or, The Silver Skates 237

“ Then why did you screw your face so when it hit you?”

“What for screw mine face?” repeated Jacob, soberly.
“Vy, it vash de — de —”

“The what?” insisted Ben, maliciously.

“ Vy, de — de — vat you call dis vat you taste mit de nose ?”

Ben laughed.

“Oh! you mean the smell.”

“Yesh. Dat ish it,” said Jacob, eagerly. “It wash de
shmell. I draw mine face for dat.”

“ Ha, ha!” roared Ben, “that’s a good one. A Dutch
boy smell a cheese! You can never make me believe that.”

“Vell, it ish no matter,’
Ben in perfect good-humor : “ vait till you hit mit cheese, dat
ish all.”

Soon he added pathetically, “ Penchamin, I no likes be call
Tutch: dat ish no goot. I bees a Hollander.”

Just as Ben was apologizing, Lambert hailed him.

“Hold up, Ben. Here is the fish-market. There is not
much to be seen at this season. But we can take a look at

>

replied Jacob, trudging on beside

the storks, if you wish.”

Ben knew that storks were held in peculiar reverence in
Holland, and that the bird figured upon the arms of the
capital. He had noticed cart-wheels placed upon the roofs of
Dutch cottages to entice storks to settle upon them: he had
seen their huge nests, too, on many a thatched gable-roof
from Broek to the Hague. But it was winter now. The
nests were empty. No greedy birdlings opened their mouths,
or rather their heads, at the approach of a great white winged
thing, with outstretched neck and legs, bearing a dangling
something for their breakfast. The long-bills were far away,
picking up food on African shores ; and, before they would