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The National Geographic Magazine 



the guilders that would come in ex- 

 change for the cheeses thus produced. 

 In time the government will set about to 

 relieve the aching and the itching, and 

 the Zuyder Zee, passing into history like 

 the Haarlem Lake, will place seven hun- 

 dred square miles at the disposal of the 

 Dutch farmers. The soil thus rescued 

 will, for a time, give out a leaden cloud 

 of fever and ague which no steam pump 

 yet invented can lift away, but which 

 will be worked off by Dutch patience and 

 quinine. 



EVERYBODY IN HOLLAND LOVES FLOWERS 



In the world of horticulture Haarlem 

 and tulips are synonymous. It is here 

 that the air is filled with a delicious per- 

 fume and the eye charmed by the sight 

 of acres of hyacinths or tulips, which are 

 planted so closely that they seem huge 

 carpets, with the brightest colors in their 

 designs, laid down by mother earth for 

 her own housekeeping. Here are seen 

 tulips uncolored, fine, and superfine ; 

 monsters, hybrids, and thieves classified 

 into a thousand orders of nobility and 

 elegance ; tinted with all the shades of 

 color conceivable ; spotted, striped, and 

 speckled with leaves fringed, waved, and 

 festooned ; decorated with medals of sil- 

 ver and gold ; distinguished by the names 

 of artists, generals, and statesmen ; char- 

 acterized by bold and loving adjectives 

 recalling crossings, adventures, and tri- 

 umphs — all leaving a sweet confusion in 

 the mind of beautiful images and pleas- 

 ant thoughts. 



Everybody in Holland loves flowers. 

 The winter is long and bleak, so when 

 spring comes nature breaks forth in 

 beauteous rejoicing, and man looks with 

 gladness upon the evidence that summer 

 is near. 



Upon the banks of our canal there is 

 every Thursday a flower market, and as 

 I look out I see a man admiring with 

 wistful gaze the potted plants and flow- 

 ers before him. The grimy iron wheel 

 under his arm tells that he is a diamond- 

 cutter. The wheel he carries is the re- 

 volving disk against which he presses 

 the little gem that mocks him with its 



brightness and defies him with the im- 

 possibility of its possession. For him 

 the seasons pass without change or 

 chance, the days come and go, the hours 

 follow in an unbroken repetition of wist- 

 ful work, and life, creeping darkly on, 

 knows no rest until its end has come. 



To one who makes a rapid run 

 through Holland there comes a feeling 

 of disappointment. He sees less of the 

 amphibious element than he had ex- 

 pected; the people move too slowly to 

 justify the claims made for their attain- 

 ments, and there is a dearth of the quaint 

 costumes of which he had heard so 

 much. But for the person with eyes 

 open to the beauties of art, mind keen to 

 grasp the effects of environment upon 

 character, and heart responsive to ef- 

 forts put forth for the amelioration of 

 sorrow and suffering, no land under the 

 sun possesses so much of interest or 

 gives so much to the tarrying tourist. 



Toward Holland my face turns in 

 gladness, and the fleetest agencies of 

 transportation, in taking me thither, 

 would move too slowly were it not that, 

 on stepping aboard one of the ships of 

 N. A. S. M., the captain's greeting calls 

 to mind the fact that I am under the flag 

 of Holland. 



In leaving, my eyes look with a senti- 

 ment of respect and tenderness upon the 

 flower-decked windows, the silver hel- 

 mets, the livid sea, the downs, and the 

 windmills that bristle over the landscape 

 and swing their arms as if in adieu. 



There is a feeling of depression as the 

 gables, masts, and steeples fall behind. 

 The gathering haze of distance softens 

 the outlines of things material, and there 

 come the visions of Rembrandt, Eras- 

 mus, Boerhave, Grotius, Barentz, Wil- 

 liam of Orange, gracious Wilhelmina, 

 and all the beautiful and noble images 

 of that glorious, modest, and austere 

 country. 



But, like the days of sojourn, these 

 visions, too, pass away, but memory 

 brings cheer in the echo of the reassur- 

 ing words expressed on parting, 



"Tot weersiens." 



