And I described the boy in the cloth cap, with his box and bundle, and his patient, steady eyes, and plump little legs in the yarn stockings.
I was forgiven.
BETWEEN SHOWERS IN DORT
here be inns in Holland—not hotels, not pensions, nor stopping-places—just inns. The Bellevue at Dort is one, and the Holland Arms is another, and the—no, there are no others. Dort only boasts these two, and Dort to me is Holland.
The rivalry between these two inns has been going on for years, and it still continues. The Bellevue, fighting for place, elbowed its way years ago to the water-line, and took its stand on the river-front, where the windows and porticos could overlook the Maas dotted with boats. The Arms, discouraged, shrank back into its corner, and made up in low windows, smoking-rooms, and private bathroom—one for the whole house—what was lacking in porticos and sea view. Then followed a slight skirmish in paint,—red for the Arms and yellow-white for the Bellevue; and a flank movement of shades and curtains,—linen for the Arms and lace for the Bellevue. Scouting parties were next ordered out of porters in caps, banded with silk ribbons, bearing the names of their respective hostelries. Yacob of the Arms was to attack weary travelers on alighting from the train, and acquaint them with the delights of the downstairs bath, and the dark-room for the kodakers, all free of charge. And Johan of the Bellevue was to give minute descriptions of the boats landing in front of the dining-room windows and of the superb view of the river.
It is always summer when I arrive in Dordrecht. I don't know what happens in winter, and I don't care. The groundhog knows enough to go into his hole when the snow begins to fly, and to stay there until the sun thaws him out again. Some tourists could profit by following his example.
