No More Learning

THE
The ladies of St. James's
Wear satin on their backs;
They sit all night at Ombre,
With candles all of wax:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
She dons her russet gown,
And runs to gather May-dew
Before the world is down.
The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.
The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;
Their white it stays forever,
Their red it never dies:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her color comes and goes;
It trembles to a lily,-
It wavers like a rose.
The ladies of St. James's!
You scarce can understand
The half of all their speeches,
Their phrases are so grand:
4749


## p. 4750 (#544) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4750
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Her shy and simple words.
Are clear as after rain-drops
The music of the birds.
The ladies of St. James's!
They have their fits and freaks;
They smile on you- for seconds;
They frown on you- for weeks:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!
Come either storm or shine,
From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide,
Is always true- and mine.
My Phyllida! my Phyllida!
I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,—
For Phyllida, my Phyllida,
Is all the world to me.
DORA VERSUS ROSE
"The Case is Proceeding
FR
ROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least on a practical plan-
To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.
wwwww
But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,
And Dora, a blonde.
Each rivals the other in powers-
Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-
Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers;
Miss Do. , perpendicular saints.
In short, to distinguish is folly;
'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass
Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,—
Or Buridan's ass.


## p. 4751 (#545) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4751
If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,
Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled.
Somehow with the tune and the time;
Or I painfully pen me a sonnet
To an eyebrow intended for Do. 's,
And behold I am writing upon it
The legend, "To Rose. "
Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all over scrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead;
Or I find myself placidly adding
To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,
Ineffable nose.
Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem. );
For Dora I'd willingly stem a-
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,—
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple,—a grain,- more affection,
I cannot decide.
And as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,—
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.
(AFTER-THOUGHT)
But perhaps if a third (say, a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,
Nor wholly so charming as Dora,
Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,-
And flight—in the main—is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,- the sequel
Is easily guessed.


## p. 4752 (#546) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4752
UNE MARQUISE
A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE
"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour. »
- MOLIÈRE.
AⓇ
I
S YOU sit there at your ease,
O Marquise!
And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,
Mute at every word you utter,
Servants to your least frill-flutter,
"Belle Marquise! "
As you sit there, growing prouder,
And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder,
And your
"beaux yeux" flash and glow;-
Ah, you used them on the Painter,
As you know,
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,-
Or at least he told you so;—
Growing proud, I say, and prouder
To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,
Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,
Do we love you most, or like you,
"Belle Marquise! "
II
-
You are fair; oh yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;
For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;
And he called all heaven to witness
Of his ballad and its fitness,
"Belle Marquise! "
You were everything in ère
(With exception of sévère),——


## p. 4753 (#547) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4753
VIII-298
You were cruelle and rebelle,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were "Reine" and "Mère d'Amour»;
You were "Vénus à Cythère";
"Sappho mise en Pompadour,"
And "Minerve en Parabère";
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven
Lent of blood and courtly race;
And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty;
And La Vallière's yeux veloutés
Followed these;
And you liked it, when he said it
(On his knees),
And you kept it, and you read it,
"Belle Marquise! »
III
Yet with us your toilet graces
Fail to please,
And the last of your last faces,
And your mise;
For we hold you just as real,
"Belle Marquise! "
As your Bergers and Bergères,
Tes d'Amour and Batelières;
As your pares, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and socailles;
As your Naiads and your trees;-
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,-.
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
-


## p. 4754 (#548) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
4754
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; - but to marry,
No, Marquise!
IV
For your Cupid, you have clipped him,
Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him,
And with chapeau-bras equipped him,
"Belle Marquise! »
Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your lifetime,
"Belle Marquise! "
Say, to trim your toilet tapers
Or to twist your hair in papers,
Or to wean you from the vapors;-
As for these,
You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,
Or a younger grace shall please;
Till the coming of the crows'-feet,
And the backward turn of beaux' feet,
"Belle Marquise ! »
Till your frothed-out life's commotion
Settles down to Ennui's ocean,
Or a dainty sham devotion,
"Belle Marquise! "
V
No: we neither like nor love you,
"Belle Marquise! »
Lesser lights we place above you,—
Milder merits better please.
We have passed from Philosophe-dom
Into plainer modern days,—
Grown contented in our oafdom,
Giving grace not all the praise,
And, en partant, Arsinoé,-
Without malice whatsoever,—
We shall counsel to our Chloë
To be rather good than clever;


## p. 4755 (#549) ###########################################

AUSTIN DOBSON
For we find it hard to smother
Just one little thought, Marquise!
Wittier perhaps than any other,-
You were neither Wife nor Mother,
"Belle Marquise! »
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH
OF THE SPANISH ARMADA
ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
K
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,-
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are, the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us:
He must play at some lustier games.
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!
But where are the galleons of Spain?
4755
ENVOY
GLORIANA! -the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us,
And where are the galleons of Spain?


## p. 4756 (#550) ###########################################

4756
AUSTIN DOBSON
THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE
From Four Frenchwomen'
A
TENDER wife, a loving daughter, and a loyal friend,- shall
we not here lay down upon the grave of Marie de Lam-
balle our reverential tribute, our little chaplet of immor-
telles, in the name of all good women, wives, and daughters?
"Elle était mieux femme que les autres. »* To us that appar-
ently indefinite, exquisitely definite sentence most fitly marks
the distinction between the subjects of the two preceding papers
and the subject of the present. It is a transition from the
stately figure of a marble Agrippina to the breathing, feeling
woman at your side; it is the transition from the statuesque
Rachelesque heroines of a David to the "small sweet idyl" of
a Greuze. And, we confess it, we were not wholly at ease
with those tragic, majestic figures. We shuddered at the dagger
and the bowl which suited them so well. We marveled at their
bloodless serenity, their superhuman self-sufficiency; inly we
questioned if they breathed and felt. Or was their circulation a
matter of machinery—a mere dead-beat escapement? We longed
for the sexe prononcé of Rivarol-we longed for the showman's
"female woman! " We respected and we studied, but we did
not love them. With Madame de Lamballe the case is other-
wise. Not grand like this one, not heroic like that one, "elle est
mieux femme que les autres. "
She at least is woman-after a fairer fashion —after a truer
type. Not intellectually strong like Manon Philipon, not Spar-
tan-souled like Marie de Corday, she has still a rare intelligence,
a courage of affection. She has that clairvoyance of the heart
which supersedes all the stimulants of mottoes from Reynel or
maxims from Rousseau; she has that "angel instinct” which is
a juster lawgiver than Justinian. It was thought praise to say
of the Girondist lady that she was a greater man than her hus-
band; it is praise to say of this queen's friend that she was
more woman than Madame Roland. Not so grand, not so great,
we like the princess best. Elle est mieux femme que les autres.
She was more woman than the others.


## p. 4757 (#551) ###########################################

4757
MARY MAPES DODGE
(1840 ? -)
O WRITE a story which in thirty years should pass through
more than a hundred editions, which should attain the apo-
theosis of an edition de luxe, which should be translated into
at least four foreign languages, be allotted the Montyon prize of 1500
francs for moral as well as literary excellence, and be crowned by
the French Academy-this is a piece of good fortune which falls to
the lot of few story-tellers. The book which has deserved so well is
'Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates,' a story of life in Holland. Its
author, born in New York, is a daughter of
Professor James Jay Mapes, an eminent
chemist and inventor, an accomplished
writer and brilliant talker.

In a household where music, art, and
literature were cultivated, and where the
most agreeable society came, talents were
not likely to be overlooked. Mrs. Dodge,
very early widowed, began writing before
she was twenty, publishing short stories,
sketches, and poems in various periodicals.
'Hans Brinker' appeared in 1864,-her de-
light in Motley's histories and their appeal
to her own Dutch blood inspiring her to
write it. Of this book Mr. Frank R. Stock-
ton says:-
-
MARY MAPES DODGE
"There are strong reasons why the fairest orange groves, the loftiest
mountain peaks, or the inspiriting waves of the rolling sea, could not tempt
average boys and girls from the level stretches of the Dutch canals, until they
had skated through the sparkling story, warmed with a healthy glow.
"This is not only a tale of vivid description, interesting and instructive;
it is a romance. There are adventures, startling and surprising, there are
mysteries of buried gold, there are the machinations of the wicked, there is
the heroism of the good, and the gay humor of happy souls. More than
these, there is love-that sentiment which glides into a good story as natu-
rally as into a human life; and whether the story be for old or young, this
element gives it an ever-welcome charm. Strange fortune and good fortune
come to Hans and to Gretel, and to many other deserving characters in the
tale, but there is nothing selfish about these heroes and heroines. As soon as


## p. 4758 (#552) ###########################################

4758
MARY MAPES DODGE
a new generation of young people grows up to be old enough to enjoy this
perennial story, all these characters return to the days of their youth, and
are ready to act their parts again to the very end, and to feel in their own
souls, as everybody else feels, that their story is just as new and interesting
as when it was first told. »
Besides this book, Mrs. Dodge has published several volumes of
juvenile verse, such as 'Rhymes and Jingles,' and 'When Life was
Young'; a volume of serious verse, 'Along the Way'; a volume of
satirical and humorous sketches, Theophilus and Others'; a second
successful story for young people, 'Donald and Dorothy,' and a
number of other works. Her stories evince an unusual faculty of
construction and marked inventiveness, inherited perhaps from
her father, truthful characterization, literary feeling, a strong sense
of humor, and a high ethical standard. Her whimsical character
sketch, Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question,' which has been
reprinted thousands of times and repeated by every elocutionist in
the land, is in its way as sea
earching a satire as Bret Harte's 'Heathen
Chinee. '
-
Since its beginning in 1873, Mrs. Dodge has edited the St. Nicholas
Magazine, whose pages bear witness to her enormous industry.
THE RACE
From Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates. ' Copyright 1896, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
THE
HE 20th of December came at last, bringing with it the per-
fection of winter weather. All over the level landscape lay
the warm sunlight. It tried its power on lake, canal, and
river; but the ice flashed defiance, and showed no sign of melt-
ing. The very weathercocks stood still to enjoy the sight. This
gave the windmills a holiday. Nearly all the past week they
had been whirling briskly; now, being rather out of breath, they
rocked lazily in the clear still air. Catch a windmill working
when the weathercocks have nothing to do!
There was an end to grinding, crushing, and sawing for that
day. It was a good thing for the millers near Broek. Long
before noon, they concluded to take in their sails and go to
the race. Everybody would be there. Already the north side
of the frozen Y was bordered with eager spectators; the news
of the great skating-match had traveled far and wide. Men,
women, and children, in holiday attire, were flocking toward the
spot. Some wore furs and wintry cloaks or shawls; but many,


## p. 4759 (#553) ###########################################

MARY MAPES DODGE
4759
consulting their feelings rather than the almanac, were dressed
as for an October day.
The site selected for the race was a faultless plain of ice near
Amsterdam, on that great arm of the Zuyder Zee, which Dutch-
men of course must call the Eye. The townspeople turned out
in large numbers. Strangers in the city deemed it a fine chance
to see what was to be seen. Many a peasant from the north-
ward had wisely chosen the 20th as the day for the next city-
trading. It seemed that everybody, young and old, who had
wheels, skates, or feet at command, had hastened to the scene.
There were the gentry in their coaches, dressed like Parisians
fresh from the Boulevards; Amsterdam children in charity uni-
forms; girls from the Roman Catholic Orphan House, in sable
gowns and white head-bands; boys from the Burgher Asylum,
with their black tights and short-skirted harlequin coats. There
were old-fashioned gentlemen in cocked hats and velvet knee-
breeches; old-fashioned ladies too, in stiff quilted skirts and
bodices of dazzling brocade. These were accompanied by serv-
ants bearing foot-stoves and cloaks. There were the peasant folk,
arrayed in every possible Dutch costume,- shy young rustics in
brazen buckles; simple village maidens concealing their flaxen
hair under fillets of gold; women whose long narrow aprons were
stiff with embroidery; women with short corkscrew curls hanging
over their foreheads; women with shaved heads and close-fitting
caps, and women in striped skirts and windmill bonnets; men
in leather, in homespun, in velvet and broadcloth; burghers in
modern European attire, and burghers in short jackets, wide trou-
sers, and steeple-crowned hats.
There were beautiful Friesland girls in wooden shoes and
coarse petticoats, with solid gold crescents encircling their heads,
finished at each temple with a golden rosette, and hung with lace
a century old. Some wore necklaces, pendants, and earrings of
the purest gold. Many were content with gilt, or even with
brass; but it is not an uncommon thing for a Friesland woman
to have all the family treasure in her headgear. More than one
rustic lass displayed the value of two thousand guilders upon her
head that day.
Scattered throughout the crowd were peasants from the Island
of Marken, with sabots, black stockings, and the widest of
breeches; also women from Marken, with short blue petticoats,
and black jackets gayly figured in front. They wore red sleeves,


## p. 4760 (#554) ###########################################

4760
MARY MAPES DODGE
white aprons, and a cap like a bishop's mitre over their golden
hair.
The children often were as quaint and odd-looking as their
elders. In short, one-third of the crowd seemed to have stepped
bodily from a collection of Dutch paintings.
Everywhere could be seen tall women and stumpy men, lively-
faced girls, and youths whose expressions never changed from
sunrise to sunset.
There seemed to be at least one specimen from every known
town in Holland. There were Utrecht water-bearers, Gouda
cheese-makers, Delft pottery-men, Schiedam distillers, Amsterdam
diamond-cutters, Rotterdam merchants, dried-up herring-packers,
and two sleepy-eyed shepherds from Texel. Every man of them
had his pipe and tobacco pouch. Some carried what might be
called the smoker's complete outfit,-a pipe, tobacco, a pricker
with which to clean the tube, a silver net for protecting the bowl,
and a box of the strongest of brimstone matches.
A true Dutchman, you must remember, is rarely without his
pipe on any possible occasion. He may for a moment neglect to
breathe; but when the pipe is forgotten, he must be dying in-
deed. There were no such sad cases here. Wreaths of smoke
were rising from every possible quarter. The more fantastic the
smoke-wreath, the more placid and solemn the smoker.
Look at those boys and girls on stilts! That is a good idea.
They can look over the heads of the tallest. It is strange to see
those little bodies high in the air, carried about on mysterious
legs. They have such a resolute look on their round faces, what
wonder that nervous old gentlemen with tender feet wince and
tremble while the long-legged little monsters stride past them!
You will read in certain books that the Dutch are a quiet
people. So they are, generally. But listen! did you ever hear
such a din? All made up of human voices-no, the horses are
helping somewhat, and the fiddles are squeaking pitifully; (how
it must pain fiddles to be tuned! ) but the mass of the sound
comes from the great vox humana that belongs to a crowd.
That queer little dwarf, going about with a heavy basket,
winding in and out among the people, helps not a little. You
can hear his shrill cry above all other sounds, "Pypen en tabac!
Pypen en tabac! »
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger,
is selling doughnuts and bonbons. He is calling on all pretty


## p. 4761 (#555) ###########################################

MARY MAPES DODGE
4761
children, far and near, to come quickly or the cakes will be
gone.
You know quite a number among the spectators. High up
in yonder pavilion, erected upon the border of the ice, are some
persons whom you
have seen very lately. In the centre is
Madame Van Gleck. It is her birthday, you remember; she has
the post of honor. There is Mynheer Van Gleck, whose meer-
schaum has not really grown fast to his lips; it only appears so.
There are Grandfather and Grandmother, whom you met at the
St. Nicholas fête. All the children are with them. It is so
mild, they have brought even the baby. The poor little creature
is swaddled very much after the manner of an Egyptian mummy;
but it can crow with delight, and when the band is playing,
open and shut its animated mittens in perfect time to the music.
Grandfather, with his pipe and spectacles and fur cap, makes
quite a picture as he holds Baby upon his knee. Perched high
upon their canopied platforms, the party can see all that is going
on. No wonder the ladies look complacently at the glassy ice;
with a stove for a footstool, one might sit cosily beside the North
Pole.
There is a gentleman with them, who somewhat resembles
St. Nicholas as he appeared to the young Van Glecks on the
fifth of December. But the Saint had a flowing white beard, and
this face is as smooth as a pippin.
His Saintship was larger
round the body too, and (between ourselves) he had a pair of
thimbles in his mouth, which this gentleman certainly has not.
It cannot be St. Nicholas, after all.
Near by in the next pavilion sit the Van Holps, with their son
and daughter (the Van Gends) from The Hague. Peter's sister
is not one to forget her promises. She has brought bouquets of
exquisite hot-house flowers for the winners.
These pavilions, and there are others beside,-have all been
erected since daylight. That semicircular one, containing Myn-
heer Korbes's family, is very pretty, and proves that the Hol-
landers are quite skilled at tent-making; but I like the Van
Glecks' best, the centre one, striped red and white, and hung
with evergreens.
The one with the blue flags contains the musicians. Those
pagoda-like affairs, decked with sea-shells and streamers of every
possible hue, are the judges' stands; and those columns and flag-
staffs upon the ice mark the limit of the race-course. The two
-


## p. 4762 (#556) ###########################################

4762
MARY MAPES DODGE
white columns twined with green, connected at the top by that
long floating strip of drapery, form the starting-point. Those
flagstaffs, half a mile off, stand at each end of the boundary line,
cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to the skaters, though not
deep enough to trip them when they turn to come back to the
starting-point.
"
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the col-
umns and flagstaffs are so far apart. Of course the judges'
stands are but little nearer together. Half a mile on the ice,
when the atmosphere is like this, is but a short distance after
all, especially when fenced with a living chain of spectators.
The music has commenced. How melody seems to enjoy
itself in the open air! The fiddles have forgotten their agony,
and everything is harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent,
it seems that the music springs from the sunshine, it is so bound-
less, so joyous. Only the musicians are solemn.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white
columns. It is a beautiful sight,- forty boys and girls in pictur-
esque attire, darting with electric swiftness in and out among
each other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning, chatting,
whispering, in the fullness of youthful glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps; oth-
ers, halting on one leg, with flushed eager faces, suddenly cross
the suspected skate over their knee, give it an examining shake,
and dart off again. One and all are possessed with the spirit
of motion. They cannot stand still. Their skates are a part of
them, and every runner seems bewitched.
Holland is the place for skaters, after all. Where else can
nearly every boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would
attract a crowd if seen on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did
not see him before. He is really astonishing the natives; no
easy thing to do in the Netherlands. Save your strength, Ben;
you will need it soon. Now other boys are trying! Ben is sur-
passed already. Such jumping, such poising, such spinning, such
india-rubber exploits generally! That boy with a red cap is the
lion now; his back is a watch-spring, his body is cork-no, it is
iron, or it would snap at that. He is a bird, a top, a rabbit, a
corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant.
When you
think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down,
he is up.
He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset
as he picks it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from


## p. 4763 (#557) ###########################################

MARY MAPES DODGE
4763
Jacob Poot's astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side
before. " Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is
arctic weather under your feet, but more than temperate over-
head. Big drops already are rolling down your forehead. Su-
perb skater as you are, you may lose the race.
A French traveler, standing with a notebook in his hand, sees
our English friend Ben buy a doughnut of the dwarf's brother,
and eat it. Thereupon he writes in his note-book that the Dutch
take enormous mouthfuls, and universally are fond of potatoes
boiled in molasses.
There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lam-
bert, Ludwig, Peter, and Carl are all there, cool, and in good
skating order. Hans is not far off. Evidently he is going to
join in the race, for his skates are on,—the very pair that he
sold for seven guilders. He had soon suspected that his fairy
godmother was the mysterious "friend" who bought them. This
settled, he had boldly charged her with the deed; and she,
knowing well that all her little savings had been spent in the
purchase, had not had the face to deny it. Through the fairy
god-mother, too, he had been rendered amply able to buy them.
back again. Therefore Hans is to be in the race. Carl is more
indignant than ever about it; but as three other peasant boys
have entered, Hans is not alone.
Twenty boys and twenty girls. The latter by this time are
standing in front, braced for the start; for they are to have the
first "run. " Hilda, Rychie, and Katrinka are among them. Two
or three bend hastily to give a last pull at their skate-straps. It
is pretty to see them stamp, to be sure that all is firm. Hilda
is speaking pleasantly to a graceful little creature in a red jacket
and a new brown petticoat. Why, it is Gretel! What a differ-
ence those pretty shoes make; and the skirt and the new cap!
Annie Bouman is there too. Even Janzoon Kolp's sister has been
admitted; but Janzoon himself has been voted out by the direct-
ors because he killed the stork, and only last summer was caught
in the act of robbing a bird's nest,- -a legal offense in Holland.
There, I cannot tell the
commence.
This Janzoon Kolp, you see, was-
story just now. The race is about to
Twenty girls are formed in a line.
The music has ceased.
A man whom we shall call the crier stands between the col-
umns and the first judges' stand. He reads the rules in a loud
voice:


## p. 4764 (#558) ###########################################

4764
MARY MAPES DODGE
"The girls and boys are to race in turn, until one girl and
one boy have beaten twice. They are to start in a line from the
united columns, skate to the flagstaff line, turn, and then come
back to the starting-point; thus making a mile at each run. "
A flag is waved from the judges' stand. Madame Van Gleck
rises in her pavilion. She leans forward with a white handker-
chief in her hand. When she drops it, a bugler is to give the
signal for them to start.
The handkerchief is fluttering to the ground. Hark!
They are off!
No. Back again. Their line was not true in passing the
judges' stand.
The signal is repeated.
Off again. No mistake this time. Whew! how fast they go!
The multitude is quiet for an instant, absorbed in eager,
breathless watching.
Cheers spring up along the line of spectators. Huzza! five
girls are ahead. Who comes flying back from the boundary
mark? We cannot tell. Something red, that is all. There is a
blue spot flitting near it, and a dash of yellow nearer still.
Spectators at this end of the line strain their eyes, and wish
they had taken their post nearer the flagstaff.
The wave of cheers is coming back again.
Katrinka is ahead!
Now we can see.
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame Van
Gleck's. That leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda
shoots past Katrinka, waving her hand to her mother as she
passes. Two others are close now, whizzing on like arrows.
What is that flash of red and gray? Hurrah, it is Gretel! She
too waves her hand, but toward no gay pavilion. The crowd is
cheering; but she hears only her father's voice, "Well done,
little Gretel! " Soon Katrinka, with a quick merry laugh, shoots
past Hilda. The girl in yellow
The girl in yellow is gaining now.
She passes
them all,—all except Gretel. The judges lean forward without
seeming to lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer
fills the air; the very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed
them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER, ONE MILE! " shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which
each holds in his hand.


## p. 4765 (#559) ###########################################

MARY MAPES DODGE
4765
While the girls are resting,- some crowding eagerly around
our frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,
-the boys form in a line.
Mynheer Van Gleck drops the handkerchief this time. The
buglers give a vigorous blast. Off start the boys!
Half-way already. Did ever you see the like!
Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant.
But there are
only twenty boys. No matter; there were hundreds of legs, I
am sure. Where are they now? There is such a noise one gets
bewildered. What are the people laughing at? Oh! at that fat
boy in the rear. See him go! See him! He'll be down in an
instant; no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is all alone: the
other boys are nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it.
He stops.
He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap, and
looks about him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has
made a hundred friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good
Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as
eagerly as the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as
they "bring to," and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now,-one of the boys; it is all we
know. He has touched the vox humana stop of the crowd; it
fairly roars. Now they come nearer; we can
see the red cap.
There's Ben, there's Peter, there's Hans!
Hans ahead. Young Madame Van Gend almost crushes
the flowers in her hand: she had been quite sure that Peter
would be first. Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the youth
with the red cap. The others are pressing close. A tall figure
darts from among them. He passes the red cap, he passes Ben,
then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and Hans.
Madame Van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's
eyes fill with tears: Peter must beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly.
Gretel gazes with clasped hands: four strokes more will take her
brother to the columns.
He is there! Yes; but so was young Schummel just a second
before. At the last instant, Carl, gathering his powers, had
whizzed between them, and passed the goal.
"CARL SCHUMMEL, ONE MILE! >> shouts the crier.


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4766
MARY MAPES DODGE
Soon Madame Van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief
starts the bugle, and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring,
shoots off twenty girls like so many arrows.
It is a beautiful sight; but one has not long to look: before
we can fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance.
This time they are close upon one another.
It is hard to say,
as they come speeding back from the flagstaff, which will reach.
the columns first. There are new faces among the foremost,-
eager glowing faces, unnoticed before. Katrinka is there, and
Hilda; but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear. Gretel is waver-
ing, but when Rychie passes her she starts forward afresh. Now
they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance: she
is almost "home. ” She has not faltered since that bugle note
sent her flying: like an arrow, still she is speeding toward the
goal. Cheer after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent, but
his eyes shine like stars. "Huzza! Huzza! "
The crier's voice is heard again.
"HILDA VAN GLECK, ONE MILE! "
A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching
the music in its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad
rhythmic throbbing in its depths. When the flag waves all is
still.
Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the
boys like chaff before the wind,-dark chaff, I admit, and in big
pieces.
It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the
cheers and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is com-
ing.