Elsje was the daughter of Peter Alrichs, the late great director’s son, whose father slept in the graveyard of the little log church on Sand Hook, beside Dominie Welius, the holy psalm-tune leader.  Nanking believed that when the weathercock on the church tingled in the wind, it was Dominie Welius in the grave striking his tuning-fork to catch the key-note.  Peter Alrichs inherited the well-cleared farm of his papa, and had the best estate in all New Amstel except Gerrit Van Swearingen, who was accused of getting rich by smuggling, peculating, and slave-catching.  Little Elsje liked Nanking, but her father too, said he was a big idiot.  So Nanking had a hard time.

“Elsje,” cried Nanking one day, “don’t tell anybody if I give you a secret.”

“No, big sweetheart!”

“I’m going to catch a stork!”

“We don’t have storks in New Netherlands, Nanking.”

“That’s just where I’m going to be smart,” exclaimed Nanking.  “Because there are no storks here I’m going to catch one.  Then uncle Gerrit cannot call me a big idiot.”

Elsje gave Nanking her doll to hold.  He sat there as big as a soldier, and handled the doll tenderly; for he believed it to be alive as much as she did, and she was a little girl.

“In Holland,” said Nanking, “there is a stork on every happy chimney.  The farmers put a wagon-wheel on the chimney-top, and along comes your stork and his family, and they build a nest on the wagon-wheel.  There it is, Elsje, all twigs and grass, warm as pie, heated by the chimney-fire, and such a squawking you never heard.  It keeps the devil away!  The old stork sits up on one long straight leg, and with the other foot he hands the worms around to the family.  I used to sit down and watch them by the hour in that other Amstel where ours gets its name.”

“By the great city of Amsterdam?” asked Elsje.

“That’s it.  In Amstel, the suburb of Amsterdam, where you can see such beautiful ships from all parts of the world.  If I get a stork for our chimney may I hold your doll another day?”

“Yes, Nanking, and I’ll give you a kiss.”

Nanking told his mother next day that he was going to the woods, and not to cry if he did not return at dark.  The Widow Cloos kissed him, and saw him go happily up the street.

“Om licht en donker!” she moaned.  “Between the hawk and the buzzard!  Poor, simple son!  The Indians may kill him, but here he will only get his uncle’s curse!”

Nanking walked out through the little settlement of log and brick, and past the court-house, where the stocks and whipping-post were always standing.  He saw his uncle Van Swearingen’s smart dwelling, with its end to the street and notched gables, and many panes in its glazed windows, and two front doors, and large iron figures in front, telling the date his uncle built it.  A little way off was the fine residence of Peter Alrichs, with a balcony on the roof where the family sat of evenings, smoking their pipes and seeing starlight come out on the river and the flag drop at sunset from Fort Casimir; or hearing the roll of drums as they changed the guard or fired a gun to overhaul a vessel.