The Belgian Twins
L >>
Lucy Fitch Perkins >> The Belgian Twins
This PG project is dedicated to retired teacher Betty Sheridan,
who generously loaned the book to be produced for PG.
THE BELGIAN TWINS
By Lucy Fitch Perkins
Geographical Series
THE DUTCH TWINS PRIMER. Grade I.
THE DUTCH TWINS. Grade III.
THE ESKIMO TWINS. Grade II.
THE FILIPINO TWINS. Grade IV.
THE JAPANESE TWINS. Grade IV.
THE SWISS TWINS. Grade IV.
THE IRISH TWINS. Grade V.
THE ITALIAN TWINS. Grades V and VI.
THE SCOTCH TWINS. Grades V and VI.
THE MEXICAN TWINS. Grade VI.
THE BELGIAN TWINS. Grade VI.
THE FRENCH TWINS. Grade VII.
Historical Series
THE CAVE TWINS. Grade IV.
THE SPARTAN TWINS. Grades V-VI.
THE PURITAN TWINS. Grades VI-VII.
To the friends of Belgian Children --
PREFACE
In this sad hour of the world's history, when so many homes have
been broken up, and so many hearts burdened with heavy sorrows,
it is comforting to think of the many heroic souls who,
throughout the struggle, have gone about their daily tasks with
unfailing courage and cheerfulness, and by so doing have helped
to carry the burdens of the world, and to sustain other hearts as
heavy as their own.
It is comforting, also, to know that there are many instances of
happy reunions after long and unspeakable anxieties, adventures,
and trials.
This story of two little Belgian refugees is based upon the
actual experience of two Belgian children, and the incident of
the locket is quite true.
The characters of the eel-woman and the mother of the Twins have
also their living originals, from whose courage and devotion the
author has received much inspiration.
CONTENTS
I. THE HARVEST-FIELD
II. THE RUMORS
III. THE ALARM
IV. "FOR KING, FOR LAW AND LIBERTY"
V. DOING A MAN'S WORK
VI. AT THE CHURCH
VII. THE TIDAL WAVE OF GERMANS
VIII. GRANNY AND THE EELS
IX. OFF FOR ANTWERP
X. ON THE TOW-PATH
XI. THE ATTACK
XII. THE ZEPPELIN RAID
XIII. REFUGEES
XIV. THE MOST WONDERFUL PART
THE BELGIAN TWINS
I
THE HARVEST-FIELD
THE HARVEST-FIELD
It was late in the afternoon of a long summer's day in Belgium.
Father Van Hove was still at work in the harvest-field, though
the sun hung so low in the west that his shadow, stretching far
across the level, green plain, reached almost to the little red-
roofed house on the edge of the village which was its home.
Another shadow, not so long, and quite a little broader,
stretched itself beside his, for Mother Van Hove was also in the
field, helping her husband to load the golden sheaves upon an old
blue farm-cart which stood near by.
Them were also two short, fat shadows which bobbed briskly about
over the green meadow as their owners danced among the wheat-
sheaves or carried handfuls of fresh grass to Pier, the, patient
white farm-horse, hitched to the cart. These gay shadows belonged
to Jan and Marie, sometimes called by their parents Janke and
Mie, for short. Jan and Marie were the twin son and daughter of
Father and Mother Van Hove, and though they were but eight years
old, they were already quite used to helping their father and
mother with the work of their little farm.
They knew how to feed the chickens and hunt the eggs and lead
Pier to water and pull weeds in the garden. In the spring they
had even helped sow the wheat and barley, and now in the late
summer they were helping to harvest the grain.
The children had been in the field since sunrise, but not all of
the long bright day had been given to labor. Early in the morning
their father's pitchfork had uncovered a nest of field mice, and
the Twins had made another nest, as much like the first as
possible, to put the homeless field babies in, hoping that their
mother would find them again and resume her interrupted
housekeeping.
Then they had played for a long time in the tiny canal which
separated the wheat-field from the meadow, where Bel, their
black and white cow, was pastured. There was also Fidel, the dog,
their faithful companion and friend. The children had followed
him on many an excursion among the willows along the river-bank,
for Fidel might at any moment come upon the rabbit or water rat
which he was always seeking, and what a pity it would be for Jan
and Marie to miss a sight like that!
When the sun was high overhead, the whole family, and Fidel also,
had rested under a tree by the little river, and Jan and Marie
had shared with their father and mother the bread and cheese
which had been brought from home for their noon meal. Then they
had taken a nap in the shade, for it is a long day that begins
and ends with the midsummer sun. The bees hummed so drowsily in
the clover that Mother Van Hove also took forty winks, while
Father Van Hove led Pier to the river for a drink; and tied him
where he could enjoy the rich meadow grass for a while.
And now the long day was nearly over. The last level rays of the
disappearing sun glistened on the red roofs of the village, and
the windows of the little houses gave back an answering flash of
light. On the steeple of the tiny church the gilded cross shone
like fire against the gray of the eastern sky.
The village clock struck seven and was answered faintly by the
sound of distant chimes from the Cathedral of Malines, miles away
across the plain.
For some time Father Van Hove had been standing on top of the
load, catching the sheaves which Mother Van Hove tossed up to
him, and stowing them away in the farm-wagon, which was already
heaped high with the golden grain. As the clock struck, he paused
in his labor, took off his hat, and wiped his brow. He listened
for a moment to the music of the bells, glanced at the western
sky, already rosy with promise of the sunset, and at the weather-
cock above the cross on the church-steeple. Then he looked down
at the sheaves of wheat, still standing like tiny tents across
the field.
"It's no use, Mother," he said at last; "we cannot put it all in
to-night, but the sky gives promise of a fair day to-morrow, and
the weather-cock, also, points east. We can finish in one more
load; let us go home now."
"The clock struck seven," cried Jan. "I counted the strokes."
"What a scholar is our Janke!" laughed his mother, as she lifted
the last sheaf of wheat on her fork and tossed it at Father Van
Hove's feet. "He can count seven when it is supper-time! As for
me, I do not need a clock; I can tell the time of day by the ache
in my bones; and, besides that, there is Bel at the pasture bars
waiting to be milked and bellowing to call me."
"I don't need a clock either," chimed in Marie, patting her apron
tenderly; "I can tell time by my stomach. It's a hundred years
since we ate our lunch; I know it is."
"Come, then, my starvelings," said Mother Van Hove, pinching
Marie's fat cheek, "and you shall save your strength by riding
home on the load! Here, Ma mie, up you go!"
She swung Marie into the air as she spoke. Father Van Hove
reached down from his perch on top of the load, caught her in his
arms, and enthroned her upon the fragrant grain.
"And now it is your turn, my Janke!" cried Mother Van Hove, "and
you shall ride on the back of old Pier like a soldier going to
the wars!" She lifted Jan to the horse's back, while Father Van
Hove climbed down to earth once more and took up the reins.
Fidel came back dripping wet from the river, shook himself, and
fell in behind the wagon. "U - U!" cried Father Van Hove to old
Pier, and the little procession moved slowly up the cart-path
toward the shining windows of their red-roofed house.
The home of the Van Hoves lay on the very outskirts of the little
hamlet of Meer. Beside it ran a yellow ribbon of road which
stretched across the green plain clear to the city of Malines. As
they turned from the cart-path into the road, the old blue cart
became part of a little profession of similar wagons, for the
other men of Meer were also late in coming home to the village
from their outlying farms.
"Good-evening, neighbor," cried Father Van Hove to Father Maes,
whose home lay beyond his in the village. "How are your crops
coming on?"
"Never better," answered Father Maes; "I have more wheat to the
acre than ever before."
"So have I, thanks be to the good God;" answered Father Van Hove.
"The winter will find our barns full this year."
"Yes," replied Father Maes a little sadly; "that is, if we have
no bad luck, but Jules Verhulst was in the city yesterday and
heard rumors of a German army on our borders. It is very likely
only an idle tale to frighten the women and children, but Jules
says there are men also who believe it."
"I shall believe nothing of the sort," said Father Van Hove
stoutly. "Are we not safe under the protection of our treaty? No,
no, neighbor, there's nothing to fear! Belgium is neutral
ground."
"I hope you may be right," answered Father Maes, cracking his
whip, and the cart moved on.
Mother Van Hove, meanwhile, had hastened ahead of the cart to
stir up the kitchen fire and put the kettle on before the others
should reach home, and when Father Van Hove at last drove into
the farmyard, she was already on the way to the pasture bars with
her milk-pail on her arm. "Set the table for supper, ma Mie," she
called back, "and do not let the pot boil over! Jan, you may shut
up the fowls; they have already gone to roost."
"And what shall I do, Mother?" laughed Father Van Hove.
"You," she called back, "you may unharness Pier and turn him out
in the pasture for the night! And I'll wager I shall be back with
a full milk-pail before you've even so much as fed the pig, let
alone the other chores--men are so slow!" She waved her hand
gayly and disappeared behind the pasture bars, as she spoke.
"Hurry, now, my man," said Father Van Hove to Jan. "We must not
let Mother beat us! We will let the cart stand right there near
the barn, and to-morrow we can store the grain away to make room
for a new load. I will let you lead Pier to the pasture, while I
feed the pig myself; by her squeals she is hungry enough to eat
you up in one mouthful."
II
THE RUMORS
THE RUMORS
When Mother Van Hove returned from the pasture, fifteen minutes
later, her orders had all been carried out. Pier was in the
pasture, the hens were shut up for the night, and the pig, which
had been squealing with hunger, was row grunting with
satisfaction over her evening meal; Fidel was gnawing a bone, and
Father Van Hove was already washing his hands at the pump, beside
the kitchen door.
"You are all good children," said the mother as she set down her
brimming pail and took her turn at the wash-basin and the soap.
"Jan and Marie, have you washed your hands?"
"I have," called Marie from the kitchen, and supper is ready and
the table set."
"I washed my hands in the canal this morning," pleaded Jan.
"Won't that do?"
"You ate your lunch this noon, too," answered his mother
promptly. "Won't that do? Why do you need to eat again when you
have already eaten twice today?"
"Because I am hungry again," answered Jan.
"Well, you are also dirty again," said his mother, as she put the
soap in his hands and wiped her own on the clean towel which
Marie handed her from the door. She cleaned her wooden shoes on
the bundle of straw which lay for the purpose beside the kitchen
door; then she went inside and took her place opposite Father Van
Hove at the little round oaken table by the window.
Marie was already in her chair, and in a moment Jan joined them
with a beaming smile and a face which, though clean in the
middle, showed a gray border from ear to ear.
"If you don't believe I'm clean, look at the towel!" he said,
holding it up.
"Oh, my heart!" cried his mother, throwing up her hands. "I
declare there's but one creature in all God's world that cares
nothing for cleanliness! Even a pig has some manners if given
half a chance, but boys!" She seized the grimy towel and held it
up despairingly for Father Van Hove to see. "He's just wet his
face and wiped all the dirt off on the towel. The Devil himself
is not more afraid of holy water than Jan Van Hove is of water of
any kind!" she cried.
"Go and wash yourself properly, Janke," said his father sternly,
and Jan disappeared through the kitchen door. Sounds of vigorous
pumping and splashing without were heard in the kitchen, and when
Jan appeared once more, he was allowed to take his place at the
supper-table with the family.
Father Van Hove bowed his head, and the Twins and their mother
made the sign of the cross with him, as he began their grace
before meat. "In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the
Holy Ghost, Amen," prayed Father Van Hove. "Hail, Mary, full of
Grace." Then, as the prayer continued, the mother and children
with folded hands and bowed heads joined in the petition: "Holy
Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of
our death, Amen." A clatter of spoons followed the grace, and
Mother Van Hove's good buttermilk pap was not long in
disappearing down their four hungry throats.
The long day in the open air had made the children so sleepy they
could scarcely keep their eyes open through the meal. "Come, my
children," said their mother briskly, as she rose from the table,
"pop into bed, both of you, as fast as you can go. You are
already half asleep! Father, you help them with their buttons,
and hear them say their prayers, while I wash up these dishes and
take care of the milk." She took a candle from the chimney-piece
as she spoke, and started down cellar with the skimmer. When she
came back into the kitchen once more, the children were safely
tucked in bed, and her husband was seated by the kitchen door
with his chair tipped back against the wall, smoking his evening
pipe. Mother Van Hove cleared the table, washed the dishes, and
brushed the crumbs from the tiled floor. Then she spread the
white sand once more under the table and in a wide border around
the edge of the room, and hung the brush outside the kitchen
door.
Father Van Hove smoked in silence as she moved about the room. At
last he said to her, "Leonie, did you hear what our neighbor Maes
said to-night as we were talking in the road?"
"No," said his wife, "I was hurrying home to get supper."
"Maes said there are rumors of a German army on our frontier,"
said Father Van Hove.
His wife paused in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Who
brought that story to town?" she demanded.
"Jules Verhulst," answered her husband.
"Jules Verhulst!" sniffed Mother Van Hove with disdain. "He knows
more things that aren't so than any man in this village. I
wouldn't believe anything on his say-so! Besides, the whole world
knows that all the Powers have agreed that Belgium shall be
neutral ground, and have bound themselves solemnly to protect
that neutrality. I learned that in school, and so did you."
"Yes," sighed Father Van Hove. "I learned it too, and surely no
nation can have anything against us! We have given no one cause
for complaint that I know of."
"It's nonsense," said his wife with decision. "Belgium is safe
enough so far as that goes, but one certainly has to work hard
here just to make ends meet and get food for all the hungry
mouths! They say it is different in America; there you work less
and get more, and are farther away from meddlesome neighboring
countries besides. I sometimes wish we had gone there with my
sister. She and her husband started with no more than we have,
and now they are rich--at least they were when I last heard from
them; but that was a long time ago," she finished.
"Well," said Father Van Hove, as he stood up and knocked the
ashes from his pipe, "it may be that they have more money and
less work, but I've lived here in this spot ever since I was
born, and my father before me. Somehow I feel I could never take
root in any other soil. I'm content with things as they are."
"So am I, for the matter of that," said Mother Van Hove
cheerfully, as she put Fidel outside and shut the door for the
night. Then, taking the candle from the chimney-piece once more,
she led the way to the inner room, where the twins were already
soundly sleeping.
III
THE ALARM
THE ALARM
For some time the little village of Meer slept quietly in the
moonlight. There was not a sound to break the stillness, except
once when Mother Van Hove's old rooster caught a glimpse of the
waning moon through the window of the chicken-house, and crowed
lustily, thinking it was the sun. The other roosters of the
village, wiser than he, made no response to his call, and in a
moment he, too, returned to his interrupted slumbers. But though
there was as yet no sound to tell of their approach, the moon
looked down upon three horsemen galloping over the yellow ribbon
of road from Malines toward the little village. Soon the sound of
the horses' hoofs beating upon the hardened earth throbbed
through the village itself, and Fidel sat up on the kitchen
doorstep, pricked up his ears, and listened. He heard the hoof-
beats and awakened the echoes with a sharp bark.
Mother Van Hove sat up in bed and listened; another dog barked,
and another, and now she, too, heard the hoof-beats. Nearer they
came, and nearer, and now she could hear a voice shouting. She
shook her husband. "Wake up!" she whispered in his ear,
"something is wrong! Fidel barks, and I hear strange noises
about. Wake up!"
"Fidel is crazy," said Father Van Hove sleepily. "He thinks some
weasel is after the chickens very likely. Fidel will attend to
it. Go to sleep."
He sank back again upon his pillows, but his wife seized his arm
and pulled him up.
"Listen!" she said. "Oh, listen! Weasels do not ride on
horseback! There are hoof-beats on the road!"
"Some neighbor returning late from Malines," said Father Van
Hove, yawning. "It does not concern us."
But his wife was already out of bed, and at the window. The
horsemen were now plainly visible, riding like the wind, and as
they whirled by the houses their shout thrilled through the quiet
streets of the village: "Burghers, awake! Awake! Awake!"
Wide awake at last, Father Van Hove sprang out of bed and hastily
began putting down his clothes. His wife was already nearly
dressed, and had lighted a candle. Other lights sparkled from the
windows of other houses. Suddenly the bell in the church-steeple
began to ring wildly, as though it, too, were shaken with a
sudden terror. "It must be a fire," said Father Van Hove.
Still fastening her clothing, his wife ran out of the door and
looked about in every direction. "I see no fire," she said, "but
the village street is full of people running to the square!
Hurry! Hurry! We must take the children with us; they must not be
left here alone."
She ran to wake the children, as she spoke, and, helped by her
trembling fingers, they, too, were soon dressed, and the four ran
together up the road toward the village church. The bell still
clanged madly from the steeple, and the vibrations seemed to
shake the very flesh of the trembling children as they clung to
their mother's hands and tried to keep up with their father's
rapid strides.
They found all the village gathered in front of the little town-
hall. On its steps stood the Burgomeister and the village priest,
and near them, still sitting astride his foam-flecked steed, was
one of the soldiers who had brought the alarm. His two companions
were already far beyond Meer, flying over the road to arouse the
villages which lay farther to the east. The church-bell suddenly
ceased its metallic clatter, and while its deep tones still
throbbed through the night air, the wondering and frightened
people crowded about the steps in breathless suspense.
The Burgomeister raised his hand. Even in the moonlight it could
be seen that he was pale. He spoke quickly. "Neighbors," he said,
"there is bad news! the German army is on our borders! It is
necessary for every man of military age and training to join the
colors at once in case the army is needed for defense. There is
not a moment to lose. This messenger is from headquarters. He
will tell you what you are to do."
The soldier now spoke for the first time. "Men of Belgium," he
cried, "your services are needed for your country and your King!
The men of Meer are to report at once to the army headquarters at
Malines. Do not stop even to change your clothing! We are not yet
at war, and our good King Albert still hopes to avert it by an
armed peace, but the neutrality of Belgium is at stake, and we
must be ready to protect it at any cost, and at an instant's
notice. Go at once to the Brussels gate of Malines. An officer
will meet you there and tell you what to do. I must ride on to
carry the alarm to Putte." He wheeled his horse as he spoke, and,
turning in his saddle, lifted his sword and cried, "Vive le Roi!"
"Vive le Roi! Vive la Belgique!" came in an answering shout from
the people of Meer, and he was gone.
There was a moment of stunned silence as he rode away; then a
sound of women weeping. The Burgomeister came down from the steps
of the town-hall, said farewell to his wife and children, and
took his place at the head of the little group of men which was
already beginning form in marching order. The priest moved about
among his people with words of comfort.
Father Van Hove turned to his wife, and to Jan and Marie, who
were clinging to her skirts. "It is only a bad dream, my little
ones," he said, patting their heads tenderly; "we shall wake up
some day. And you, my wife, do not despair! I shall soon return,
no doubt! Our good King will yet save us from war. You must
finish the harvest alone--but--" "Fall in!" cried the voice of
the Burgomeister, and Father Van Hove kissed his wife and
children and stepped forward.
Mother Van Hove bravely checked her rising sobs. "We shall go
with you to Malines, at any rate," she said firmly. And as the
little group of men started forward along the yellow road, she
and many more women and children of the village marched, away
with them in the gray twilight which precedes the coming of the
dawn. The priest went with his people, praying for them as he
walked, in a voice that shook with feeling.
The sky was red in the east and the larks were already singing
over the quiet fields when the men of Meer, followed by their
wives and children, presented themselves at the Brussels gate of
the city.
IV
"FOR KING, FOR LAW AND LIBERTY"
"FOR KING, FOR LAW AND LIBERTY"
At the gate they were met by an officer, who at once took command
of the company. There was only a moment for hasty good-byes
before the order to march was given, and the women and children
watched the little column stride bravely away up the street
toward the armory, where the uniforms and arms were kept. They
followed at a little distance and took up their station across
the street from the great doors through which the men had
disappeared. There was little talking among them. Only the voice
of the priest could be heard now and then, as he said a few words
to one and another of the waiting women. It was still so early in
the morning that the streets of the city were not yet filled with
people going to work. Only those, like themselves, concerned with
the sad business of war were abroad.
To Jan and Marie the long wait seemed endless, but at last the
doors of the armory sprang open; there was a burst of martial
music, and a band playing the national hymn appeared. "For King,
for law and liberty!" thrilled the bugles, and amidst the waving
of flags, and the cheers of the people, who had now begun to fill
the streets, a regiment of soldiers marched away toward the
north. Jan and Marie stood with their mother on the edge of the
sidewalk, eagerly scanning every face as the soldiers passed, and
at last Jan shouted, "I see Father! I see Father!"
Mother Van Hove lifted her two children high in her arms for him
to see, but Father Van Hove could only smile a brave good-bye as
he marched swiftly past.
"No tears, my children!" cried the priest; "let them see no
tears! Send them away with a smile!" And, standing on the edge of
the sidewalk, he made the sign of the cross and raised his hand
in blessing, as the troops went by.
For a time Mother Van Hove and the children ran along the
sidewalk, trying to keep pace with the soldiers, but their quick
strides were too much for the Twins, and it was not long before
Marie said, breathlessly, "My legs are too short! I can't
run so fast!"
"I can't too!" gasped Jan. Mother Van Hove stopped short at
once, and the three stood still, hand in hand, and watched the
soldiers until they turned a corner and disappeared from sight
through the Antwerp gate of the city.
They were quite alone, for the other women and children had gone
no farther than the armory, and were already on their homeward
way to Meer. Now for the first time Mother Van Hove gave way to
grief, and Jan and Marie wept with her; but it was only for a
moment. Then she wiped her eyes, and the Twins' too, on her
apron, and said firmly: "Come, my lambs! Tears will not bring him
back! We must go home now as fast as we can. There is need there
for all that we can do! You must be the man of the house now, my
Janke, and help me take your father's place on the farm; and
Marie must be our little house-mother. We must be as brave as
soldiers, even though we cannot fight."
