Hans Vanderbum had provided himself with a long pole, and stood by a
sandy portion of ground, upon which he had no difficulty in tracing
what letters and characters he wished. With due preparation and
importance he marked out the first letter of the German alphabet, and
then, straightening himself up, demanded in a thundering tone "vot dat
was." His two sons looked mute and dumbfounded. They had not the
remotest idea in the world of its name and significance. For over
three months the patient father had instructed them daily in regard to
this character, and the two together must have repeated it several
thousand times. But, it mattered not; neither had any conception now
of it, and their looks showed such unmistakably to their instructor.
"Dunder and blixen, vot Dutch Indians!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
Repeating its name, he again demanded "vot dat was." This time they
answered readily, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Shmart boys," said he, approvingly. "You learns well, now. One dese
days--"
Hans Vanderbum's words were cut short by the sudden sharp explosion of
his pipe, the bowl being shattered in a hundred pieces, while nothing
but the stem remained in his mouth.
"Where's mine pipe?" he asked, looking around in the vain hope of
descrying it somewhere upon the ground. Quanonshet and Madokawandock
indulged in one short scream of laughter, then instantly straightened
their faces and looked as meek and innocent as lambs.
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