ll to pieces, and which all the rats
would have run away from, if they could have found room in any other
house to put their heads. It was just such a queer building as you see
in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into the clouds;
and as many garrets, one over the other, as the seven heavens of
Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork's nest on
the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low
Countries; and at the very time of my grandfather's arrival, there were
two of these long-legged birds of grace, standing like ghosts on the
chimney top. Faith, but they've kept the house on its legs to this very
day; for you may see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it stands
there yet; only it is turned into a brewery--a brewery of strong
Flemish beer; at least it was so when I came that way after the battle
of Waterloo.

My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he approached. It might Not
altogether have struck his fancy, had he not seen in large letters over
the door,

HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK.

My grandfather had learnt enough of the language to know that the sign
promised good liquor. "This is the house for me," said he, stopping
short before the door.

The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was an event in an old inn,
frequented only by the peaceful sons of traffic. A rich burgher of
Antwerp, a stately ample man, in a broad Flemish hat, and who was the
great man and great patron of the establishment, sat smoking a clean
long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little distiller of Geneva
from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the bottle-nosed host
stood in the door, and the comely hostess, in crimped cap, beside him;
and the hostess' daughter, a plump Flanders lass, with long gold
pendants in her ears, was at a side window.

"Humph!" said the rich burgher of Antwerp, with a sulky glance at the
stranger.

"Der duyvel!" said the fat little distiller of Schiedam.

The landlord saw with the quick glance of a publican that the new guest
was not at all, at all, to the taste of the old ones; and to tell the
truth, he did not himself like my grandfather's saucy eye.

He shook his head--"Not a garret in the house but was full."

"Not a garret!" echoed the landlady.

"Not a garret!" echoed the daughter.

The burgher of Antwerp and the little distiller of Schiedam continued
to smoke their pipes sullenly, eyed the enemy askance from under their
broa