do 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 fullness 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. Where else can nearly every
boy and girl perform feats on the ice that would attract a crowd if seen
in Central Park? Look at Ben! 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 surpassed 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's
a bird, a top, a rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a fleshball, all in an
instant. When you think he's erect, he is down, and when you think he is
down, he is up. He drops his glove on the ice and turns a somersault as
he picks it up. Without stopping he snatches the cap from Jacob Poot's
astonished head and claps it back again "hindside 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. Superb 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 notebook that the Dutch take enormous
mouthfuls and universally are fond of potatoes boiled in molasses.

There are some familiar faces near the white columns. Lambert, 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, h