turned into a sea, called the Zuyder Zee. Most of these tribes were sturdy and brave, but the Batavii were braver than any. Fierce, stanch and defiant, they taught even their little children only the law of might; and their children grew up to be mightier than they. The blessed Teacher had not yet brought the world his lesson of mercy and love. “Con- quer one another” had stronger claims to their considera- tion. than “ Love one another.” Their votes in council were given by the clashing of arms; and often their wives and mothers stood by with shouts and cries of encouragement wherever the fight was thickest. “Others go to battle,” said the historian Taci- tus; “these go to war.” Soon the all-conquering Romans, who, with Julius Cesar at their head, had trampled surrounding nations into subjection, discovered that the sturdy Batavil were not to be vanquished—that their friendship was worth far more than the spongy country they inhabited. An al- liance was formed, and the Batavii were declared to be ex- empt from the annual tax or tribute which all others were forced to pay to the Romans. Czsar himself was not ashamed to extol their skill in arms, nor to send their 1The Zuyder Zee was formed by successive inundations during the thir- teenth century. In the last of these inundations—in 1287 —nearly cighty thousand persons were drowned. 60 THE LAND OF PLUUK already famous warriors to fight his battles and strike terror to the hearts of his foes. The Batavian cavalry could swim across wide and deep rivers without breaking their ranks, and their infantry were excelled by none in drill, in archery, and in wonderful powers cf endurance. They had fought too long with the elements in holding their “Good Meadow” to be dismayed in battle by any amount of danger and fatigue. The Romans called them “ friends,” but the Batavians soon discovered that they were being used merely as a cat’s-paw. After a while, as cat’s-paws will, they turned and scratched. A contest, stubborn and tedious, between the Romans and Batavians followed. At length both par- ties were glad to make terms of peace, which prevailed, with few interruptions, until the decline of the Roman Empire. After that, hordes of barbarians overran Europe; and Holland, with the rest, had a hard time of it. Man to man, the Batavian could hold his own against any mortal foe, but he could not always be proof against numbers. The “Good Meadow,” grown larger and more valuable, was conquered and held by several of the “big-boy ” sav- age tribes, in turn, but not until Batavian pluck stood recorded in many a fearful tale passed from generation to generation. Later, each of the surrounding nations, as it grew more powerful, tried to wrest Holland from the holders of her soil, Some succeeded for a time, some failed ; but always, and every time, the Dutch gathered their strength for the contest and went not to battle, but to war. As, in later BATAVIANS IN COUNCIL.—‘‘ DEATH TO THE INVADER!” THE BATAVIANS AND THEIR GOOD MEADOW 63 history, the Russians burned Moscow to prevent it from falling into the hands of Napoleon, so this stanch people always stood ready, at the worst, to drown Holland rather than yield her to the foe. Often they let in the waters they had laboriously shut out, laying waste hundreds of fertile acres, that an avenging sea might suddenly con- found the invaders. Often they faced famine and pesti- lence,— men, women, and little wonder-stricken children all who had breath to say it, still fiercely refusing to surrender. perishing in the streets of their beleaguered cities Wherever the strong arm of the enemy succeeded in mow- ing these people down, a stronger, sturdier growth was sure to spring from the stubble. Sometimes defeated, never subdued, they were patient under subjection only until they were again ready to rise as one man and throw off the yoke. Now and then, it is true, under promise of peace and increased prosperity, they formed a friendly union with a one-time enemy. But woe to the other side if it carried ageression and a trust in might too far. Treach- ery, oppression, breach of faith were sure, sooner or later, to arouse Dutch pluck; and Dutch pluck, in the end, has always beaten. CHAPTER VII THE DUTCH HAVE TAKEN MNOLLAND AND so, though Roman, Saxon, Austrian, Spaniard, Belgian, Eng- lishman, and Frenchman in turn flourished a scepter over them, it comes, after all, to be true, that only “the Dutch have taken Holland.” It is theirs by every right of in- heritance and strife—theirs to hold, to drain, and to pump, for ever and ever. They wrested it from the sea, not in a day, but through long years of patient toil, through dreary years of suffering and sorrow. They have counted their dead, in their war with the ocean alone, by hundreds of thousands. Industry, hardihood, and thrift have been better allies to them than were Ciesar’s Roman legions to the old Batavian forefathers. For ages, it seems, Holland could not have known a leisure moment. Frugal, hardy, painstaking, and perse- vering, her spirit was ever equal to great enterprises. With her every difficulty was a challenge. Obstacles G4 THE DUTCH HAVE TAKEN HOLLAND 65 that would have discouraged others, inspired the Dutch with increased energy. Their land was only a marsh threatened by the sea. What of that? So much the more need of labor and skill to make it a hailing-place among nations. It was barren and bleak. “Why, then,” said they, “so much the more need for us to become masters in tilling the soil” It was a very little place, scarcely worth a name on the maps. “So much the more need,” said plucky Holland, “that we extend our posses- sions, gain lands in every corner of the earth, and send our ships far and near, until every nation shall uncon- sciously pay us tribute.” “Such is the industry of the people and the trade they drive,” said a writer of the sixteenth century, “that, having little or no corn of their own growth, they do provide themselves elsewhere, not only sufficient for their own spending, but wherewith to supply their neighbors. Having no timber of their own, they spend more timber in building ships and fencing their water-courses than any country in the world... . And finally, having neither flax nor wool, they make more cloth of both sorts than is made in all the countries of the world, except France and England.” Of some things they soon began to have a surplus. There were not half nor a quarter enough persons in frugal Holland to drink all the milk of their herds. Forthwith Dutch butter and cheese came to be sent all over Chris- tendom. The herring-fisheries were enormous. More fish came to their nets than would satisfy every man, woman, and child in Holland. England had enough herring of, 5 ‘A FINE CATCH OF HERRING!” THE DUTCH HAVE TAKEN HOLLAND 67 her own. Ships were far too slow in those steamless days to make fresh fish a desirable article of export. Here was trouble! Notso. Up rose a Dutchman named William Beukles, to invent the curing and pickling of herring. The fish trade made Holland richer, more prosperous than ever. In time, a monument was raised to the memory of Beukles, for was he not a national benefactor ? The Dutch delight in honoring their heroes, their states- men, and inventors. You cannot be long among them without hearing of one Laurens Janzoon Koster, to whom, they insist, the world owes the art of printing with mov- able types the most important of human inventions. Their cities are rich in memorials and monuments of those whose wisdom and skill have proved a boon to mankind. All along the paths of human progress we can find Dutch footprints. In education, science, and political economy, they have, many a time, led the way. The boys and girls of Holland are citizens in a high sense of the word. They soon learn to love their country, and to recognize the fatherly care of its government. The sense of common danger, and the necessity of all acting together in common defense, has served to knit the affec- tions of the people. In truth it may be said, for history has proved it, that in every Dutch arm you can feel the pulse of Holland. Throughout her early struggles, in the palmy, glorious days of the republic, as well as now in her cautious constitutional monarchy, the Dutch have been patriots — mistaken and short-sighted at times, even goaded to cruel deeds by the brutal wickedness of their enemies, but always true to their beloved “Good Meadow.” 68 THE LAND OF PLUCK Hollow-land, Low-land, or Netherland, whatever men may call it, their country stands high in their hearts. They love it with more than the love of a mountaineer for his native hills. To be sure there have been riots and outbreaks there, as in all other thickly settled parts of the world—perhaps more than elsewhere, for Dutch indignation, though slow in kindling, makes a prodigious blaze when once fairly afire. Some of these disturbances have arisen only after a long endurance of serious wrongs; and some seem to have been started at once by that queer friction-match in human nature, which, if left unguarded, is sure to be nibbled at, and so ignited, by the first little mouse of discontent that finds it. There was a curious origin to one of these domestic quarrels. On a certain occasion a banquet was given, at which were present two noted Dutch noblemen, rivals in power, who had several old grudges to settle. The conversation turning on the codfishery, one of the two remarked upon the manner in which the hook (hoek) took the codfish, or kabbeljanuw, as the Dutch call it. “The hook take the codfish!” exclaimed the other in no very civil tone; “it would be better sense to say that the codfish takes the hook.” The grim jest was taken up in bitter earnest. High words passed, and the chieftains rose from the table en- emies for life. They proceeded to organize war against each other ; a bitter war it proved to Holland, for it lasted one hundred and fifty years, and was fought out with all 4G ‘“THE GRIM JEST WAS TAKEN UP IN BITTER EARNEST.” THE ORIGIN OF THE CODFISH WAR. THE DUTCH HAVE TAKEN HOLLAND val the stubbornness of family feuds. The opposing parties took the names of “hoeks” and “ kabbeljaauws,” and men of all classes enlisted in their respective ranks. In many instances fathers, brothers, sons, and old-time friends forgot their ties, and knew each other only as foes. The feud (being Dutch!) raged hotter and stronger in proportion as men had time coolly to consider the question. A thicket of mutual wrongs, real or imaginary, sprang up to further entangle the opposing parties; families were divided, miles of smiling country laid in ruin, and tens of thousands of men slain — for what ? Those who fought, and those who looked on, longing for peace, are alike silent now. Historical records do not quite clear up the mystery. We know how hard it must have been to settle the knotty question whether hooks or codfish can more properly be said to be “ taken,” and how dangerous the smallest thorns of anger and jealousy be- come if not plucked out promptly. It is certain, too, that the hoeks and kabbeljaauws were terribly in earnest, though what they killed each other for we “cannot well make out.” The kabbeljaauws had one advantage. When a public dinner was given by their party, the first dish brought in by the seneschal (or steward) was a huge plate of codfish elaborately decorated with flowers; something not orna- mental only, but substantial and satisfactory ; while the corresponding dish at a hoek festival contained nothing but a gigantic hook encircled by a flowery wreath. All through Dutch history you will find quaint words and phrases that have a terrible record folded within their "9 THE LAND OF PLUCK quaintness. The Casenbrotspel, or Bread and Cheese war, was not funny when it came to blight the last ten years of the fifteenth century, though its name sounds trivial now. And the Gueux, or “ Beggars,” who, nearly a century later, come forth on the bloodstained page, were something more than beggars, as King Philip and the wicked Duke of Alva found to their cost. Ah, those Gueux! Watch for them when you read Dutch history. They will soon appear, with their wallets and wooden bowls, their doublets of ashen gray, brave, reckless, desperate men, whose deeds struck terror over land and sea. When once they come in sight, turn as you may, you will meet them; you will hear their wild cry, “Long live the Beggars!” ringing amid the blaze and carnage of many a terrible day. There are princes and nobles among them. They will grow bolder and fiercer, more reckless and desperate, until their country’s perse- cutor, Philip of Spain, has withdrawn the last man of all his butchering hosts from their soil; until the Duke of Alva, one of the blackest characters in all history, has cowered before the wrath of Holland! Ah! iy light-hearted boys and girls, if there were not lessons to be learned from these things, it would be well to blot them from human memory. But would it be well to forget the heroism, the majestic patience, the trust in God, that shine forth resplendent from these darkest pages of Dutch history? Can we afford to lose such examples of human grandeur under suffering as come to us from the beleaguered cities of Naarden, Haarlem, and Leyden ? When you learn their stories, if you do not know them THE GUEUX, OR BEGGARS. THE DUTCH HAVE TAKEN HOLLAND 15 already, you will understand Dutch pluck in all its full- ness, and be glad that, in the end, it proved victorious over every foe. But, as you have been told before, it is not only amid the din of war that Holland has shown her pluck; nor is hers the bragging, boisterous quality that offends at every turn. A simpler, firmer, more peacefully inclined people it would be hard to find; but somehow they have an odd way of being actively concerned in the history of other nations. Possibly this is due to the fact that their pecu- liar simplicity and love of quiet have proved a sort of standing invitation to those who would make war with them; possibly it is because of their great commercial enterprise, and their tempting stores; but, to my mind, their remarkably far-seeing, though seemingly sleepy, way of looking at things, has had much to do with their progress. They-seem never to threaten, yet always to perform; never to prepare, but always to be ready. THE COFFEE-HOUSE.~” CHAPTER VIII THE DUTCH AT HOME AND ABROAD =4| HE story of Dutch patriotism could be written {| out in symbols, or pictures, more eloquently than that of any other nation. There would be shields, arrows and spears, and battleships and fortresses, and all the paraphernalia of war, ancient and modern. But beside these, and having a sterner significance, would be the tools and implements of artisans ; the windmills, the dikes, the canals ; the sluice- gates, the locks; the piles that hold up their cities. How much could be told by the great, white-sailed merchantmen bound for every sea; by the mammoth docks, and by the wonderful cargoes coming and going! How the great buildings would loom up, each telling its-story— the fac- tories, warehouses, schools, colleges, museums, legislative halls, the hospitals, asylums, and churches ! 76 THE DUTCH AT HOME AND ABROAD 7 There would be more than these: there would be libra- ries, art-galleries, and holy places battered and broken. There would be monuments and relics, and church organs —chief among them that of the Haarlem Cathedral, to THE HAARLEM CATHEDRAL. this day ranking among the grandest in the world. There would be boats manned by rough heroes trying to save thousands of drowning fellow-creatures whose homes had been swept away by the waves. We should see some of the most beautiful public parks of their time; gardens, too, 78 THE LAND OF PLUCK wonderful in their blooming ; and, over all, the bells — the faithful carillons that for ages have sent down messages, more or less musical, upon the people. Dvrcu pluck has accomplished, and will yet accomplish, wonders. Even now, while the waves of the great Zuyder Zee are beating against its dikes, Holland is deciding whether a vast portion of this sea shall be changed back to what it was in the thirteenth century dry land! A tremendous piece of work, indeed ; but it will be done if the Dutchmen say so. Here is the small bit of very big news as it came to the “London Times” from the capital of Holland, in this year of grace, 1894: “The Hague, May 5—The Royal Commission, presided over by M. Lely, Minister of the Waterstaat, which has long been studying the scheme for the draining and reclaim- ing of the Zuyder Zee, has concluded its labors. Twenty- one members out of the twenty-six composing the Com- mission recommend that the projected work be carried out by the State. ; “Tt is proposed to reclaim from the sea about 450,000 acres, the value of which is estimated at 326,000,000 guil- ders1 The cost of this important work is computed at 189,000,000 euilders, or with the accumulated expenditure, including measures of defense and the payment of com- pensation to the fishermen of the Zee, at 315,000,000 euil- ders. The draining is to be carried out by means of a sea dike from northern Holland into Friesland.” ; 1 $130, 400,000, as the guilder —like the silver florin — is equal to forty cents of United States money. THE DUTCH AT HOME AND ABROAD 79 Dutch pluck has sailed all over the world. It has put its stamp on commerce, science, and manufactures. It has set its seal on every quarter of the earth. Dutchmen were at home in Japan before either the Americans or English had dared to intrude upon those inhospitable shores. There were great obstacles to encounter in any attempt at trading or becoming acquainted with that strange hermit of an empire in the east. She had enough of her own, she said, and asked no favors of the outside barbarians. Would they be kind enough to stay away? Most of the world gave an unwilling assent ; but Holland undertook to show Japan the folly of rejecting the benefits of commerce ; and in time, and after many a hard struggle, succeeded in establishing a Japanese trade. Talking of ships, whence did the ship sail that brought the good Fathers of New England safely across the sea ? And, for months before, what country had sheltered them from the persecution that threatened them in their native land? Ask the books these questions, if need be, and ask yourselves whether to shelter the oppressed, to offer an asylum to innocent but hunted fugitives from every clime, is not a noble work for pluck to do. Whence, too, did some of our New York oddities come ? Why are you, little New Yorkers, so fond of watftles, crul- lers, doughnuts, and New Year’s cake? Dutch inventions every one of them. Why do you expectantly honor the good St. Nicholas, the patron saint of New York? Why is this city turned topsyturvy in a general “ moving” whenever the first of May comes round? Why, until very recently, did your fathers and uncles on the first day of 80 THE LAND OF PLUCK January, from morning till night, pay visits from house to house, wishing the ladies a “Happy New Year”? Simply because these were Holland customs. The Americans of the day only were following the example long ago set them by the Dutch. Hendrik Hudson, the first white man who explored our noble North River, was an adopted Dutchman. He modestly called it De Groote (or the Great) River, little thinking that for all time after it would be known as the Hudson. Staten (or States) Island was so named by him in honor of his home government, the States-General. At that time he was in the service of the Dutch East India Company. Three years later he made another voy- age and discovered the famous bay, far to our northward, which now bears his name. Intrepid as he was, the bitter cold of that region, and threatened starvation, prevented him from carrying out his resolve to spend the winter on the shores of his bay, and he set sail for home, only to meet the tragic fate which to this day is veiled in mystery. The sailors mutinied, and set him afloat, with eight other men, in an open boat. They were never seen nor heard of again, It is said that Hudson gave the name Helle Gat, or Beautiful Pass, to the dangerous waterway between Long Island and Manhattan Island which in 1885, only nine years ago, yielded its most dangerous reef, Flood Rock, to the persuasions of science and dynamite. The site of the present capital of the State of New York at first was called New Orange, in honor of William, Prince of Orange and Stadtholder of Holland; but in 1664, ir «| A FIRESIDE IN OLD NEW YORK. THE DUTCH AT HOME AND ABROAD 83 when the English were in power, they changed the name to Albany, after the Duke of York and Albany, better known to you, perhaps, by his later title, King James IL. of England. Look at the names of many down-town streets of New York city, once called New Amsterdam,—Cortlandt, Van- dam, Roosevelt, Stuyvesant, and scores of others all nained after good Dutchmen. Not only New York, but Brooklyn, Albany, and other cities have streets that lead one directly into the Netherlands, so to speak. Indeed, Dutch names he sprinkled very thickly within a hundred miles of Fifth Avenue in every direction. You readily may suspect the origin of Harlem, named when it was a little hamlet quite far fron New Amsterdam, but connected with it by a country road known as the Bouerie. This Bouerie, or Bowerie, now spelled Bowery, no longer has the rural, bower-like aspect it enjoyed in those old days; for then it was a road through the farm or bowerie of Peter Stuy- vesant, the last Dutch colonial governor of these New Netherlands. Few New-Yorkers nowadays stop to ask why Eleventh street, which extends across the city from the East to the North River, should break off at Fourth Avenue and begin again on the west side of Broadway. But they know that a long solid block—its southwestern corner beautitied by Grace Church and its parsonage—reaches from Tenth street to Twelfth street. The fact is, Eleventh street was stopped just there by a Dutchman, or an honored citizen of Dutch descent, named Brevoort. Mrs. Lamb, in her “ History of New York,” tells us that the mansion of Henry 84 THE LAND OF PLUCK Brevoort fronted the Bowery road, and, according to the ~ plans of the street commissioners, Eleventh street would cut across the site occupied by his house. He resisted the opening of the street with such determination and effect “that the block remained undisturbed. To this day, Eleventh street has no passageway between Broadway and Fourth Avenue.” And in Grace Church, near the south entrance, may be seen a memorial tablet of white marble, the leading inscription of which reads: IN MEMORY OF HENRY BREVOORT WHO DIED AUG. 21. 1841 IN THE 94. YEAR OF HIS AGE IN POSSESSION OF THE GROUND ON WHICH THIS CHURCH NOW STANDS ; DERIVED IN UNBROKEN DESCENT FROM THE FIRST COLONISTS OF NEW NETHERLANDS. CHAPTER IX NMNOLLAND TO-DAY 6S Qala OLLAND is stanch, true, and plucky, CaN ee “) but it is Holland; and, lest you for- get that it still is the oddest country in Christendom, I must tell you that within a few years a new king has succeeded to its throne—and this new king is a bright little girl not yet fifteen years of age! Yes, the High Council of Hol- land solemnly decreed that officials and other public ser- vants should take the oath of allegiance, not to Queen but to King Wilhelmina! The Dutch newspapers protested vehemently against this form, as being contrary to common sense. But the High Court of Holland does not yield to dictation, and the press, it seems, at last adopted a dignified silence in the matter. Possibly the expression “King Wil- helmina” may recall to some readers that historic incident of 1740, when the heroic young Empress of Austria, beset with foes, heard her impassioned Hungarian nobles shout- ing, as their swords leaped from their scabbards: “Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa !” 6* 85 86 THE LAND OF PLUCK But, king or queen, this royal little Wilhelmina of Hol- land already rules in the hearts of her people. Well may the boys and girls of our republic follow her career with interest ;—so bright, winning, and unaffected is she in her pretty dignity and her earnest patriotic spirit. Despite her high station, she is a real child, ready for play and, as a recent writer tells us, “devotedly fond of dolls.” On one occasion, it is said, her youthful majesty was heard addressing a refractory doll as follows: “Now be good and quiet, because if you don’t I will tun you into a queen, and then you will not have any one to play with at all.” Poor little doll-mother! In the confidence of that family circle she may say things that she hardly could utter at court receptions! To some of her dolls, however, she undoubtedly shows a dignified reserve ; for instance, to the fifty lately given to her on her fourteenth birthday by her mother, the queen regent. They are stiff and im- posing, we may be sure, for they are dressed to represent soldiers of rank, in order that the little queen may be- come familiar with, and easily recognize, the different uniforms of the officers in her Dutch army. In concluding these simple chapters about the Land of Pluck, I yield to an impulse to quote—for the benefit of readers who would like a further familiar word about the Holland of to-day—some extracts from two personal letters recently received. The first is from an American QUEEN WILHELMINA OF HOLLAND, AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY KAMEKE, THE HAGUE, NETHERLANDS. ) HOLLAND TO-DAY 89 friend traveling through the Netherlands. The other was written by a young girl born and bred in Holland. “Tur Hacur, March 28, 189-. “ ,.. Heaven bless the Dutchmen! They are the most delightful and sterling folk that we have found in all Europe! And no more charming days have we had anywhere than at Amsterdam, at Haarlem, and at The Hague and Scheveningen. . . . At Amsterdam we saw the Great Dike and the lesser dikes (worthy monuments to the sturdy force of this brave race), and at Zaandam, near by, we went through a perfect forest of windmills, of which there are nearly four hundred within the town limits. A more picturesque sight cannot be imagined. As the little steamboat got into the thick of them, with those huge arms whirling close by on every side, the whole land- scape began to take on the motion, and I half expected the boat would turn a somersault any moment. But it was a fascinating spectacle. “« ... And the little cottages alongside the stream— how quaint and cozy! And every street in Amsterdam, and every woman and child—how clean and fair and tidy they look! And the delightful head-gear that the country women wear! And the happy, healthy smiles of the boys and girls! The virtues of these honest Dutch folk shine out to eyes that have just seen the Italian paupers. Small as it is, Holland can take care of itself For a thousand years the Dutch have fought the sea, and for eighty years they fought the greatest military power of Europe, and always held their own. 90 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Tn all our travels we have found no race so sturdy and independent as this, so healthy and seemingly so happy. Not a beggar have we seen in Holland, but we have seen the origin of many of the best characteristics of New York life. I never realized till now how much our big city owes to the Dutchmen. . . . And these people are not only the tidiest folk in the world, and among the bravest, cheeriest, and most upright, but they also have an inborn, genuine love of art. It is a significant fact that the only place in Europe in which we have seen the peo- ple of the country actually enjoying their great pictures, was in the Ryks Museum at Amsterdam. The great building was crowded with Dutch folk of all classes, and of a hundred different types— all really interested in the pictures. It was a study to watch them. “And the pictures themselves! The Dutchmen of to- day may well appreciate them. You remember Rem- brandt’s famous ‘Night Watch’ and his portrait of an old woman, at Amsterdam, and his celebrated ‘Anatomist, here at The Hague. I have seen now many of the most famous paintings in the world, but for perfection of tech- nical skill these of Rembrandt’s surely are equal to the best. True, he did not paint ideal subjects, nor enter the spiritual realm —in which the Italian masters were © so great. But as a portrait-painter he seems to me the greatest of all the masters. “... But I must restrain my enthusiasm, and tell you briefly that we have ‘done’ also the Amsterdam ‘ Zoo’ (one of the finest zodlogical gardens in the world), have heard the great organ of Haarlem, have seen two rich private gal- HOLLAND TO-DAY 91 leries, have heard the ‘Mikado’ sung in Dutch (fairly well sung, too, but with some nightmare words fitted to the music), have seen ‘Peter the Great’s hut’ at Zaandam,— and to-day an auction of fish on the beach at Schevenin- gen, with the fishermen and white-capped fisherwomen thronging about in their odd costumes and big wooden shoes. . . . To-morrow we return to Amsterdam.” Holland speaks for itself, and every traveler is its inter- preter. But here is an inside, home letter straight from the land of dikes. Its writer, a bright and patriotic Dutch gil, is in herself the best evidence one can have of the advantages of education her country offers to all. It cannot but be encouraging to young Americans try- ing to master a foreign language to note how admirably this young Hollander expresses herself in English. Not a word of her clearly written letter has been changed : “ SCHEVENINGEN, Feb. 28, 189-. e The winter has been, as probably everywhere else, exceptionally cold; an old-fashioned winter, and one that will be recorded in the annals of history and not soon forgotten. Of course, it has been the cause of much pov- erty and misery, and every one was thankful when, after weeks of severe frost, the thaw fell in; but much has been done to soften the sufferings of the poor, and those who went round to ask for help did not ask in vain. On the other hand, the whole country was alive with wholesome merriment, caused by the skating that was practised over the whole length and width of our watery little land. 92 THE LAND OF PLUCK Holland is very characteristic and very much at its ad- vantage during such a time, and I am really thankful. to have been able to join in the universal movement. “As you know, a great many of the people, especially the peasants, skate very well. The country is cut up by canals running from one town to the other, and from one village to the other ; along these waters slow barges travel peacefully the whole summer through, laden with coals, wood, vegetables, pottery, and numberless other things; a ereat deal of traffic is done in this slow but sure way, as it is a very cheap mode of transport. But these same waters now bore a much livelier aspect. People of all classes skated along their smooth surfaces, and many have been the expeditions planned and executed to skate from one town to the other, halting at several small villages on the way, and thus seeing the country in an original and very pleasant manner. “My sister and I, and several ladies and gentlemen, made a charming excursion on one of the finest and mild- est days of the winter. The sun shone brightly, the sky was blue, and although the thermometer pointed below zero, it was quite warm and delicious to skate. We were quite a large party, and went from the Hague to Amster- dam, and thence across the Y and farther over the inland waters to Monnickendam, on skates of course. “Monnickendam lies at the Zuider Zee, which is a kind of bay formed by the North Sea and surrounded by sev- eral provinces of our country. In comparison with your grand lakes, it is small, but we consider it quite a large water, and it is very rarely frozen over. This year, how- IN SUMMER-TIME — ON THE CANAL. HOLLAND TO-DAY 95 ever, it was one immense surface of ice, stretching itself out as far as the eye could reach. It was quite the thing this winter to go out and see it; so, of course, we went there and visited the small island of Marken, which is situated near the coast. «... Asmall steamer goes daily from Monnickendam to the island, or three times a week—I ’m not sure about that; now all the communication was done by sledge and on skates over the ice. Thousands of people have seen Marken this winter in that way, and the place is quite a curiosity, especially for strangers. (If you happen to have a map of the Netherlands you Il be sure to find where it lies in the Zuider Zee.) “The quaint costumes worn by the peasant men and women are alone well worth the voyage to the place, being quite different from those worn in Scheveningen, and be- sides the pokey little wooden houses are charming in their way, and exceedingly clean and neat, with rows of colored earthenware dishes along the walls, and carved chests and painted wooden boxes piled one on the top of the other containing their clothes. Although so near the civilized world these good people live quite apart, hardly ever marry some one not from the island, and seem quite con- tented. They earn their living by fishing, and occasion- ally get as far as a harbor of Scotland. “When we arrived at Marken across the ice we were very hungry, and on asking a peasant if he could procure us something to eat, were very hospitably received in his little house by his wife, who regaled us on bread, cheese, ‘and milk. Enormous hunches of bread! but what will a 96 THE LAND OF PLUCK L za A WOMAN OF ZEELAND, hungry skater not eat ? And we sat very snugly in their little room, admiring all their funny little contrivances. “... The Zuider Zee was very curious and interesting to see. Fancy an enormous field of ice crowded with thou- sands of people all on skates, and, moving swiftly between them, brightly painted sledges with strong horses and jing- HOLLAND TO-DAY 97 ling bells, looking very picturesque. Also little ice-boats with large sails that come flying across the frozen waters, looking like great birds, but keeping at a little distance from the crowd for fear of accidents. A fair was held on the ice, where were going on all kinds of harmless amuse- ments; and there were tents where they sold cakes and steaming hot milk and chocolate. The whole scene, the bright, moving, joyous crowd, made me think of the pictures by the old masters, like Teniers and Ostade, it was so thor- oughly Dutch. But to think that this immense solid sur- face, whereon you moved so confidently, would melt again before the year was much older and change itself into lap- ping waves! It was hardly conceivable! .. . “ At the Hague we have a very prettily situated skating- club, where our little circle of friends saw each other daily and where we spent many a pleasant hour. So the winter has flown by. It is not quite over, but it seems so to me, as the last weeks have been very fine, and the place where we live, being half country, directly takes a spring-like air. Tennis begins to reign supreme, and I am going to practise this game very seriously. «... [have not heard much music this winter. Our German opera, which grew poorer and poorer every year, 1s now gone altogether, and that was the only way in which we heard some Wagnerian operas, which I like above all others; indeed, the more you hear them the less you care about the others. Once a fortnight I regularly go to the concert, but there are times when I can’t listen to the music. My mind strays, and try as much as I will, the sounds pass over me and don’t leave any impression ; I think the reason 7 98 THE LAND OF PLUCK ® of this is that I have heard too much music in the last few years, and that I don’t appreciate it. So when it is not something I like very much I had rather not hear it, as I think it only needlessly fatigues my brain, and so I do not profit by it atall. .. . “Your letter was very pleasant and so fluently, written ! I wish I could do as well. My only consolation is that it is not my language; but then I cannot produce such a good style in Dutch either, and you will hardly believe it, but I need a dictionary more when I write a Dutch letter than when I write an English one. Of course I make a great many mistakes in English, but Dutch is a far more difficult language, and you never know when a word is masculine or feminine (unless you are exceedingly clever!), as it makes no difference when you speak, but a great difference when you write; so if you want to write correctly you have to look in the dictionary or else to guess. Then you say, ‘Oh! that word is probably feminine, and you change the sentence accordingly, and afterward you discover that you were quite wrong. Is not that a troublesome language ? The French can hear when to put ‘le’ or ‘la’ before the word (at least they rarely make mistakes), but we can’t. It sounds all the same when speaking. “. .. The year that has gone has been very much like the foregoing ones except for some political events which have created a change in our country. Our old king died, as you remember, and at his death there was a sincere mourning over the whole country. Personally he was not so very much liked; still his subjects were attached to him because he was (his two sons having died) the last A STREET IN THE HAGUE. HOLLAND TO-DAY 101 male descendant of a glorious and highly respected race: the House of Orange. The Oranges are loved by the Dutch because they can boast of many a valorous and wise ancestor, but principally because the head of the house, Prince William, who was murdered in 1584, freed the people from the Spanish tyrant whose despotic reign had become unbearable. “The sole descendant of this long list of princes and kings is our little Queen Wilhelmina, much beloved by the people, who cherish her as something very precious. The government is now in the hands of her mother, who is queen regent until the little one is eighteen years old. Queen Emma is a very superior woman, kind and wise, giving her little daughter a sensible education, and quite capable of filling her difficult position and of executing her duties exceedingly well. “Of course you, like a true American, do not feel any enthusiasm for kings and queens, but our government is constitutional and liberal, and I don’t think the people have in reality much more freedom in any of the new republics than in our kingdom. The two queens live in the Hague. As yet, of course, everything is very quiet at the court, but the mother and daughter can be seen daily when driving out, looking very happy together. They pass our house nearly every day. I would not be a queen for anything — would you? Fancy not a bit of freedom, not being able to move a step without the whole land, so to say, knowing of it; their sorrows and rejoicings public sorrows and rejoicings! Seemingly rulers of the land, but in reality dictated to in their slightest acts! 7% t 102 THE LAND OF PLUCK 4 “As yet all goes well in our little country, and I don’t think we need have any fear of being swallowed up by the ereat states that surround us. “... And now, my dear L., it is really time to finish this long letter. I think I never wrote such a long one before... . Ens: M—.” “ALL goes well in our little country.” Cheery words, these, from a daughter of the race. Long may all go well with sturdy, steadfast Holland, girt with grim dikes higher than the tallest of its foes ; the land of whirling sails and leaning seas; the great little land of oddity, thrift, patriotism—and pluck ! DAY-DREAMS ON THE DIKE “FIVE STOUT LITTLE HOLLANDERS, ALL SITTING IN DAY-DREAMS ON THE DIKE THERE were five of them,— Dirk van Dorf, Katrina van Dorf, Greitje Kuyp, Kassy Riker, and Ludoff Kleef,— five stout little Hollanders, all well and happy, and all sitting in the broad, bright sunlight—dreaming ! It was not so at first, you must know. They had been trudging along the great dike,— their loose wooden shoes beating the hard clay laughing a little, talking less, yet with an air of goodfellowship about them — these chubby little neighbor children, who knew one another so well that by a nod or a gesture, or by throwing a quick glance or a sinile, they could take one another’s meaning and make two words do the work of twenty. Their fathers and mothers were thrifty, hard-working folk living in Volen- dam, a little fishing-village hard by, built under one of the dikes of the Zuyder Zee. The children, being Hollanders, knew quite well that the dike they were treading was a massive, wide bank or 105 106 THE LAND OF PLUCK wall built to keep back the sea that was forever trying to spread itself over Holland, though Holland by no means intended to allow it to do any such thing. And _ they knew also, as did all Volendam, that Jan van Riper had been out over long in his little fishing-boat, and that there had been heavy winds after he started; also that his wife, Oo s who was continually scolding him, was now going about, her eyes red with weeping, telling the neighbors how good and easy he was, and how he would n't harm a kitten Jan would n’t! They knew, more- over, that Adrian Runckel’s tulip-bed “CHE WOULD N’T HARM A KITTEN— JAN WOULD N’T.”” was a show; hardly another man in the village had a flower worth looking at, if you went in for size, color, and stiffness. They knew, besides, that ever so many queer flapping and squirming things had been hauled in that very morning by Peter Loop’s big net only he was dreadfully cross, and would n’t let a body come near it—that is, a little body. Above all, they knew that the mother of Ludoff Kleef was coming to join DAY-DREAMS ON TH DIK 107 them as soon as she could finish wp her dairy-work, and make herself and the children tidy. All the party need do was to keep along the dike and be good, and take care of little Ludoff, and sit down and rest whenever they felt like resting, and of all things they were not to soil or tear their clothes. So you see they were neither empty- headed nor careworn, nor were they in any danger of falling asleep; yet there they sat, on the dike, side by side, dreaming ! Kassy Riker was the first to glide into a dream, though sitting close beside little Ludoff, who wrigeled, and won- dered why his mother and sister and baby brother did ’t come. He wanted to cry, but he felt in the depth of his baby soul that Kassy would laugh at him if he did; and as for the others, Greitje Kuyp was gazing a hundred iniles out to sea already; Katrina van Dorf was so busy with her knitting that she had forgotten there was such a thing as asmall boy in the world ; and big boy Dirk van Dorf—why, he was altogether too erand a person to be moved by any amount of howling. So poor little Ludoff amused himself by watching a long straw that in the still air hitched itself along till it wavered feebly on the edge of the dike, uncer- tain whether to stay on shore or start on a seafaring career. If the straw had settled upon any definite course of action, Ludoff would have done the same; but, as it was, Ludoff kept on watching and watching it until, in the stillness, he forgot all about being a little boy who wanted his mother; for was not the straw whisking one end feebly, and turning round to begin again ? Meantime Greitje Kuyp gazed out to sea, the great 108 THE LAND OF PLUCK Zuyder Zee, wondering why any one should think it was trying to come ashore and do mischief. It was so quiet, so grand, and it bore the big fishing-smacks so patiently, when it could so easily topple them over! Mother was patient and peaceful, too. Greitje herself (so went her day-dream) would be just like Mother, one of these days: she would sew and mend and churn and bake, only she would make more cakes and less bread.. Yes, she would bake great chests full of cinnamon-cakes,—aneel koehjes,— such as they sold at the Kermis; and she would be, oh, just as good and kind to her little girl as Mother was to her, and— * # % “T’m not going to stay at home all my life,” Kassy Tuker was thinking or dreaming. “Some day I shall keep a beautiful shop in Amsterdam, and sell laces and caps and head-gear and lovely things ; and I 71] courtesy and say ‘ja, mi nheer, like a grand lady; and Ill learn to sing and dance better than any girl at the Kermis; and IT shall wear gold on my temples, and have a lovely jacket for skating-days ; and every month I ’1l come ‘back for a while, and bring pretty things to Father, Mother, and the minister ; and —” “T’ve done full a finger-length of it to-day,” mused Katrina, as she pressed her red lips together and worked steadily at the chain she was weaving on a pin-rack for her father. “It shall be done by his birthday, and I’ll hang his big silver watch on-it while he ’s asleep, and then kiss and hug him till he opens his eyes. Ah, DAY-DREAMS ON THE DIKE 109 how we all will wish him a happy day and the Lord’s blessing! And if he gives me a little cart some time for my dog ‘Shag’ to draw, I think 171] fill it full of wet, shining fish and sell them at the market-town. No; I Il help Mother very hard at making the cheeses; and I ’Il fill the cart with them ; and soon Mother can have a fine new lace cap with the money, and a silk apron; and maybe I'll be so useful to the family that they 71] decide to take and then Ill work and I ’Il save, and save, till perhaps—” me out of school; and then “Can that be Jan van Riper’s boat?” mused big boy Dirk, as he eyed a fishing-smack just coming into view. “No, it ’s my uncle Ryk’s. Like enough, Jan has landed somewhere and put off to foreign parts, as he often says he will when Vrouw van Riper’s tongue gets too lively. ZI should. I ’d like to go to foreign parts, anyway. Lots of room for a fellow in Java; lots of rich Hollanders there —we Hollanders own it, they say ; and there ’s no reason a fellow like me should n’t grow to be a merchant and own warehouses, and—” # * * So the dreams ran on,— Greitje’s, Kassy Riker’s, Katrina’s, and Dirk van Dorf’s,—all different, and all very absorbing. Meantime the straw had shown itself so weak- minded and tedious that little Ludoff had nodded himself into a dose as he leaned against Greitje’s plump little shoulder. The dreaming time, pleasant as it was, had really not been very long; for even ‘a smooth sea, a soft summer breeze, and five serene little Dutch natures could 110 THE LAND OF PLUCK not have kept ten young legs and ten young arms quiet any longer. A great shout from the village came faintly to the chil- dren’s ears. Jan’s boat was in sight! The little folk were up and alert in an instant. They turned about, to look back toward the village,—and if there was not Ludofi’s mother, Mevrouw! Kleef, erect and smiling, com- ing briskly along the dike toward them! How handsome she looked, with her bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and the big lace cap, the blue-and-black short skirt, and the low jacket over the gaily-colored underwaist ! Her little Troide toddled beside her, taking two steps to the mother’s one, with deep blue eyes fixed upon the line of familiar forms just risen from the dike. The baby—it was a boy; one could tell thaé by the woolen slawpivuts, or nightcap, on -his head, for the girl-babies in Volendam never wear that kind—the baby, trig and smart, gazed from the mother’s arms at the same five familiar little forms, and in a moment the children all were crowd- ing around the mevrouw. “Jan is back, is n’t he?” asked Dirk. “Yes, [ suppose so,” she answered carelessly. The good woman was rather tired of her neighbor Jan van Riper’s frequent misbehavings and false alarms. “My, how warm the day!” she added, gently setting the baby down upon the turf beside her; “and the dear child is as weighty as a keg of herring !” “Oh, oh, the beauty!” exclaimed the girls, quite en- raptured with the little one; while Dirk and Ludoff 1 Mevroww, Madam (pronounced Meffrouw). 3s fifnodrugyy 7, me “LUDOFF’§ MOTHER, MEVROUW KLEEF, WAS COMING BRISKLY ALONG THE DIKE,” DAY-DREAMS ON THE DIKE 113 doubled their tists, and pretended (to his great delight) they were going to puminel him soundly. “Ves,” said the mother. “He’s a bouncing little man, and with a good head of his own. I was saying to myself as I came along that I should n’t wonder if he should get to be a grand burgomeister some day, and rule a city, and lift us all to greatness—and so you shall, my little one! There, there, don’t pull my skirt off, my Ludoff!” Then, looking brightly from one to another of the group, Mev- rouw Kleef asked: “And what have you been doing—you, Dirk, Katrina, and the rest of you?” “Nothing,” answered the children; but they all looked very happy. Day-dreams linger about us, you know, and light our way even when they are half forgotten. “And now, my children,” she continued, “ we are to have a great pleasure, for I shall take you all to see the men start Raff Ootcalt’s new windmill this very afternoon. Raff is to make a short speech, and there will be music and dancing and a little feast.” “Good, good!” cried the happy little crowd, eager to set off at once. So the mother took up her little burgomeister, and, rosy and smiling, started on her way back to the village, the children trudging after. WONDERING TOM ae eee ‘OH, TOM! THE KING WISHES TO SPEAK WITH you!” WONDERING TOM Lona, long ago, in a great city whose name is forgotten, situated on a river that ran dry in the days of Cinderella, there lived a certain boy, the only son of a poor widow. He had such a fine form and pleasant face that one day, as he loitered on his mother’s door-step, the King stopped on the street to look at him. “Who is that boy?” asked his Majesty of his Prime Minister. This question brought the entire royal procession to a standstill. The Prime Minister did not know, so he asked the Lord of the Exchequer. The Lord of the Exchequer asked the High Chamberlain; the High Chamberlain asked the Master of the Horse; the Master of the Horse asked the Court Physician; the Court Physician asked the Royal Rat-Catcher ; the Royal Rat-Catcher asked the Chief- Cook-and-Bottle-Washer ; and the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle- Washer asked a little girl named Wisk. Little Wisk, with a pretty courtesy, informed him that the boy’s name was Wondering Tom. st 117 118 THE LAND OF PLUCK “So, ho!” said the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle-Washer, tell- ing the Royal Rat-Catcher. “So, ho!” said the Royal Rat- Catcher, passing on the news; and it traveled in that way until, finally, the Prime Minister, bowing low to the King, said : “May it please your most tremendous Majesty, it ’s Wondering Tom.” ” “Tell him to come here!” said the King to the Prime Minister. “His Majesty commands him to come here!” was repeated to the next in rank; and again his words traveled through the Lord of the Exchequer, the High Chamberlain, the Master of the Horse, the Court Physician, the Royal Rat-Catcher, and the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle- Washer, until they reached little Wisk, who called out : “Oh, Tom! the King wishes to speak with you.” “With me!” exclaimed Tom, never budging. “Why?” “TI don’t know,” returned little Wisk, “ but you must go at once.” “ Why?” cried Tom. “Oh, Tom! Tom! they ’re going to kill you,” she eried, in an agony. “Wiy? What for?” shouted Tom, staring in the wild- est astonishment. Surely enough, the Master of Ceremonies had ordered forth an executioner with a bowstring. In that city, any man, woman, or child who disregarded the King’s slightest wish was instantly put to death. The man approached Tom. Another second, and the howstring would have done its work ; but the King held up his royal hand in token of pardon, and beckoned Tom to draw near, WONDERING TOM 119 “Whatever in all this world can his Majesty want with me?” pondered the bewildered boy, moving very slowly toward the monarch. “Well, sir!” said his Majesty, scowling. “So you are here at last! Why do they call you Wondering Tom?” “Mr, your Majesty?” faltered Tom. “I—I—don’t know.” “You don’t know? (Most remarkable boy, this!) And what were you doing, sir, when we sent for you ?” “Nothing, your Majesty. I was only wondering whether —” “Ah, I see. You take your life out in wondering, A fine, strong fellow like you has no right to be idling in his mother’s doorway. A pretty kingdom we should have if all our subjects were like this! You may go. - “He has a good face,” continued the King, turning to the Prime Minister, “ but he ll never amount to anything.” “Ah, exactly so,” said the Prime Minister. “Exactly so,” echoed the Lord of the Exchequer, and “ Exactly so,” sighed the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle-Washer at last, as the royal procession passed on. Tom heard it all. “ Now, how do they know that?” he muttered, seratch- ing his head as he lounged back to the door-step. “Why in the world do they think I ‘ll never amount to anything ?” In the doorway he fell to thinking of little Wisk. “What a very nice girl she is! I wonder if she ’d play with me if I asked her,—but I can’t ask her. I do wonder what makes me so afraid to talk to Wisk!” Meantime, little Wisk, who lived in the next house, watched him shyly. 120 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Tom!” she called out at last, swaying herself lithely round and round her wooden door-post, “the blackberries are ripe.” “You don’t say so!” exclaimed Tom, in surprise. “Yes, Ido. And, Tom, there are bushels of them in the woods just outside of the city gates.” “Oh!” answered Tom, “I wonder if there are!” “T now it,” said little Wisk, decidedly, “and I ’m going to get some.” “Dear me!” thought Tom, “T wonder if she ’d like to have me go with her. Wisk !” “What, Tom ?” “Oh, nothing,” said the frightened fellow, suddenly changing his mind, “I was only wondering whether it is going to rain or not.” “Rain? Of course not,” laughed little Wisk, as she ran off to join a group of children going toward the north city-gate ; “but even if it should rain, what matter 2?” “Oh,” thought Tom, “she ’s really gone for blackberries ! T wondered what she had that little kettle on her arm for. Pshaw! Why did n’t T tell her that I ’d like to go too?” Just then his mother came to the door, clapping a wet ruffle between her hands. She was a clear-starcher. “Tom, Tom! why dowt you set about something! There ’s plenty to do, in doors and out, if you ’d only think so.” “Yes, ma’am,” said Tom, wondering whether or not he was going to have a scolding. “But you look pale, my pet; go and play. Do. One does n’t often have such a perfect day as this (and such WONDERING TOM 121 splendid drying, too!). If I were you, I ’d make the most of it”; and the mother went back into the bare entry, still clapping the ruffle. “T do wonder how I can make the most of it,” asked Tom of himself, over and over again, as he sauntered off. He did n’t dare to go toward the north gate of the city, because he could n’t decide what he should say if he should meet little Wisk; so he turned toward the south. “Shall I go back, { wonder, or keep on?” thought Tom, as he found himself going farther from the door-step and nearer to the great city-wall, until at last the southern gate was reached. Following the dusty highway leading from the city, he came to pleasant fields. Then, after wading awhile through the sunlit grain, he followed a shady brook ‘and entered the wood. “Tt ’s pleasant here,” he thought. “I wonder why mother did 1’t get a cottage out here in the country in- stead of livine in the noisy city.” “Could u’t,” croaked a voice close by. Tom started. There was nobody near but frogs and crickets. Besides, as he had not spoken aloud, of course it could not be in answer to him. Still, he wondered what in the world the voice could be, and why it sounded like “could n’t.” “Tt certainly did sound so. Maybe she could 1’t, after all,” thought Tom ; “but why could 1’t she, T wonder?” “No-one-to-help,” said something, as it jumped with a splash into the water. “T do wonder what that was!” exclaimed Tom, aloud ; “there ’s nobody here, that ’s certain. Oh, it must have 122 THE LAND OF PLUCK been a toad! Queer, though, how very much it sounded like ‘no-one-to-help’! Poor mother! I don’t help her much, I know. Pshaw! what if I do love her, I ’m not the least bit of use, for I never know what to start about doing. What in all botheration makes me so lazy! Heigh-ho!” and Tom threw himself upon the grass, an image of despair. ‘He ‘Il never amount to anything, the King said. Now, what did he mean by that ?” “Dilly, dally !” said another mysterious voice, speaking far up among the branches overhead. Tom was getting used to it. He just lifted his eyebrows a little and wondered what bird that was. In a moment he found himself puzzling over the strange words. “«Dilly, dally, it said, I declare. Oh dear! It’s too bad to have to hear such things all the time. And then, there ’s the King’s ugly speech; a fellow is n’t agoing to stand everything !” He rested his elbows upon his knees, holding his face between his hands ; and, although he felt very wretched, he could n’t help wondering whether the daisies crowding in his shadow did n’t think it was growing late. They cer- tainly nodded as if they felt sleepy. Suddenly his hat, which had tumbled from his head and now lay near him, began to twitch strangely. “Pshaw!” almost sobbed Tom, “what ’s coming now, I wonder?” “Tam,” said a piping voice. “Where are you?” he asked, trembling. “Here. Under your hat. Lift it off” While Tom was wondering whether to obey or not, the WONDERING TOM 123 hat fell over, and out came a fairy, all shining with green and gold,—a funny little creature with a sprightly air. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds. “What troubles you, Master Tom?” asked the fairy. “So she knows my name!” thought the puzzled youth ; “well, that ’s queerer than anything! I’ve always heard that these woods were full of fairies ; but I never saw one before. I wonder why I ’m not more frightened.” “Did you hear me?” piped the little visitor. “Did you speak? Oh—yes—ina’am— certainly, I heard plainly enough.” “Well, what troubles you ?” He looked sharply at the fairy. Yes, her little face was kind. He would tell her all. “T wonder what your name is?” he said, by way of a beginning. “Tt ’s Setalit,” said the fairy. “In mortal language that means ‘come-to-the-point. Now be quick !—if you can. I shan’t stay long.” “Why ?” asked Tom, quite astonished. “Because I cannot. That’s enough. If you wish me to help you, you must promptly tell me your trouble.” “Oh!” said Tom, wondering where to begin. “Are you lame? Are you sick? Are you blind, deaf, or dumb ?” she asked, briskly. “Oh no,” he replied, “nothing like that. Only I don’t know what to make of things. Everything in this world puzzles me so, and I can’t ever make up my mind what to do.” “Well,” said Setalit, “perhaps I can help you a little.” 124 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Can you?” he exclaimed. “Now I wonder how in the world such a little mite as you ever—’ “Don’t wonder so much,” squeaked the fairy, impa- tiently, “but ask me frankly what I can do?” “Tm going to,” said Tom. “Going to!” she echoed. “What miserable creatures you mortals are! How could we ever get our gossamers spun if we always were going to do a thing, and never : doing it! Now listen. I’m a very wise fairy, if I am small; I can tell you how to accomplish anything you please. Don’t you want to be good, famous, and rich ?” “Certainly I do,” answered Tom, startled into making a prompt reply. “Very well,” she responded, quite pleased. “If you always knew your own mind as decidedly as that, they would n’t call you ‘Wondering Tom.” It’s an ugly name, Master Mortal. If I were you (may Titania pardon the dreadful supposition!) —if I were you, I ’d wonder less and work more.” “T wonder if I could n’t!” said Tom, half convinced. “There you go again!” screeched the fairy, stamping her tiny foot. “You ’re not worth talking to. I shall leave you.” “She ’s fading away,” cried Tom. “O fairy, good fairy, please come back! You promised to tell me how to be- come good and famous and rich!” Once more she stood before him, looking brighter and fresher than ever. “You ’re a noisy mortal,” she said, nodding pleasantly at Tom. “I thought for an instant that it was thunder- WONDERING TOM 125 ing, but it was only you, calling. I’ve a very little while to stay, but you shall have one more chance of obtaining everything you wish. Now, sir, be careful! I Il answer ? you any three questions you may choose to put to me”; and Setalit sat down on a toadstool, and looked very profound. “Only three?” asked Tom, anxiously. “Only three.” “Why can’t you give me a dozen? There ’s so much that one wishes to know in this world.” “ Because I cannot,” said the fairy, firmly. “But it’s so hard to put everything into such a few questions! I don’t know what in the world to decide upon. What do you think I ought to ask ?” “Consult the dearest wishes of your heart,’ answered Setalit, “for there is the truest wisdom.” “Ah, well. Let me think,” pursued Tom, with great de- liberation. “I want to be wise, of course, and good, and very rich—and I want mother to be the same,— and, good fairy, if you would n’t mind it, little Wisk to be the same too. And dear me! it’s hard to put everything into such a few questions. Let me see. First, I suppose T ought to learn how to become immensely rich, right off, and then I can give mother and Wisk everything they want; so, good Setalit, here ’s my first question, How can I grow rich, very rich, in —in one week ?” The fairy shook her head. “T would answer you, Master Tom, with ereat pleasure,” she said, “but this is number rour. You have already asked your three questions.” And she turned into a green frog and jumped away, chuckling. 126 THE LAND OF PLUCK Tom rubbed his eyes and sat up straight. Mad he been dreaming # “T’m a fool!” he cried. All the trees nodded, and their branches seemed to be having ereat fun among themselves. “A diy fool!” he insisted. The leaves fairly tittered. “Did n't old Katy, the apple-woman, call me a goose only this morning?” he continued, growing very angry with himself. “Katy did,” assented a voice from among the bushes. “Katy did n’t !” contradicted another. “ Katy did!” “ Katy did n't!” Tom laughed bitterly. “Ha! ha! Fight it out among yourselves, old fellows. Timay have been asleep; but, anyhow, I’ve been a fool!” “Ooo —!” echoed a solemn voice above him. Tom looked up, and in the hollow of an old tree he saw a ereat blinking owl. “Hallo, old Gogele-eyes! You ’re having something to say, too, are you?” The owl shifted his position, and stared at Tom an instant. Then, as if the sight of so ridiculous a fellow was too much for him, he shut his eyes with a loud “T whit!” that made Tom jump. All these things set the poor boy to thinking in earnest. The words of Setalit were ringing in his ears, “Jf J were you, Id wonder less and work more.” Going back through the wood across the brook, and over the lots, he pondered | : WONDERING TOM 127 and pondered over the day’s events, but with new resolu- tion in his soul. And the result of all his pondering was that, as he entered the city gate, he snapped his ‘fingers, saying,“ The King’s words shall never come true! Wonder- ing Tom is going to work at last!” THREE years passed away. “Little Wisk” grew to be quite a big girl; but nobody thought of calling her by any other name. She was so lithe and quick, so rosy, fresh, and sparkling, and so ten- der and true withal, that she was Little Wisk as a matter of course. One chilly November afternoon she missed old Katy, the old apple-woman, from her accustomed place at the street corner. “She must be ill,” thought little Wisk. “Perhaps she has no one to help her.” With some persons, to think is to act. Wisk stepped into a neighboring cobbler’s shop. “Mr. Wacksend, do you know where the old apple- woman. lives ?” “No,” said the cobbler, eruffly. “Shut the door when you go out.” Little Wisk looked at him as he sat upon his bench, pegging away at his work. “Poor man!” she said to herself, “pushing the awl through that thick leather makes him press his lips tight together, and I suppose pressing his lips so tight, day after day, makes him cross. I'll try the butcher.” She ran into the next shop. 128 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Mr. Butcher, do you know where the old apple-woman lives 2?” “Well,” said the butcher, pausing to wipe his cleaver on his big apron, “she does n’t exactly dwe anywhere. But, as the poor thing has neither kith nor kin to help her, why, for the past year or so I’ve just let her tumble herself in under a shed in my yard yonder. She ’s got an old chopping-bench for a table, and a pile of straw for a bed, and that ’s all her housekeeping.” “And does n’t she have anything to eat but apples?” asked Wisk, much distressed. “Bless your simple heart!” said the butcher, laugh- ing, “she can’t afford to eat her apples. No, no. She keeps the breath in her body mostly with black bread and scraps.” “Scraps ?” “Yes, meat-scraps. I save ’em for her out of the trim- min’s. But what are you wantin’ of her so particular ? Did you come to invite her to court 2” “Td like to see her for a moment,” said Wisk, shrink- ing from his coarse laugh. “Well,” answered the butcher, beginning to chop again, “the surest way of seeing her is to go to the corner and buy an apple.” “ But she is n’t there.” “Not there? That’s uncommon. Well,”—pointing back over his shoulder with his cleaver—*go down the alley here, alongside the shop; steer clear of old Beppo in his kennel, he ’s ugly sometimes; then go past the pig- sties and the skin-heaps, and cross over by the cattle-stalls ; WONDERING TOM 129 and right back of them, a little beyond, is the shed. May- be she ’s lying there sick ; like enough, poor thing!” Little Wisk followed the directions, as she picked her way carefully through the great bleak cattle-yard, think- ing, as she went, that killing lambs did n’t always make a man so very wicked, after all. Reaching the shed, she found the poor old apple-woman, moaning and bent nearly double with rheumatism. “ce I’M SORRY YOU ARE NOT WELL, Goopy,’ SAID LITTLE WISK.” “T’m sorry you are not well, Goody,” said Little Wisk. “We missed you, you know. What can I do for you?” “Bless your bright eyes! Did you come to see poor old Katy? Ough ah-h! the pain’s killing me, child! Oh, the Lord save us, ough ah!” 9 130 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Tt ’s too cold and damp for you in here, I ’m sure.” « Ah yes, it is, dearie dear,—ough, ough!—cold and wet enough !” “This old rusty stove would be nice if you had a fire in it, Goody.” “Oh, the stove, dearie! The good gentleman in the shop put it in here for me last winter. He’s kept me in meat-seraps, too. Oh,—oh,—oh! (it catches me that way often, child). But, alack! I have n’t a chip nor a shaving to make a bit of fire. Oh! oh! (the worst ’s in this shoul- der, dearie, and ’cross the back and into this ’ere knee). Yes, cold and wet enough, so it is. Aouch! No use s’arch- ing out there; you won't find nothing. Not a waste splin- ter of wood left, I’ll be bound, after my raking and scrap- ing till I was too sick to stand up.” “T do wish I had money to buy you some, Goody,” said Wisk. “I sha’n’t have another silver-piece till my next birthday, but you shall have that, I promise you.” “ Blessings on you for saying it, dearie; but old Katy is n’t going to last till then. What with cold and hunger (the meat on the nail there ’s no use, you see, if I can’t cook it), and this ere —ough —ah !—this ’ere dreadful rheumatiz, I can’t hold out much longer.” Suddenly a thought came to Wisk. “Oh, Katy!” she exclaimed, and off she ran, past the cattle-sheds, the skin-heaps, the pigsties, the dog-kennel, up the alley, up the street, and round the corner toward the river till she came to the workshop of a ship-carpenter. “Tom,” she said, hurrying in, quite out, of breath, and addressing a great strong boy who was working there, “won't you give me some shavings and chips ?” WONDERING TOM 131 “ Certainly,” said Tom, straightway beginning to scrape together a big pile. “What shall we put them in?” “Into my apron. They ’re for poor Katy, the apple- woman. She lives in an old shed in Slorter’s cattle-yard. She ’s sick, Tom, and she has n’t a thing to make a fire with.” “Oh, if that’s it,” said Tom, “we must get her up a cart-load of waste stuff, if the boss is willing.” The boss spoke up : “ Help yourself, Tom. You ’re the steadiest lad in the shop, and you ’ve never asked me a favor before. Help yourself. Take along all those odds and ends in the cor- ner yonder. Chips and shavings soon burn up.” “ Much obliged to you, sir,” said Tom ; and he added in a lower tone to Wisk, “I ’ll load up and take ’em ’round to her as soon as I’ve done my work. You can carry your apronful now.” Wisk held up the corners of her apron while Tom filled it, laughing to see how she lifted her pretty chin so that he might pile in a “good lot,” as she called it. “ There !” he exclaimed at last, “that ’s as much as you can manage.” “Thank you, Tom. Oh, how kind you are! I was as sure as anything that you ’d know just what to do. Thank you again, Tom,” and she started at once. “Wisk !” He had followed her to the door. When she turned back, in answer to his call, he tried to speak to her, but coughed instead. “Did you want me, Tom?” she asked, demurely. “Yes, Wisk. I—I wanted to say that—that J—” 132 THE LAND OF PLUCK “Why, what a cough you have, Tom! It’s from work- ing so much in this windy shop. Oh, Tom, I’ve just thought! If Katy had a door to her shed and a bench with a back to it, she ’d be so comfortable!” “She shall have both,” said Tom. “I ll do it this very evening. It’s full moon.” “Oh, you dear, blessed Tom! Good-by.” “Wisk!” But she was already running down the street. Tom turned back slowly. I think he was wondering, though he had really conquered that old habit. But it is so dif- ficult, sometimes, to say just what we feel to those whom we like very much! “First the shavings, then the chips,” sang Wisk’s happy heart, as she hurried along ; “ first the shavings, and then the chips, and then a spark from old Katy’s tinder-box, and sha’n’t we have a beautiful blaze!” That night, the one-eyed dog in the butcher’s yard had a hard time of it. There was the moon to be barked at; the pigs to be barked at; the sheep, the oxen, and the lambs to be barked at every time they moved in their stalls. The skin-heap, too, required a constant barking to keep it from stirring while the rats were burrowing beneath. And then there was the strange lad to be barked at, coming in twice, as he did, with a hand-cart heaped high with chips, shavings, and blocks, and again coming back with planks, hammer, and saw. And the sudden smoke from the sick woman’s fire; ah, how it bothered old Beppo! He had lived long in the yard, and remembered well nearer | ; : | | | | WONDERING TOM 133 how the high chimney had stood there for years and years,—all that was left of a burned-down factory,— and how the shed had been built up around it as if to keep it from tumbling. For months past it had been a quiet, well-behaved chimney ; but now to see smoke rush- ing out of it at such a rate, bound straight for that irri- tating moon, was really too much to stand. So Beppo barked and barked; and Tom hammered and hammered ; and old Katy, warm at last, curled herself up in the straw, saying over and over again, “How nice it will be! 1? How nice it will be YEARS passed on. One day, the King and his court came riding down that same city again. Suddenly his Majesty, grown older now, halted before a boat-builder’s shop, and asked: “Who is that busy fellow, yonder ?” “Where, your most prodigal Majesty?” asked the Prime Minister in return. “Tn the shop. Yesterday this same young fellow and his man were busy out on the docks. He works with a will, that fellow. I must set him at the royal ships.” “The royal ships!” echoed the Prime Minister, “your most overwhelming Majesty; why, that is a fortune for any man!” “T know it. Why not?” said the King. “What is his name ?” The Prime Minister could not say. And again, as on that day lone before, the question traveled through the o* 134 THE LAND OF PLUCK > “**THOMAS REDDY, YOUR MAJESTY. erandees of the court, until it reached the Chief-Cook-and- Bottle-Washer, and the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle-Washer asked a pretty young woman named Wisk, who chanced to be coming out of the shop. “He ’s a master-builder,” replied Wisk, blushing. “But what ’s his name ?” repeated the Chief-Cook-and- Bottle-Washer. “He used to be called Wondering Tom,” she answered ; “but now we all call him by his real name, Thomas Reddy.” WONDERING TOM 135 “Thomas Reddy!” shouted the Chief-Cook-and-Bottle- Washer. “Thomas Reddy!” cried the Royal Rat-Catcher. And, in fact, “Thomas Reddy!” was called so often and so loudly along the line before it reached the only officer who could venture to speak to the King, that the master- builder, with a keen eye to business, threw down his tools and came out of the shop. “Oh, Tom! Again the King wishes to speak with you,” said Little Wisk. They took each other by the hand, and together walked toward his Majesty. “Behold!” said the King, “we have found the finest young workman in our realms! Let preparations be made at once for proclaiming him Royal Ship-Builder ! What do they call you, young man? I’ve lost the name.” “Thomas Reddy, your Majesty,” he answered, his eye sparkling with grateful joy. « And who are you, my pretty one?” “Oh, I’m his wife,” said the smiling Wisk. LITTLE VEMBA BROWN LITTLE VEMBA LROWN. LITTLE VEMBA BROWN VEMBA was a new name in the Brown family; and, very properly, it was given to a brand-new girl,— the sweetest, prettiest mite of a girl, in fact, that ever had come to join the Brown household. To be sure, six years before this, they had weleomed a Morris Brown nearly as small and sweet and pretty, and, later on, a Harris Brown, who began life as a baby of the very first quality ; but they, both, were boys. And here was a girl! She was so new that she did not know Morris and Harris were in the house. Think of that! And if she had noticed them, she would not have had the slightest idea who they were. Dear me! How very well acquainted the three became after awhile! But at first, when the little girl was only a few wecks old, she was still quite a stranger to the boys, and had no other name than Miss 3yown; yet she had the air of owning not only Mr. and Mrs. Brown, but all the family, and the very house they lived in. Why, the King of the Cannibal Islands him- self could not have made her change countenance unless she chose to do so. Well, there they were-— Morris Brown, aged six years, 139 140 THE LAND OF PLUCK Harris Brown, aged three, and Miss Brown of hardly any age at all. These were the Brown children. “Dear me! a bonny little lady !” said Uncle Tom, who had come all the way from Philadelphia to take a look at the baby. At this point of time, as he gazed at her through his spectacles, all the family crowded around ; the boys, proud and happy, stood on either side of him to hear what his opinion might be. “A bonny little lady,” repeated Uncle Tom; “and now, Stephania, what are you going to call her ?” He turned so suddenly upon Mrs. Brown, in his brisk way, that it made her start. “Dear me! I—I—don’t know,” she answered. “Some novel, pretty name, of course ; something fanciful; but we have nt settled upon one yet.” “Why not call her Stephania, after you and me?” asked Grandmama, brightly. “Oh, dear, no,” sighed Mrs. Brown; “I ’d like some- thing not so horri—, I mean, something more fanciful than that!” “Well, I declare!” exclaimed Grandmama, and she closed her lips as if resolved never to say another word about it. “We have thought of Marjorie,” remarked Mr. Brown, with a funny twinkle in his eyes, “and, ahem! two or three others,—Mabel, for instance, and Ida, and Irene, and Clara, and Jean, and Olivia; Florence, and Francesca, too, and Lily; Alice, and Elinor, and Anita, and Jessie, and Dora, and Isabel, and Bertha, and Louise, and Can- LITTLE VEMBA BROWN 141 dace, and Alma; but Stephania condemns every one of them as too plain or too hackneyed. The fact is, all the pretty names are used up.” “You might name her Chestnut,” said Morris, musingly. “There are three of us, and three is an awful lot.” Just then the wind howled dismally ; sere and yellow leaves whirled past the windows. !” exclaimed Grandmama. is n't it?” “Here ’s sunshine, though,’ murmured Mrs. Brown, cheerily. “You ’re a ’ittle pessus bit of booful sunshine, so you is, even if you is a poor ‘itty "Vember baby !” and she fell to kissing Miss Brown in the most rapturous manner. “Goodness, what weather “Bleak even for November “Ha! there it is!” cried Uncle Tom. “Vemba ’s her name. Her mother has said it. Let us call her Vemba!” Every one laughed, but Uncle Tom was in earnest; be- sides, he had to take the afternoon train back to Phila- delphia, and you know how they always rush matters through in Philadelphia. “Tt’s a good name, and new,” he said, nodding his head in a rotary way that somehow took in Mr. Brown, Mrs. 3rown, Grandma Brown, Morris Brown, Harris Brown, and Miss Brown. “It ’s a good name. Think it over. I must be off!” “Vemba, from November?” eried Grandma. “What a bleak name! Do you want the poor child to be a shadow on the house?” and the dear old lady flourished her knit- ting as she spoke. Whether it was the gleam of the long needles, or Uncle 142 THE LAND OF PLUCK Tom’s frantic but slow way of putting on his coat,— or whether Miss Brown, catching Grandina Brown’s words, had suddenly resolved to show them that she had n’t the slightest intention in the world of being a shadow on the house, I do not know. But certain it is she smiled,— smiled the brightest, sunniest little smile you can imagine. All the family were delighted. The boys shouted, Papa laughed, Mama laughed, Uncle Tom laughed, and Coane exclaimed, “ Well, I never!” “She ’s answered you, Grandma!” cried Uncle Tom, bending down with only one sleeve of lis overcoat on,— and actually kissing the baby, “she has answered you. Ha, ha! No clouds about her ; you see she ’s a sunshine- girl, Well, good-by, little Vemba! Good-by, all,” and he was out of the room and on his way to the train before the baby had time to blink. Well, to make a long story short, the more they thought about the new name, the better they liked it. Besides, Morris and Harris, who adored Uncle Tom, would hear of no other. Papa declared it was not “half bad,” and even Mana adinitted that at least it was not commonplace. Meanwhile, the baby fell into a pleasant sleep. When she awoke her name was Vemba Brown. That was five years ago, this November, and now every one says that of all the sweet, sunny, bright little girls in New York, Vemba Brown is the sunniest, brightest, and sweetest. She is now thorouchly acquainted with Morris an Harris; and as for Uncle Tom—well, you should have heard her laugh the other day when that gentleman told the wee maiden that bleak November would soon LITTLE VEMBA BROWN 143 be here, and then everybody would shiver and sneeze — So /—and you should have seen her throw her arms around his neck and kiss him when that same day he gave her a beautiful new walking-suit and a soft white muff to keep her little hands warm ! And oh, you should have seen, besides, what the little maid found waiting for her when she went down to break- fast on that happy birthday! A gift from Mama, and an- other from Papa. One of the gifts was very quiet, for it held a secret ; the other at first was just a little noisy, and he soon told Vemba all he knew. WAITING FOR VEMBA ! THE CROW-CHILD CORA AND RUKY. THE CROW-CHILD Mipway between a certain blue lake and a deep forest there once stood a cottage, called by its owner “The Ltookery.” The forest shut out the sunlight and scowled upon the ground, breaking with shadows every ray that fell, until only a few little pieces lay scattered about. But the broad lake invited all the rays to come and rest upon her, so that sometimes she shone from shore to shore, and the sun winked and blinked above her, as though dazzled by his own reflection. The cottage, which was very small, had sunny windows and dark windows. Only from the roof could you see the mountains beyond, where the light crept up in the morning and down in the evening, turning all the brooks into living silver as it passed. But something brighter than sunshine used often to look from the cottage into the forest, and something even more gloomy than shadows often glowered from its win- dows upon the sunny lake. One was the face of little Ruky Lynn; and the other was his sister’s when she felt angry or ill-tempered. They were orphans, Cora and Ruky, living alone in the cottage with an old uncle. Cora—or “Cor,” as Ruky 147 148 THE LAND OF PLUCK called her — was nearly sixteen years old, but her brother had seen the forest turn yellow only four times. She was, therefore, almost mother and sister in one. The little fel- low was her companion night and day. Together they ate and slept, and — when Cora was not at work in the cot- tage — together they rambled in the wood, or floated in their little skiff upon the lake. tuky had bright, dark eyes, and the glossy blackness of his hair made his cheeks look even rosier than they were. He had funny ways for a boy, Cora thought., The quick, bird-like jerks of his raven-black head, his stately baby gait, and his habit of pecking at his food, as she called it, often made his sister laugh. Young as he was, the little fellow had learned to mount to the top of a low-branching tree near the cottage, though he could not always get down alone. Sometimes when, perched in the thick foliage, he would scream, “Cor! Cor! Come, help me down!” his sister would answer, as she ran out laughing, “ Yes, little Crow! I’m coming.” Perhaps it was because he reminded her of a crow that Cora called him her little bird. This was when she was good-natured and willing to let him see how much she loved him. But in her cloudy moments, as the uncle called them, Cora was another girl. Everything seemed ugly to her, or out of tune. Even Ruky was a trial; and, instead of giving him a kind word, she would scold and grumble until he would steal from the cottage door, and, jumping lightly from the door-step, seek the shelter of his tree. Once safely perched among its branches he knew she would finish her work, forget her ill-humor, and be THK CROW-CHILD 149 quite ready, when he cried “Cor! Cor!” to come from the cottage with a cheery, “Yes, little Crow! I’m com- ing! I ’m coming!” No one could help loving Ruky, with his quick, affec- tionate ways; and it seemed that Ruky, in turn, could not help loving every person and thing around him. He loved his silent old uncle, the bright lake, the cool forest, THE HOME OF CORA AND RUKY. and even his little china cup with red berries painted upon it. But more than all, Ruky loved his golden-haired sis- ter, and the great dog, who would plunge into the lake at the mere pointing of his chubby little finger. In fact, that finger and the commanding baby voice were “law” to Nep at any time. Nep and Ruky often talked together, and though one used barks and the other words, there was a perfect under- standing between them. Woe to the strageler that dared to rouse Nep’s wrath, and woe to the bird or rabbit that ven- tured too near!—those great teeth snapped at their prey 10” 150 THE LAND OF PLUCK without even the warning of a growl. But Ruky could safely pull Nep’s ears or his tail, or climb his great shagey back, or even snatch away the untasted bone. Still, as I said before, every one loved the child; so, of course, Nep was no exception. One day Ruky’s “Cor! Cor!” had sounded oftener than usual. THis rosy face had bent saucily to kiss Cora’s up- turned forehead, as she raised her arms to lift him from the tree; but the sparkle in his dark eyes had seemed to kindle so much mischief in him that his sister’s patience became fairly exhausted. “ Has Cor nothing to do but to wait upon you?” she cried, “and nothing to listen to but your noise and your racket ? You shall go to bed early to-day, and then I shall have some peace.” “No, no, Cor. Please let Ruky wait till the stars come. Ruky wants to see the stars.” “Hush! Ruky is bad. He shall have a whipping when Uncle comes back from town.” Nep growled. “WMa!ha!” laughed Ruky, jerking his head saucily from side to side; “ Nep says ‘No!’” Nep was shut out of the cottage for his pains, and poor iiuky was undressed, with many a hasty jerk and pull. “You hurt, Cor!” he said, plaintively. “I’m going to take off my shoes my own self.” “No, you ’re not,” cried Cora, almost shaking him; and when he cried she called him naughty, and said if he did not stop he should have no supper. This made him ery all the more, and Cora, feeling in her angry mood that he deserved severe punishment, threw away his supper and THE CROW-CHILD 151 put him to bed. Then all that could be heard were Ruky’s low sobs and the snappish clicks of Cora’s needles, as she sat knitting, with her back to him. He could not sleep, for his eyelids were scalded with 1” tears, and his plaintive “Cor! Cor!” had reached his sister’s ears in vain. She never once looked up from those eleam- ing knitting-needles, nor even gave him his good-night kiss. It grew late. The uncle did not return. At last Cora, sulky and weary, locked the cottage door, blew out her candle, and lay down beside her brother. The poor little fellow tried to win a forgiving word, but she was too ill-natured to grant it. In vain he whispered, “Cor, Cor!” He even touched her hand over and over again with his lips, hoping she would turn toward him, and, with a loving kiss, murmur, as usual, “Good night, little bird.” Instead of this, she jerked her arm angrily away, saying: “Oh, stop your pecking and go to sleep! I wish you were a crow in earnest, and then I ’d have some peace.” After this, Ruky was silent. His heart drooped within ? him as he wondered what this “peace” was that his sister wished for so often, and why he must go away before it could come to her. Soon, Cora, who had rejoiced in the sudden calm, heard a strange fluttering. In an instant she saw by the starlight a dark object circle once or twice in the air above her, then dart suddenly through the open window. Astonished that Ruky had not shouted with delight at the strange visitor, or else clung to her neck in fear, she turned to see if he had fallen asleep. 152 THE LAND OF PLUCK No wonder that she started up, horror-stricken,— Ruky was not there ! His empty place was still warm; perhaps he had slid softly from the bed. With trembling haste she lighted the candle, and peered into every corner. The boy was not to be found ! Then those fearful words rang in her ears: “I wish you were a crow in earnest !” Cora rushed to the door, and, with straining gaze, looked out into the still night. “Ruky! Ruky!” she screamed. There was a slight stir in the low-growing tree. “Ruky, darling, come back !” “Caw, caw!” answered a harsh voice from the tree. Something black seemed to spin out of it, and then, in great sweeping circles, sailed upward, until finally it settled upon one of the loftiest trees in the forest. “Caw, caw!” it screamed, fiercely. The girl shuddered, but, with outstretched arms, cried out : “Oh, Ruky, if it is you, come back to poor Cor!” “Caw, caw!” mocked hundreds of voices, as a shadow like a thunder-cloud rose in the air. It was an immense flock of crows. She could distinguish them plainly in the starlight, circling higher and higher, then lower and lower, until, with their harsh “Caw, caw!” they sailed far off into the night. “Oh, Ruky, answer me!” she cried. Nep growled, the forest trees whispered softly together, and the lake, twinkling with stars, sang a lullaby as it lifted THE CROW-CHILD ' 153 its weary little waves upon the shore: there was no other sound, It seemed that daylight never would come; but at last the trees turned slowly from black to green, and the lake put out its stars, one by one, and waited for the new day. Cora, who had been wandering restlessly in every direc- tion, now went weeping into the cottage. “Poor boy!” she sobbed ; “he had no supper.” Then she scattered bread- crumbs near the doorway, hoping that Ruky would come for them; but only a few timid little songsters hovered about, and, while Cora wept, picked up the food daintily, as though it burned their bills. When she reached forth her hand, though there were no crows among them, and called “Ruky! Ruky!” they scattered and flew away in an instant. Next she went to the steep-roofed barn, and, bringing out an apronful of grain, scattered it all around his favorite tree. Before long, to her great joy, a flock of crows came by. They spied the grain, and soon were busily picking it up with their short, feathered bills. One even came near the mound where she sat. Unable to restrain herself longer, she fell wpon her knees with an imploring ery : “Oh, Ruky ! is this you ?” Instantly the entire flock set up an anery “caw,” and, surrounding the crow, who was hopping closer and closer to Cora, hurried him off, until they all looked like mere specks against the summer sky. Every day, rain or shine, she scattered the grain, tremb- ling with dread lest Nep should leap among the hungry crows, and perhaps kill her “little bird” first. But Nep 154 THE LAND OF PLUCK “fou, RUKY! IS THIS you?’” knew better; he never stirred when the noisy crowd set- tled around the cottage, excepting once, when one of them pounced upon his back. Then he started up, wagging his tail, and barking with uproarious delight. The crow flew off in a flutter, and did not venture near him again. THE CROW-CHILD 155 Poor Cora felt sure that this could be no other than Ruky. Oh, if she only could have caught him then! Per- haps with kisses and prayers she night have won him back to Ruky’s shape; but now the chance was lost. There was no one to help her; for the nearest neighbor dwelt miles away, and her uncle had not yet returned. After awhile she remembered the little cup, and, filling it with grain, stood it upon a grassy mound. When the crows came, they fought and strugeled for its contents with many an angry cry. One of them made no effort to seize the grain. He was content to peck at the berries painted upon its sides, as he hopped joyfully around it again and again. Nep lay very quiet. Only the tip of his tail twitched with an eager, wistful motion. But Cora sprang joyfully toward the bird. “Tt is Ruky!” she cried, striving to catch it. Alas! the cup lay shattered beneath her hand, as, with a taunting, “ caw, caw,” the crow joined its fellows and flew away. Next, gunners came. They were looking for other birds; but they hated the crows, Cora knew, and she trembled for Ruky. She heard the sharp crack of fowling-pieces in the forest, and shuddered whenever Nep, pricking up his ears, darted with an angry howl in the direction of the sound. She knew, too, that her uncle had set traps for the crows, and it seemed to her that the whole world was against the poor birds, plotting their destruction. Time flew by. The leaves seemed to flash into bright colors and fall off almost in a day. Frost and snow came. Still the uncle had not returned, or, if he had, she did not ‘4 TERRIBLE NIGHT OF WIND AND STORM.” THE CROW-CHILD 157 know it. Her brain was bewildered. She knew not whether she ate or slept. Only the terrible firing reached her ears, or that living black cloud came and went with its ceaseless “ caw.” At last, during a terrible night of wind and storm, Cora felt that she must go forth and seek her poor bird. “Perhaps he is freezing—dying!” she cried, springing frantically from the bed, and casting her long cloak over her night-dress. In a moment, she was trudging barefooted through the snow. It was so deep she could hardly walk, and the sleet was driving into her face; still she kept on, though her numbed feet seemed hardly to belong to her. All the way she was praying in her heart; promising never, never to be passionate again, if she only could find her bird — not tuky the boy, but whatever he might be. She was will- ing to accept her punishment. Soon a faint cry reached her ear. With eager haste, she peered into every fold of the drifted snow. A black object caught her eye. It was a poor storm-beaten crow, lying there benumbed and stiff. For Ruky’s sake she folded it closely to her bosom, and plodded back to the cottage. The fire cast a rosy light on its glossy wing as she entered, but the poor thing did not stir, Softly stroking and warming it, she wrapped the frozen bird in soft flannel and blew into its open mouth. Soon, to her great relief, it revived, and even swallowed a few grains of wheat. Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still fold- ing the bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I ask,” she sobbed. “I dare not ask for more.” 158 THE LAND OF PLUCK “JUST TWO Hours.” Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed to grow larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers pressing lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft and warm wound itself tenderly about her neck, and she heard a sweet voice saying : “Don’t ery, Cor,—I "Il be good.” THE CROW-CHILD 159 She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The starlight shone into the room. Lighting her candle, she looked at the clock. It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel words! Sobbing, she asked : “ Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear ?” “T don’t know, Cor. Do people ery when they ’re asleep ?” “Sometimes, Ruky,” clasping him very close. “Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don’t let Uncle whip Ruky.” . “No, no, my little bird—I mean, my brother. Good night, darling !” “Good night.” we. ow male. A ry So) <3 no SP. c} oop ee, vine TRAPPER JOE Ve ‘ TRAPPER JOE STOOD ON THE EDGE OF THE TIMBER-LAND LISTENING TO “—K DID N’Y KNOW WHAT.” (PAGE 173.) TRAPPER JOE How strange it all seemed to little Winifred! One year ago, or, as she reckoned it, one snow-time and one flower-time ago, she was living in Boston, and now she was in the wilds of Colorado. It was a great change — this going from comfort and luxury to a place where com- fort was hard to find, and luxury not to be thought of; where they had a log-hut instead of a house, and a pig in place of a poodle. But, on the whole, she enjoyed it. Her father was better, and that was what they came for. The doctor had said Colorado air would cure him. And, though her young Mother often looked tired and troubled, she certainly never used to break forth into happy bits of song when Father was ill in bed, as she did now that he was able to help cut down trees in the forest. Besides, who ever saw in Boston such beautiful blue flowers and such flaming red blossoms? And what was the frog-pond com- pared with these streams that now, in the springtime, came rushing through the woods—silently sometimes, and sometimes go noisily that, if it were not for their sparkle when they passed the open, sunny places, and the playful 163 164 THE LAND OF PLUCK way they had of running into every chink along the banks, one would think they were anery? Yes, on the whole, Winifred liked Colorado ; and so did her little brother Nat ; though, if you had told him Boston was just around the corner, he would have started to run there without waiting to put on his cap. A little mite of a fellow Nat was, full of good nature and sunshine. Although he thought himself quite a big boy, as he strutted about in his home-made jacket and and that was to be away from Mother, even for an hour. There trousers, one thing could sorely trouble him was something in Mother’s way of singing, Mother’s way of kissing hurt little heads and fingers, Mother’s way of sprinkling sugar upon bread, and Mother’s way of rock- ing tired little boys, that Nat approved of most heartily. He loved his father, too, and thought him the most power- ful woodcutter that ever swung an ax, though really the poor man had to stop and rest at nearly every stroke. See these two children now trudging toward the shal- low bend of the little river near by, quite intent upon the launching and sailing of a tiny sloop that Father had made for Nat on the evening before, warranting only that she would float. This she did, and reared her one sail most gallantly. But alas! inspired by the current she sailed too well. It required the restraining efforts of both children to keep her near shore; and when at last Winnie remarked in cold scorn that she did n’t see much fun in sailing a boat that had to be pulled back all the time, Nat and she promptly decided to try some other kind of sport. Father’s big rowboat was moored close by, and why not TRAPPER JOE 165 get into it and set it a-rocking? Father and Mother both had laughed the other day to see them do this —so of course there could be no harm in it. But when they had climbed into the rowboat they found it too hot and sunny. At least Winnie said it was so. “NOT MUCH FUN IN SAILING A BOAT THAT HAD TO BE PULLED BACK ALL THE TIME.” “Let ’s try the canoe,” she added, in a sprightly way. “T’msure Papa would let us just sit in it.” “Course he would,” responded Nat, promptly beginning to climb out of the boat as he spoke. The canoe was tied to a stake a little farther downstream, where the river grew narrow, and the current was much stronger. It was matle of bark, and was pointed at both ends. Now that the stream was swollen and flowing fast, it was fine fun to sit together in the middle and “ get bounced about,” as Winnie said. 11* 166 THE LAND OF PLUCK “You get in first, because you ’re the littlest,” said Win- nie, holding her dress tightly away from the plashing wa- ter with one hand, and pulling the boat close to the shore with the other. “No, you get in first, cause you’m a girl,” said Nat. “I don’t want any helpin’. I’m going to take off my tods and tockies first, cause Mama said I might.” Nat could say “shoes and stockings” quite plainly when he chose, but everybody said “toos and ’tockies” to him; so he looked upon these words, and many other crooked ones, as a sort of language of Nat, which all the world would speak if they only knew how. In at last,— both of them,—and a fine rocking they had. The bushes and trees threw cool shadows over the canoe, and the birds sang, and the blue sky peeped down at them through little openings overhead, and, altogether, with the plashing water and the birds and pleasant murmur of insects, it was almost like Mother’s rocking and singing. At first they talked and laughed softly. Then they lis- tened. Then they talked a very little; then they listened again, lying on the rushes in the bottom of the canoe. Then they ceased talking, and watched the branches wav- ing overhead; and, at last, they both fell sound asleep. This was early in the forenoon. Mother was very busy in the cabin, sweeping the room, making the beds, heating the oven, and doing a dozen other things. At last she took a plate of crumbs, and went out to feed the chickens. “Winnie! Nat!” she called, as she stepped out upon the clean, rough door-stone. “Come, feed the chickens!” TRAPPER JOR 167 Then she added, in a surprised way, to herself: “Why, where in the world can those childyen be? They must have stopped at the new clearing to see their father.” At dinner-time, she blew the big tin horn that hung by the door, and soon her hus- band came home alone, hun- ery and tired. “Oh, you little witches!” laughed the mother, without looking up from her task of bread-cutting. “How could you stay away so long from Mama? ‘Tired, Frank ?” “Yes, very. But what do you mean? Where ave the youngsters ?” She looked up now, ex- claiming in a frightened voice, as she ran out past her hus- band: “Oh, Frank! I ’ve not seen them for two or three hours. I thought they were with you. They surely would vil) FRANK! FRANK! THE CANOE IS GONE!’” n't have played allthis time with the little sloop!” The father, who was indeed very weary, and not at all alarmed, sat quietly awaiting her return. But when, in a few moments, she rushed in screaming: “Oh, Frank! Frank! the canoe is gone!” he sprang up, and together they ran toward the stream. 168 THE LAND OF PLUCK All that long, terrible day, and the next, they searched. They followed the stream, and at last found the canoe but it was empty! In vain the father and mother and their only neighbor wandered through the forest in every direction, calling: “ Winnie! Winnie! Nat! Nat!” In vain the father and the neighbor took their boats and explored the stream for miles and miles —no trace could be found of the poor little creatures who, full of life and joy, had so lately jumped into their father’s canoe to “be bounced about.” Where were they? Alas! they themselves did not know. They only knew that they had been wakened sud- denly by a great thump, and that when they sprang out of the canoe, and started to go home, everything was dif- ferent. There was no foot-path, no clearing where trees had been cut down, no sound of Father’s ax near by, nor of Mother’s song and the stream was rushing on very an- erily over its sandy bed. The canoe, which had broken loose and, borne on by the current, had drifted away with them nearly three miles from the stake, was wedged be- tween two great stones when they jumped out of it; but now it was gone the waters had taken it away. After a while, in their distracted wanderings, they could not even find the stream, though it seemed to be roaring in every .direction around them. Now they were in the depths of the forest, wandering about, tired, hunery and frightened. That night they cried themselves to sleep in each other’s arms under the black trees; and, as the wind moaned through the branches, Winnie had prayed God to save them from the wolves, eel TRAPPER JOE 169 and little Nat had screamed, “Papa! Mama!” sobbing as if his heart would break. In the morning all they could find to eat was a few sweet red berries that grew close to the ground. Every hour the poor children grew fainter, and, at last, Nat could n’t walk at all. “Tm too tired and sick,” he said, “and my feets all tut. My toos and ’tockies is in the boat. O Winnie! Winnie!” he would cry, with a great sob, “why dowt Mama ’v Papa come? Oh, if Mama ’d only come and bring us some bread!” “Don’t ery, dear — don’t ery,” Winnie would say over and over again. “T’ll find some more red berries soon; and God will show us the way home. I know he will. Only don’t cry, Nat, because it takes away all my courage.” “What?” asked Nat, looking wildly at her as if he thought cour- age was something they could eat. 170 THE LAND OF PLUCK “All my courage, Nat.” And then, after searching in vain for more red berries, she would moan: “ Dear Father in Heaven, I can’t find anything more for Nat to eat. Oh, please show us the way home!” Often she would tie her handkerchief high upon some sapling, and, charging Nat on no account to “ move a single inch, dear,” she would place him down by the tree, and then press through the thicket and stumble over fallen boughs in the vain hope of spying a foot-path or at least the gleam of the noisy stream. Never once, however, did she lose sight of the handkerchief that hung limp and spiritless above Nat’s head. In vain. There was no path; only the wilderness and the growing darkness in every direction ; not a berry any- where. Returning to her brother, and stroking his restless little hands and whispering cheery words, she would sink to the ground, and sob, in spite of herself. What was that quick sound coming toward them? The underbrush was so thick Winnie could not see what caused it, but she held her breath in terror, thinking of wolves and Indians, for there were many of both, she knew, lurk- ing about in these ereat forests. The sound ceased for a moment. Seizing Nat in her arms, she made one more frantic effort to find her way to the stream, then, seeing a strange look in the poor little face when she put him down to take a firmer hold, she screamed : “Nat! Nat! Don’t look so! Speak to Winnie!” “Hello, there!” shouted a voice through the under- brush, and in another instant a tall, keen-faced man came stamping and breaking his way through the bushes. ST TRAPPER JOR 171 “Hello, there! What on airth’s up now? Ef old Joe hain’t come upon queer game this time. Two sick young- sters —an’ ef they ain't a-starving! Here, you young uns, eat some uv this ’ere, and give an account uv yourselves.” With these words, he drew from a leather pouch at his side, a couple of crackers. The children clutched at them frantically. “Hold up! Not so sharp!” he said; “you must have a little at a time for an hour yet. Here, sis, give me the little one —I ‘Il feed him; and as for you, jest see that you don’t more ’n wibble 1” “Oh, give me a drink!” cried Winnie, swallowing the cracker in two bites, and for an instant even forgetting Nat. The man pulled a canteen or flat thin flask from his belt ” and gave her a swallow of water; then he hastened to ‘moisten Nat’s lips and feed him crumb after crumb of the broken cracker. “Another day,” he muttered to himself, as he gently fed the boy and smoothed back the tangled yellow hair from the pale little face-—* another day, and he ’d ’a’ been past. mendin’.” Winnie looked up quickly. “Ts he going to die ?” she asked. “Not he,” said the man; “he ’1l come through right end up yet. He’s got a fever on him, but we ll soon knock that under. How ’d you get here, little gal ?” Winnie told her story, all the while feeling a glad cer- tainty at her heart that their troubles were over. The strange man carried a gun, and he had a big pistol, 172 THE LAND OF PLUCK and a knife at the back of his belt. He looked very fierce, too, yet she knew he would not harm her. She had seen many a trapper since she had come to the West, and, be- sides, she felt almost sure he was the very trapper who had been at her father’s cabin a few months before, and taken supper, warming himself by the big fire while he told wonderful stories about Indians and furs, and about hav- ing many a time had “fifty mile o’ traps out on one stretch.” Yes, he was the very man, she believed, who had told her parents how he had seen a bear walking one moon- light night across the very spot where their cabin now stood. She remembered, too, that her father had told her the next day that trappers lived by catching with traps all TRAPPER JOE 173 sorts of wild animals, and selling their furs to the traders, and that this particular trapper had been very successful, and had great influence among the Indians — in fact, that he was “one of the big men of that country,” as he said. These thoughts running through her mind now as she told how they had been lost in the forest for two whole days, and a night, and the sight of Nat falling peacefully asleep on the trapper’s shoulder, made her feel so happy that she suddenly broke forth with, “O Mr. Trapper! I 12 can run now. Let’s go right home! THE stars came out one by one that night, and winked and blinked at a strange figure stalking through the forest. He had a sleeping child on his arm, and yet carried his gun ready to fire at an instant’s notice. Trudging on, with poor little Winnie half running beside him, he muttered to himself: “Well, old Joe, you ve bagged all sort o’ game in this ere forest, and trapped most everything a-goin’, but you ain’t never had such a rare bit o’ luck as this. No wonder I stood there on the edge of the timber-land, listening to I did n’t know what! Reckon here’s a couple o’ skins now’ll fetch ’most be putty popular at one market at any rate, any price you could name. But I ’Il let ’em go cheap; all the pay I want for these ’ere critters is jest to see the antics of them poor frightened — Hello! tliere’s a light! What, ahoy ! Neighbor, hello ! hello!” “Got ’em both!” he shouted, as three figures, two men and a woman, came in sight through the starlight. “All 1? right — got ’em both 174 THE LAND OF PLUCK The children are awake now. What sobs, what laughter, what broken words of gratitude and joy, fall upon the mid- night air! Little Nat utters only a faint “ Hello, Papa! hello, Mama!” as he slides from Trapper Joe’s strong hold into his mother’s outstretched arms. Mother, Father, Trapper Joe, and the neighbor seem all to be talking at once — and Winnie, wondering and thrilled with strange happiness, is saying to herself: “I knew God would show us the way home!” THE BRIGHTON CATS a sae MAY AND MABEL. THE BRIGHTON CATS MABEL AND May, the twins, were very fond of cats. From the time when they first toddled about the house and garden, they had a pet kitten that was their special pride and joy. Strange to say, under these circumstances, this kitten had a very comfortable though active existence, and seemed to think that, instead of the twins owning it, it owned the twins. Well, one happy day when May and Mabel were eight years old, their Uncle Jack came home from a long visit— in fact, as Mabel said, he had been away from them “a He always had lived on Long Island, but ? whole half-year.’ now he had been to Europe, and that, the twins insisted, “made a ereat difference.” He had seen the bears at Berne ; the poll-parrots at Havre ; the lions and tigers at Hamburg ; the monstrous birds and all the wonderful things in the Jardin des Plantes in Paris ; and the fishes and sea-marvels in the London Aquarium. But best of all, to the twins, he had seen the amazing and delightful Brighton cats — those highly intelligent and dramatic creatures that, at one time, were celebrated throughout Great Britain, 12 ui 178 THE LAND OF PLUCK It was on a winter evening, after their early supper, that the twins first heard about the Brighton cats. Uncle Jack, bowing elegantly, asked them to “step into the library, please.” When they were cozily seated by the big table, he ob- served: “I beheve you two lke cats and kittens best of all your animal friends.” “Oh, yes! indeed we do!” exclaimed the twins. At this, Uncle Jack ran his hand deep down into the inner breast-pocket of his coat, and held it there mysteri- ously, while the twins waited eagerly to see what new sur- prise was coming. Slowly he drew forth a small packet of pictures, carefully laying them before him, backs up. “Oh!” said Mabel. “Oh!” said May. “ Just so,” remarked Uncle Jack. “We understand one another perfectly.” And, somehow, he contrived by his tone and manner to let them know that he highly approved of their patient politeness, and that he would now proceed. And this is the story he told them — true from begin- ning to end. And the pictures of the Brighton cats, shown in these pages, are carefully copied from the very photo- graphs that Uncle Jack took from his pocket that evening. Dip ever you hear of the Brighton cats? No? Well, that is strange, for they are very famous fellows, I assure you. Brighton is in England, you must know. They are trained cats, and they are not only very good actors, but, what is more pleasant still, they seem to enjoy their own THE BRIGHTON CATS 179 performances very much. ‘Their master loves them dearly, and every day they jump up on his shoulders, and, rubbing their soft cheeks against his beard, purr gently, as if to say, “Ah, master dear, if it were not for you, how stupid os VIMPKINS PAINTS. we should be! You have taught us everything.” Then the master laughs and strokes them, before he sets them at work. Then he says: “ Pussies, attention !” Down they jump, their eyes flashing, their ears twitch- ing and eager, their very tails saying —“Aye, aye, sir.” 180 THE LAND OF PLUCK “ Pimpkins, to work !” Pimpkins is a painter; that is, he has learned to hold a palette and malhlstick in one paw, and a brush in the other, which you ‘ll adinit is doing very well for a cat. With his master’s help, he is soon in readiness, perched upon a stool and painting away for dear life on the canvas before him. There is always a very queer-looking picture on the easel unfinished, and pussy daubs away at it when A GAME OF CHESS, visitors are by; but when asked whether he did it all or not, he keeps very still, and so does his master. Meantime the two other pussies, whom we must know as Tib and Miss Moffit, obeying a signal from the master, seat themselves at a table, and begin a lively game at chess. The chessmen stand in proper order at first, and both pussies look at them with an air of unconcern. Soon : i i : 4 1 ——— THE BRIGHTON CATS 181 Tib moves his man. Then Miss Moffit moves hers. On comes Tib again, this time moving two men at once. In- stantly Moflit moves three. The game now grows serious. Moftit’s men press so thickly on Tib’s that suddenly he elves all of them a shove, and Miss Moffit is check-mated ! Then Tib is grand. Leaning his elbows on the table, and MISS MOFFIT HANGS THE CLOTHES TO DRy. tipping his head sideways, he looks severely at Moffit until she fairly glares. After this all the pussies are, perhaps, requested to wash for their master. And they do it, too, in fine style, though, when they are through, Tib and Pimpkins gen- erally squabble for a bath in the tub, or pretend to do so. The fact is, they hate soapy water; but being great actors, they scorn to show their real feelings while per- forming. Meanwhile Miss Moffit takes the clothes they 12 182 THE LAND OF PLUCK are supposed to have washed, and demurely hangs them on the line to dry. After work comes play. Miss Moffit and Pimpkins have a little waltz, and Tib slides down the balusters. Sometimes Tib amuses himself by drawing the cork from MISS MOFFIT AND PIMPKINS WALTZ. his master’s ale-bottle. And then if the foaming ale happens to be unusually lively, it makes a leap for Tib, and Tib rubs his nose with his paws for five minutes afterward. Are they ever naughty? Yes, indeed. But even then their good inaster is gentle with them. He never whips them, but simply looks injured, and orders them to “do THE BRIGHTON CATS 183 TIB ACTS AS BUTLER. penance.” Poor Tib and Moffit,—for they generally are the naughty ones,— how they hate this! But they never think of such a thing as escaping the punishment. No, indeed ; they jump upon a chair at once, and, shutting their eyes, stand as you see them in the picture, two images of misery, until their master says they may get down. What else can they do? Why, ever so many bright things, I suppose, though I have told you of all that comes to my mind at present. Ah, yes, they bowed; yes, all three stood in a line and bowed eravely whenever the pleased audience applauded very warmly. Sometimes, too, they would place their right paws upon their hearts as they bowed; but this was an uncertain part of the per- formance, and their master pretended not to notice when they failed. One day an old woman from the country, after intently 184. THE LAND OF PLUCK watching these talented cats,— painting, chess-playing and all that,— shook her head solemnly. “I dunno as it’s right,” she said; “it’s onnatural—cuttin’ about and actin’ like Christians as they do.” Tib stood on his hind legs at this, and Miss Moffit shook paws with Pimpkins —as well she might. So ended Uncle Jack’s true story. While telling it he had always, at the right moment, presented May and Mabel with the fitting photograph so that they might see exactly how these Brighton cats appeared in each scene. a DOING PENANCE. WORTH YOUR WEIGHT IN GOLD (A TALK WITIL GIRLS) “¢Syou ’s JES’ WUF YO’ WEIGHT IN GOLE,’ SHE SAY TO OLE PATSY, ONE EBENIN’ IN MY KITCHUM.” WORTH YOUR WEIGHT IN GOLD A STORY FROM LIFE “Yus, Miss Mamie, dat ’s jes what de missus sed to me. ‘Aunt Patsy, ses she, ‘you ’s jes’ wuf yo’ weight in gole’ An’ so I wuz, Miss Mamie; I knowd it. Poor weak ole cull’d pusson as I is, I know’d she war tellin’ exac’ trufe. De Lord knows ’t ain’t no vain-gloruf cation fur ole Patsy t? say dem words. I don’ take no pus’nal credit “bout it, Miss Mamie. Cookin’ takes practice, but it’s got to come fus’ by natu’. De ane’l Gabr’el hisse’f could wt make a cook out o some folks. It’s got to be born inter yer like. I’se mighty ’umble and fearful ub myse’f ’bout some tings, but not "bout cookin. Dat I un’stan’; an’ dat ’s what made me wuf my weight in gole. Missus did n’ hab no sort troubl ’bout nothin’ afer once dis chile come. ‘You’s jes’ wuf yo’ weight in gole,’ she say to ole Patsy one ebeni’ in my kitchum, when I was a-gettin’ de supper ready for de fam’ly. She say so.