Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates / Серебряные коньки. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“That is right, little fellow,” he said, nodding his head approvingly. “I believe every word of it. I shall never marry a woman who would not be glad to do as much for ME.”

“Heaven help her!” cried Carl, turning to gaze at the speaker. “Why, Poot, three MEN couldn’t do it!”

“Perhaps not,” said Jacob quietly, feeling that he had asked rather too much of the future Mrs. Poot. “But she must be WILLING, that is all.”

“Aye,” responded Peter’s cheery voice, “willing heart makes nimble foot[175] – and who knows, but it may make strong arms also.”

“Pete,” asked Ludwig, changing the subject, “did you tell me last night that the painter Wouwerman was born in Haarlem?”

“Yes, and Jacob Ruysdael[176] and Berghem too. I like Berghem because he was always good-natured. They say he always sang while he painted, and though he died nearly two hundred years ago, there are traditions still afloat concerning his pleasant laugh. He was a great painter, and he had a wife as cross as Xantippe[177].”

“They balanced each other finely,” said Ludwig. “He was kind and she was cross. But, Peter, before I forget it, wasn’t that picture of Saint Hubert and the horse painted by Wouwerman? You remember, Father showed us an engraving from it last night.”

“Yes, indeed. There is a story connected with that picture.”

“Tell us!” cried two or three, drawing closer to Peter as they skated on.

“Wouwerman,” began the captain oratorically, “was born in 1620, just four years before Berghem. He was a master of his art and especially excelled in painting horses. Strange as it may seem, people were so long finding out his merits that, even after he had arrived at the height of his excellence, he was obliged to sell his pictures for very paltry prices[178]. The poor artist became completely discouraged, and, worst of all, was over head and ears in debt. One day he was talking over his troubles with his father-confessor, who was one of the few who recognized his genius. The priest determined to assist him and accordingly lent him six hundred guilders, advising him at the same time to demand a better price for his pictures. Wouwerman did so, and in the meantime paid his debts. Matters brightened with him at once. Everybody appreciated the great artist who painted such costly pictures. He grew rich. The six hundred guilders were returned, and in gratitude Wouwerman sent also a work which he had painted, representing his benefactor as Saint Hubert kneeling before his horse – the very picture, Ludwig, of which we were speaking last night.”

“So! so!” exclaimed Ludwig, with deep interest. “I must take another look at the engraving as soon as we get home.”

At that same hour, while Ben was skating with his companions beside the Holland dike, Robby and Jenny stood in their pretty English schoolhouse, ready to join in the duties of their reading class.

“Commence! Master Robert Dobbs,” said the teacher, “page 242. Now, sir, mind every stop.”

And Robby, in a quick childish voice, roared forth at schoolroom pitch, “Lesson 62. The Hero of Haarlem. Many years ago, there lived in Haarlem, one of the principal cities of Holland, a sunny-haired boy of gentle disposition. His father was a sluicer, that is, a man whose business it was to open and close the sluices, or large oaken gates, that are placed at regular distances across the entrances of the canals, to regulate the amount of water that shall flow into them.

“The sluicer raises the gates more or less according to the quantity of water required, and closes them carefully at night, in order to avoid all possible danger of an oversupply running into the canal, or the water would soon overflow it and inundate the surrounding country. As a great portion of Holland is lower than the level of the sea, the waters are kept from flooding the land only by means of strong dikes, or barriers, and by means of these sluices, which are often strained to the utmost by the pressure of the rising tides[179]. Even the little children in Holland know that constant watchfulness is required to keep the rivers and ocean from overwhelming the country, and that a moment’s neglect of the sluicer’s duty may bring ruin and death to all.”

“Very good,” said the teacher. “Now, Susan.”

“One lovely autumn afternoon, when the boy was about eight years old, he obtained his parents’ consent to carry some cakes to a blind man who lived out in the country, on the other side of the dike. The little fellow started on his errand with a light heart, and having spent an hour with his grateful old friend, he bade him farewell and started on his homeward walk.