The Junior Classics, vol 6 | Page 3

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 the other sounds, "Pypen en tabac! Pypen en tabac!"
Another, his big brother, though evidently some years younger, is
selling doughnuts and bon-bons. He is calling on all pretty 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 meerschaum has not really grown fast to his lips: it
only appears so. There are grandfather and grandmother, whom you
meet 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 around 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 Mynheer Korbes's family,
is very pretty, and proves that the Hollanders are quite skilled at
tent-making; but I like the Van Gleck's 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 flagstaffs upon the ice mark
the limit of the race-course. The two 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 enough so to trip them when they turn to come back to the
starting-point.
The air is so clear, it seems scarcely possible that the columns 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 every thing is
harmonious. Until you look at the blue tent, it seems that the music
springs from the sunshine, it is so boundless, so joyous. Only when you
see the staid-faced musicians, you realize the truth.
Where are the racers? All assembled together near the white columns.
It is a beautiful sight,--forty boys and girls in picturesque attire, darting
with electric swiftness in and out among each other, or sailing in pairs
and triplets, beckoning, chatting, whispering, in the fulness of youthful
glee.
A few careful ones are soberly tightening their straps: others, 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.