In the early afternoon I passed through Delft, and pushed on toward The Hague. Beyond Delft I turned into a narrow cobblestone roadway running between two canals. It was a quiet route. I went on my lonely way, thinking of many things and gazing off across the flat green country.
Suddenly a galloping “rat-a-tat” sounded close behind me. A runaway horse! To pause and glance behind might cost me my life; for the crazed brute was almost upon me. With a swiftness born of fear, I began to run! Luckily, ahead of me I spied a foot-bridge over one of the canals. I made one flying leap toward it, and reached it in safety just as there dashed by me at full speed—a Hollander of some six summers, bound to market with a basket on his arm!
After spending only a few hours in the interesting city of The Hague, I looked for the highway to Leiden. I was not very successful in my search for it, for the mixed language of German, English, and deaf-and-dumb show with which I tried to make myself understood did not get me clear directions. A road to Leiden was finally pointed out to me right enough, but it was not a public highway. By some mistake, I set out along the Queen’s private driveway, which led to the boyhood home of Rembrandt, the great Dutch artist.
It was a pleasure to travel by the Queen’s own highway, of course, especially as it led through a fragrant forest park. But, unfortunately, there was no chance of finding an inn when hunger and darkness came on me. There was not even a cross-road to lead me back to the public highway, where I could find a place to eat and sleep. So I plodded on deep into the lonely forest until night overtook me. Just what hour it was when I reached Leiden, I could not tell. But it was certainly late; for, except a few drowsy policemen, the good people, and even the bad, were sound asleep. With a painful number of miles in my legs, I went to bed on a pile of lumber.
A baker’s cart of Holland on the morning round.
The warm sun awoke me early—before the first shopkeeper was astir. It was Sunday, so I was not able to buy any food. Still hungry, I set off toward Haarlem. On those flat lowlands it was disagreeably hot. Yet the peasants, in their uncomfortable Sunday clothes, plodded for miles along the dusty highway to the village church.
The men marched along sadly, as if they were going to prison. The women, stout, and painfully awkward in their stiffly starched skirts, tramped perspiringly behind the men. Even the children, the frolicking, romping youngsters of the day before, were imprisoned in home-made strait-jackets, and suffered discomfort in uncomplaining silence. Yet one and all spoke a pleasant word to me as they passed.
Ever since leaving Rotterdam, I had noticed that there were no wells in country places. I had so far been able to quench my thirst only in the villages. But toward noon on this hot Sunday I became so thirsty that I finally turned in at the only place in sight, a farm cottage. Beside the road ran the ever-present canal. A narrow foot-bridge crossed it to the gateway leading to the cottage. Around the house ran a branch of the main waterway, giving the farmer a place to moor his canal-boat. I could not open the gate, and I had to shout again and again before any one in the house heard me. At last, from around the corner of the building a very heavy woman came into view, bearing down upon me like an ocean liner sailing into a calm harbor. I could not speak Dutch, but I did the best I could. Perhaps the lady spoke some German, so I said: “Ein Glass Wasser, bitte.”
“Vat?”