know, that holds very little, and where, in truth, readers generally wish to find still less.
So, good-by. Oh! I must tell you one more thing. We found to-day, in an Amsterdam bookstore, this story of Hans Brinker, translated into Dutch. It is a queer-looking volume, beautifully printed, and with colored pictures, but filled with such astonishing words, that it really made me feel sorry for the little Hollanders who are to read them.
Good-by again. In the touching words of our Dutch translator, with whom I'm sure you'll thoroughly agree, Toch ben ik er mijn landgenooten dankbaar voor, die mijn arbeid steeds zoo welwillend ontvangen en wier genegenheid ik voortdurend hoop te verdienen.
P.S.—A hearty apology is hereby tendered to all readers of the above, who maintain that a lady's letter invariably has a postscript. I have kept them waiting more than two years. Meantime the good ship has brought our party home again; and we have had ample time to study some of the curious ways and manners of New Amsterdam, and to wonder that some enterprising Dutchman has not written a book about them for the amusement of his countryfolk.
Meantime, too, I have had good reason to thank the publishers, the critics, and, above all, the boys and girls of America, England, and Holland, for the kindness they have shown toward this faithful history of Hans Brinker. Through the liberality of Messrs. Scribner, Armstrong, Co. it is here beautifully illustrated, and its characters photographed to the life. Boys who were babies when it was first told can read every word of it now without skipping a single big word: better yet, they are old enough to find out whatever is worth remembering in the book, and to take heart from its examples of Dutch heroism and love.
