Американская писательница Мэри Мэйпс Додж (1838–1905) родилась в семье известного изобретателя и ученого-химика Джеймса Дж. Мэйпса, который привил своим шестерым детям любовь к чтению. В 20 лет она вышла замуж за известного адвоката Уильяма Доджа, родила двоих сыновей и вскоре овдовела. Потеряв мужа, она начала писать книги, вначале для своих детей, а потом стала издавать их. Ее перу принадлежат несколько томов стихов и детской прозы, оказавших большое влияние на американскую детскую литературу. Додж была очень любима маленькими читателями в Америке. Ее имя стало одним из самых известных среди детских писателей.
У писательницы было одно подлинное увлечение – Голландия. Она собирала самые разнообразные сведения – о флоре и фауне, об архитектуре и живописи, истории и литературе этой страны, об обычаях и нравах голландцев. Постепенно этот материал превратился в увлекательную историю, которую она пересказывала перед сном своим сыновьям. Так появилась знаменитая книга «Ханс Бринкер, или Серебряные коньки». Книга впервые вышла в свет в 1865 году и за короткий срок стала бестселлером, ее перевели на множество языков, в том числе на русский (русский перевод называется «Серебряные коньки»).
С 1873 года Додж издавала популярный детский журнал «Святой Николай» (St. Nicolas), в котором частенько печатались такие классики детской литературы, как Марк Твен, Брет Гарт, Роберт Льюис Стивенсон и Редьярд Киплинг. После смерти Мэри Додж издательское дело продолжили ее сыновья.
On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad[1] children were kneeling upon the bank of a frozen canal in Holland.
The sun had not yet appeared, but the gray sky was parted near the horizon, and its edges shone crimson with the coming day. Most of the good Hollanders were enjoying a placid morning nap. Even Mynheer[2] von Stoppelnoze, that worthy old Dutchman, was still slumbering “in beautiful repose”.
Now and then some peasant woman, poising a well-filled basket upon her head, came skimming over the glassy surface of the canal; or a lusty boy, skating to his day’s work in the town, cast a good-natured grimace toward the shivering pair as he flew along.
Meanwhile, with many a vigorous puff and pull, the brother and sister, for such they were, seemed to be fastening something to their feet – not skates, certainly, but clumsy pieces of wood narrowed and smoothed at their lower edge, and pierced with holes, through which were threaded strings of rawhide.
These queer-looking affairs had been made by the boy Hans. His mother was a poor peasant woman, too poor even to think of such a thing as buying skates for her little ones. Rough as these were, they had afforded the children many a happy hour upon the ice. And now, as with cold, red fingers our young Hollanders tugged at the strings – their solemn faces bending closely over their knees – no vision of impossible iron runners came to dull the satisfaction glowing within.
In a moment the boy arose and, with a pompous swing of the arms and a careless “Come on, Gretel,” glided easily across the canal.
“Ah, Hans,” called his sister plaintively, “this foot is not well yet. The strings hurt me on last market day, and now I cannot bear them tied in the same place.”
“Tie them higher up, then,” answered Hans, as without looking at her he performed a wonderful cat’s cradle step on the ice[3].
“How can I? The string is too short.”
Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which was[4] that girls were troublesome creatures, he steered toward her.
“You are foolish to wear such shoes, Gretel, when you have a stout leather pair. Your klompen[5] would be better than t hes e.”
“Why, Hans! Do you forget? The father threw my beautiful new shoes in the fire. Before I knew what he had done, they were all curled up in the midst o the burning peat. I can skate with these, but not with my wooden ones. Be careful now – ”
Hans had taken a string from his pocket. Humming a tune as he knelt beside her, he proceeded to fasten Gretel’s skate with all the force of his strong young arm.
“Oh! oh!” she cried in real pain.
With an impatient jerk Hans unwound the string. He would have cast it on the ground in true big-brother style, had he not just then spied a tear[6] trickling down his sister’s cheek.
“I’ll fix it – never fear,” he said with sudden tenderness, “but we must be quick. The mother will need us soon.”
Then he glanced inquiringly about him, first at the ground, next at some bare willow branches above his head, and finally at the sky, now gorgeous with streaks of blue, crimson, and gold.
Finding nothing in any of these localities to meet his need, his eye suddenly brightened as, with the air of a fellow who knew what he was about, he took off his cap and, removing the tattered lining, adjusted it in a smooth pad over the top of Gretel’s worn-out shoe.
“Now,” he cried triumphantly, at the same time arranging the strings as briskly as his benumbed fingers would allow, “can you bear some pulling?”
