The New Land | Page 6

comfortable looking houses of the Dutch burghers,
nestling under the great trees; the well-scoured windows blinking like
so many sleepy eyes in the warm spring sunshine. It was a day for
dreaming and adventure, not for study.
For a little while the boy sat with his head resting upon the low window
sill, his young mind busy with half-formed fancies, most of them
circling about his talk with his father concerning the unhappy
passengers of the 'St. Catarina.' Would the unfortunates be obliged to
seek shelter elsewhere, or would they be allowed to dwell in New
Amsterdam? If so, perhaps in time other Jewish families might come,
bringing with them boys of his own age, among whom he might find a
real playfellow. He sighed a little wistfully at the thought, for he had no
close friends among the sturdy young Dutch lads of the neighborhood.
Even a girl would be better than no one, he thought; not a mere baby
like his little sister, but a girl old enough to play with him, to visit the
Indians dwelling a little beyond the Wall, to wander with him to the
other end of the settlement and stand upon the sea shore, searching for
shells or lying upon the shining sands and weaving fantastic dream
stories, too foolish for older and wiser folks to hear.
The boy fell to dreaming now, sitting there in the warm sunshine, for
he was a quiet, thoughtful lad, unaccustomed to playing with youths of
his own age, given to day-dreams and fairy legends. Today, as he half
reclined on the settle near the window, his busy young brain painted a
picture so strange that even Samuel himself had to smile over it; for as

he gazed through the window with half-closed lids, the dusty road and
little Dutch houses faded away and he seemed to see a shining, white
street with tall buildings on either side, and many, many people--more
than he had ever seen in his life, even in Amsterdam across the
seas--hurrying to and fro. He had heard his father say, nodding gravely
over his pipe, that some day little New Amsterdam would be one of the
greatest sea ports in the world. Jacob Aboaf had hooted at his friend's
prophecy; but as he recalled it today, Samuel did not laugh. His day
dream was very real to him, and when his mother came into the room
she found him staring through the window with a strange smile about
his mouth.
Frau Barsimon was a busy woman, with no time for day-dreams and
she was often annoyed (and secretly alarmed) at her son's tendency to
wander off into a world of his own making. Now she shook him, but
gently, and spoke with her usual briskness.
"Samuel, Samuel, have you nothing better to do than sit nodding like an
old spinning woman in the sunshine?"
The boy started guiltily, indicating his open book with a shame-faced
laugh. "Father told me to study--barmitzvah," he faltered.
His mother shrugged goodnaturedly. Pious Jewess that she was, she
was often inclined to quarrel with her husband who, she declared, was
too fond of keeping the boy tied to his Hebrew lessons. "He needs a
strong body now," she used to say when demanding an extra play-hour
for Samuel. "When he is older and his head is less stuffed with
dreaming it will be time enough to cram it with your learning. But first
let him play out in the open air until he is tired and the fresh wind has
blown all his nonsense away." She was thinking the same heresy that
moment, but all she did was to smile goodhumoredly and pull the boy
to his feet. "Out of doors with you," she commanded, gayly, "and I will
speak to father. Take a walk--a long one, and when you come back you
will be able to study without falling half-asleep over your book."
Samuel needed no urging. A moment later he had kissed his mother
good-bye, helped himself to a handful of sugar cookies from her blue

crockery jar, and was whistling down the dusty road, feeling strangely
anxious for some adventures; adventures as heroic as his father often
related before the fire on winter evenings. His mother might have
thrown up her hands in despair had she seen the dreamy look in his
large eyes. True, he was no longer drowsing on the settle, but as he
swung along under the soft spring sky, he saw himself the hero of a
hundred fantastic tales--the captain of a trading-vessel bound for the
Indies; the commander of a company of daring youths of his own age,
all ready to resist the Indians when they should seek to fall upon New
Amsterdam; again, a pirate with a plumed hat and