e, cut sufficiently deep to be distinct to
the skaters, though not deep enough 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 everything 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 the
musicians are solemn.

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 on Central Park? Look at Ben! I did not see him before. 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 is a bird, a top, a
rabbit, a corkscrew, a sprite, a flesh-ball, all in an instant. When
you think he is erect, he is down; and when you think he is down, he
is up. He drops his glove on the ice, and turns a somerset as he picks
it up. Without stopping, he snatches the cap from Jacob Poot's
astonished head, and claps it back again "hind side before."
Lookers-on hurrah and laugh. Foolish boy! It is arctic weather under
your feet, but more than temperate