The New Land | Page 9

yet I have seen you before.
Who is your father and what is his trade?"
"I am Samuel, the son of Jacob Barsimon," answered Samuel, and
suddenly all his shyness left him and he gazed fearlessly into the
governor's face. "And my father is an honest merchant of New
Amsterdam."
"Yes--and of the tribe of Israel," muttered the old man, his brow
darkening. "I wish my little one might have been indebted to another
this day; but I am as honest a man as your father and what I promise, I
keep. So name what reward you will for the favor you have rendered
me--and be off."
Samuel rose, his face flushing with anger at the man's insolence, yet
glowing with a hope he hardly dared to utter even to himself. For the
time had come, he believed, when he might play the hero, as he had
done so many times before in his dreams. "I want no reward," he
answered quietly, "but if you would render me favor for favor, I would
ask you to withdraw the restriction you have placed upon my
brethren--those Jews who sought these shores on the 'St. Catarina' and
who desire to make their homes here."
The governor smiled grimly. "A true Jew," he muttered, with a sort of

grudging admiration for the boy's boldness, "ever ready with his
bargain! But I have no longer the power to grant you or refuse you your
request." He picked up from the table a long, bulky envelope, from
which dangled a red seal. "This came this morning from Holland.
Tomorrow I must tell the burghers that the gentlemen of the Board of
Directors of the Dutch West India Company have over-ridden my
suggestions; they write that I must admit these Jews, provided that the
poor among them shall not become a burden to our community, as they
at first seemed likely to be, but be supported by their own nation."
Again his grim smile. "No fear of that, when even a boy like you thinks
of his people before gifts for himself. I wish," he half mused, "I wish
that we had at least that virtue of your stiff-necked race."
Little Katrina, grown weary of all this, slipped from her uncle's knees
and took Samuel's hand in hers. "Come into the garden," she
commanded, "I want you to see my rose bushes and my new kittens and
the swing, before supper."
Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half-he told her, gently.
Her eager face clouded. "Then you will come and play with me
tomorrow?" she asked.
Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half-defiantly, half-wistfully.
"When your uncle sends for me, I will come," he said, and, bowing in a
manner that would have delighted his careful mother, he left the room.
Katrina was about to follow him, but her uncle called her back rather
sternly.
"Nay, do not pout, my pretty," he told her, "for I will try to find you a
worthier playfellow than the son of a Jew trader."
Samuel walked home slowly through the April twilight. In the harbor
he could see the dim outlines of the 'St. Catarina,' which had in truth
brought the Jewish wanderers to a home in New Amsterdam. But
Samuel was not thinking of the wanderers who, after their months of
weary waiting, could look toward the future with hopeful eyes; nor did
he feel relieved that, since they were not to be deported, the newcomers

would surely come to his barmitzvah party. At that moment he thought
only of the golden-curled fairy princess who would never romp and
play with him again.

A PLACE OF REFUGE
How the Wanderer Came to Rhode Island.
It was bitter cold. The icy wind howling through the forest caught up
the snow and whirled it in great eddies against the trees. Reuben
Mendoza, staggering through the blinding snowflakes, hugged his little
son Benjamin closer to his heart, and prayed desperately that the storm
might cease or that he might soon come to a place of refuge. His own
limbs were aching with fatigue and cold. He had eaten nothing since
early morning and was faint with hunger. Wearied and heartsick, he
would have been glad to lie down upon the ground, to sink into sleep,
perhaps a painless death, with the snow drifting above him; but he
knew that he must struggle on for the sake of the child he was warming
in his bosom.
Suddenly Benjamin, half asleep and numb with the cold, stirred a little
and complained drowsily that he was hungry. His father paused for a
moment and pressed his lean, bearded face against the child's rosy
cheeks. "Be patient, little one," he comforted him, "for soon we shall
find a lodging for the night. Surely, no one would