Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver SkatesDodge, Mary Mapes
History
Hans Brinker; Or, The Silver Skates
Dodge, Mary Mapes
Netherlands -- History -- 19th century -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Skating -- Juvenile fiction
She shook her head saucily. “Yes, and I’ll hate you, too, if you persist
in calling him one of my friends. You boys may like him because he
caught the greased goose at the kermis last summer and climbed the pole
with his great, ugly body tied up in a sack, but I don’t care for such
things. I’ve disliked him ever since I saw him try to push his little
sister out of the merry-go-round at Amsterdam, and it’s no secret up
OUR way who killed the stork on your mother’s roof. But we mustn’t talk
about such a bad, wicked fellow. Really, Hans, I know somebody who
would be glad to buy your skates. You won’t get half a price for them
in Amsterdam. Please give them to me. I’ll take you the money this very
afternoon.”
If Annie was charming even when she said HATE, there was no withstanding
her when she said PLEASE; at least Hans found it to be so.
“Annie,” he said, taking off the skates and rubbing them carefully
with a snarl of twine before handing them to her, “I am sorry to be so
particular, but if your friend should not want them, will you bring them
back to me today? I must buy peat and meal for the mother early tomorrow
morning.”
“My friend WILL want them,” Annie laughed, nodding gaily, and skated off
at the top of her speed.
As Hans drew forth the wooden “runners” from his capricious pockets and
fastened them on as best he could, he did not hear Annie murmur, “I wish
I had not been so rude. Poor, brave Hans. What a noble boy he is!” And
as Annie skated homeward, filled with pleasant thoughts, she did not
hear Hans say, “I grumbled like a bear. But bless her! Some girls are
like angels!”
Perhaps it was all for the best. One cannot be expected to know
everything that is going on around the world.
Looking For Work
Luxuries unfit us for returning to hardships easily endured before. The
wooden runners squeaked more than ever. It was as much as Hans could do
to get on with the clumsy old things; still, he did not regret that he
had parted with his beautiful skates, but resolutely pushed back the
boyish trouble that he had not been able to keep them just a little
longer, at least until after the race.
Mother surely will not be angry with me, he thought, for selling them
without her leave. She has had care enough already. It will be full time
to speak of it when I take home the money.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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