Kabanata Kabanata 17 · Friends in Need

. Friends in Need

In the meantime, the other boys were listening to Peter’s account of an

incident which had occurred long ago *{Sir Thomas Carr’s tour through

Holland.} in a part of the city where stood an ancient castle, whose

lord had tyrannized over the burghers of the town to such an extent

that they surrounded his castle and laid siege to it. Just at the last

extremity, when the haughty lord felt that he could hold out no longer

and was prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible, his lady

appeared on the ramparts and offered to surrender everything, provided

she was permitted to bring out, and retain, as much of her most precious

household goods as she could carry upon her back. The promise was given,

and the lady came forth from the gateway, bearing her husband upon

her shoulders. The burghers’ pledge preserved him from the fury of the

troops but left them free to wreak their vengeance upon the castle.

“Do you BELIEVE that story, Captain Peter?” asked Carl in an incredulous

tone.

“Of course, I do. It is historical. Why should I doubt it?”

“Simply because no woman could do it--and if she could, she wouldn’t.

That is my opinion.”

“And I believe that there are many who WOULD. That is, to save those

they really cared for,” said Ludwig.

Jacob, who in spite of his fat and sleepiness was of rather a

sentimental turn, had listened with deep interest.

“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--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 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.”

“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. 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. 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.

“Trudging stoutly along the canal, he noticed how the autumn rains had

swollen the waters. Even while humming his careless, childish song, he

thought of his father’s brave old gates and felt glad of their strength,

for, thought he, ‘If THEY gave way, where would Father and Mother be?

These pretty fields would all be covered with the angry waters--Father

always calls them the ANGRY waters. I suppose he thinks they are mad at

him for keeping them out so long.’ And with these thoughts just flitting

across his brain, the little fellow stooped to pick the pretty flowers

that grew along his way. Sometimes he stopped to throw some feathery

seed ball in the air and watch it as it floated away; sometimes he

listened to the stealthy rustling of a rabbit, speeding through the

grass, but oftener he smiled as he recalled the happy light he had seen

arise on the weary, listening face of his blind old friend.”

“Now, Henry,” said the teacher, nodding to the next little reader.

“Suddenly the boy looked around him in dismay. He had not noticed that

the sun was setting. Now he saw that his long shadow on the grass had

vanished. It was growing dark, he was still some distance from home, and

in a lonely ravine, where even the blue flowers had turned to gray.

He quickened his footsteps and, with a beating heart recalled many

a nursery tale of children belated in dreary forests. Just as he was

bracing himself for a run, he was startled by the sound of trickling

water. Whence did it come? He looked up and saw a small hole in the

dike through which a tiny stream was flowing. Any child in Holland will

shudder at the thought of A LEAK IN THE DIKE! The boy understood the

danger at a glance. That little hole, if the water were allowed to

trickle through, would soon be a large one, and a terrible inundation

would be the result.

“Quick as a flash, he saw his duty. Throwing away his flowers, the boy

clambered up the heights until he reached the hole. His chubby little

finger was thrust in, almost before he knew it. The flowing was stopped!

Ah! he thought, with a chuckle of boyish delight, the angry waters must

stay back now! Haarlem shall not be drowned while I am here!

“This was all very well at first, but the night was falling rapidly.

Chill vapors filled the air. Our little hero began to tremble with cold

and dread. He shouted loudly; he screamed, ‘Come here! come here!’ but

no one came. The cold grew more intense, a numbness, commencing in the

tired little finger, crept over his hand and arm, and soon his whole

body was filled with pain. He shouted again, ‘Will no one come? Mother!

Mother!’ Alas, his mother, good, practical soul, had already locked the

doors and had fully resolved to scold him on the morrow for spending

the night with blind Jansen without her permission. He tried to whistle.

Perhaps some straggling boy might heed the signal, but his teeth

chattered so, it was impossible. Then he called on God for help. And

the answer came, through a holy resolution: ‘I will stay here till

morning.’”

“Now, Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher. Jenny’s eyes were glistening, but

she took a long breath and commenced.

“The midnight moon looked down upon that small, solitary form, sitting

upon a stone, halfway up the dike. His head was bent but he was not

asleep, for every now and then one restless hand rubbed feebly the

outstretched arm that seemed fastened to the dike--and often the pale,

tearful face turned quickly at some real or fancied sounds.

“How can we know the sufferings of that long and fearful watch--what

falterings of purpose, what childish terrors came over the boy as he

thought of the warm little bed at home, of his parents, his brothers and

sisters, then looked into the cold, dreary night! If he drew away that

tiny finger, the angry waters, grown angrier still, would rush forth,

and never stop until they had swept over the town. No, he would hold it

there till daylight--if he lived! He was not very sure of living. What

did this strange buzzing mean? And then the knives that seemed pricking

and piercing him from head to foot? He was not certain now that he could

draw his finger away, even if he wished to.

“At daybreak a clergyman, returning from the bedside of a sick

parishioner, thought he heard groans as he walked along on the top of

the dike. Bending, he saw, far down on the side, a child apparently

writhing with pain.

“‘In the name of wonder, boy,’ he exclaimed, ‘what are you doing there?’

“‘I am keeping the water from running out,’ was the simple answer of the

little hero. ‘Tell them to come quick.’

“It is needless to add that they did come quickly and that--”

“Jenny Dobbs,” said the teacher, rather impatiently, “if you cannot

control your feelings so as to read distinctly, we will wait until you

recover yourself.”

“Yes, sir!” said Jenny, quite startled.

It was strange, but at that very moment, Ben, far over the sea, was

saying to Lambert, “The noble little fellow! I have frequently met with

an account of the incident, but I never knew, till now, that it was

really true.”

“True! Of course it is,” said Lambert. “I have given you the story just

as Mother told it to me, years ago. Why, there is not a child in Holland

who does not know it. And, Ben, you may not think so, but that little

boy represents the spirit of the whole country. Not a leak can show

itself anywhere either in its politics, honor, or public safety, that a

million fingers are not ready to stop it, at any cost.”

“Whew!” cried Master Ben. “Big talking that!”

“It’s true talk anyway,” rejoined Lambert, so very quietly that Ben

wisely resolved to make no further comment.