Other editions of book Hans Brinker;: Or, The silver skates

In this classic winter tale, set against a backdrop of frozen canals in a land of windmills and wooden shoes, the year’s most thrilling event is about to take place — the race to win the coveted Silver Skates.For youngsters of the Dutch village, the time is especially exciting. But Hans and Gretel Brinker, with their hand-carved wooden blades, can hardly expect to compete against their well-trained young friends who own costly steel skates. Raff Brinker, their father, is seriously ill, and the desperately poor family is struggling to survive. To win the race, the siblings will need a miracle — and a helping hand.First published in 1865, Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates was greeted with instant popular acclaim. The heartwarming tale continues to delight countless readers today with its messages of virtue rewarded and the importance of maintaining courage in the pursuit of one’s dreams.

From glistening ice roads to frozen canals, in a wonderland where even the richest nobles thrill to the gliding joys of winter, everyone is awaiting the fabulous race to win the magnificent Silver Skates --Except Hans Brinker and his sister Gretel. For the Brinkers are desperately poor, friendless; with a father felled by a crippling head wound, Mother and the children must battle simply to survive. And while Hans and Gretel are strong, fast, disciplined, and loyal...on hand-crafted wooden skates, they can't complete against trained rich kids with fine steel blades...But sometimes...sometimes...good people are given a chance. Sometimes strangers do care. And sometimes a family's love and loyalty can struggle against even the cruelest twists of fate...Sometimes...

The music has commenced ... Where are the racers?All assembled together near the white columns.It is a beautiful sight. Forty boys and girls in picturesqueattire darting with electric swiftness in and out amongeach other, or sailing in pairs and triplets, beckoning,chatting, whispering in the fullness of youthful glee. In a little Dutch village covered in snow, Hans Brinker and his sister, Gretel, glide down the canals on hand-carved wooden skates. Metal skates are much too expensive. Even so, they are two of the best skaters around. A race is announced with two grand prizes: a pair of skates for a boy and another for a girl. Hans and Gretel enter, but will they win the silver skates?

On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad 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 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. “How can I? The string is too short.” Giving vent to a good-natured Dutch whistle, the English of which was 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 would be better than these.” “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 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?” Gretel drew up her lips as if to say, “Hurt away,” but made no further response.

Hans and Gretel On a bright December morning long ago, two thinly clad 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 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.