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HANS BRINKER
Or, The Silver Skates
_Tomy father,JAMES J. MAPES,this bookis dedicated in gratitudeand love_
HANS BRINKER
OR THE SILVER SKATES
BY MARY MAPES DODGE
ILLUSTRATED BY
EDNA COOKE
PHILADELPHIAGEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANYPUBLISHERS
PREFACE
This little work aims to combine the instructive features of a book oftravels with the interest of a domestic tale. Throughout its pages thedescriptions of Dutch localities, customs, and general characteristics,have been given with scrupulous care. Many of its incidents are drawnfrom life, and the story of Raff Brinker is founded strictly upon fact.
While acknowledging my obligations to many well-known writers on Dutchhistory, literature, and art, I turn with especial gratitude to thosekind Holland friends, who, with generous zeal, have taken many abackward glance at their country for my sake, seeing it as it lookedtwenty years ago, when the Brinker home stood unnoticed in sunlight andshadow.
Should this simple narrative serve to give my young readers a just ideaof Holland and its resources, or present true pictures of itsinhabitants and their every-day life, or free them from certain currentprejudices concerning that noble and enterprising people, the leadingdesire in writing it will have been satisfied.
Should it cause even one heart to feel a deeper trust in God's goodnessand love, or aid any in weaving a life, wherein, through knots andentanglements, the golden thread shall never be tarnished or broken, theprayer with which it was begun and ended will have been answered.
M. M. D.
A LETTER FROM HOLLAND
AMSTERDAM, July 30, 1873.
_Dear Boys and Girls at Home:_
As Messrs. Scribner, Armstrong and Company, of New York, are printingfor you the story of "The Silver Skates," perhaps you would like to havea letter from this land of the Brinkers.
If you all could be here with me to-day, what fine times we might havewalking through this beautiful Dutch city! How we should stare at thecrooked houses, standing with their gable ends to the street; at thelittle slanting mirrors fastened outside of the windows; at the woodenshoes and dog-carts near by; the windmills in the distance; at the greatwarehouses; at the canals, doing the double duty of streets and rivers,and at the singular mingling of trees and masts to be seen in everydirection. Ah, it would be pleasant, indeed! But here I sit in a greathotel looking out upon all these things, knowing quite well that noteven the spirit of the Dutch, which seems able to accomplish anything,can bring you at this moment across the ocean. There is one comfort,however, in going through these wonderful Holland towns without you--itwould be dreadful to have any of the party tumble into the canals; andthen these lumbering Dutch wagons, with their heavy wheels, so very farapart: what should I do if a few dozen of you were to fall under _them_?and, perhaps, one of the wildest of my boys might harm a stork, and thenall Holland would be against us! No. It is better as it is. You will becoming, one by one, as the years go on, to see the whole thing foryourselves.
Holland is as wonderful to-day as it was when, more than twenty yearsago, Hans and Gretel skated on the frozen Y. In fact, more wonderful,for every day increases the marvel of its not being washed away by thesea. Its cities have grown, and some of its peculiarities have beenbrushed away by contact with other nations; but it is Holland still, andalways will be--full of oddity, courage and industry--the pluckiestlittle country on earth. I shall not tell you in this letter of itscustoms, its cities, its palaces, churches, picture-galleries, andmuseums--for these are described in the story--except to say that theyare here still, just the same, in this good year 1873, for I have seenthem nearly all within a week.
To-day an American boy and I seeing some children enter an old house inthe business part of Amsterdam, followed them in--and what do you thinkwe found? An old woman, here in the middle of summer, selling hot waterand fire! She makes her living by it. All day long she sits tending hergreat fires of peat and keeping the shining copper-tanks above themfilled with water. The children who come and go, carry away in a curiousstone pail their kettle of boiling water and their blocks of burningpeat. For these they give her a Dutch cent, which is worth less thanhalf of one of ours. In this way persons who cannot afford to keep afire burning in hot weather, may yet have their cup of tea or coffee andtheir bit of boiled fish and potato.
After leaving the old fire-woman, who nodded a pleasant good-bye to us,and willingly put our stivers in her great outside pocket, we drovethrough the streets enjoying the singular sights of a public washingday. Yes, in certain quarters of the city, away from the canals, thestreets were lively with washerwomen hard at work. Hundreds of them inclumsy wooden shoes, with their tucked-up skirts, bare arms andclose-fitting caps, were bending over tall wooden tubs that reached ashigh as their waists--gossiping and rubbing, rubbing and gossiping--withperfect unconcern, in the public thoroughfare, and all washing with coldwater instead of using hot, as we do. What a grand thing it would be forour old fire-woman if boiling water were suddenly to become the fashionon these public washing days!
But I forget. If this letter ever reaches you, it must do so by beingput in the place where prefaces belong, a small place, you know, thatholds very little, and where, to tell the truth, readers generally wishto find still less.
So, good-bye. O! I must tell you one more thing. We found to-day in anAmsterdam bookstore this story of Hans Brinker told in Dutch. It is aqueer looking volume, beautifully printed, and with colored pictures,but filled with such astonishing words that it really made me feel sorryfor the little Hollanders who are to read them.
Good-bye, again, in the touching words of our Dutch translator with whomI'm sure you'll heartily agree: Toch ben ik er mijn landgenooten dankbaar voor, die mijn arbeid steeds zoo welwillend outvangen en wiergenegenheid ik voortdurend hoop te verdienen.
Yours affectionately,
THE AUTHOR.