There, on the roof, was a stork family, father, mother and two young ones.
“Well, we sure are abroad,” declared Jack, gazing with pleasure at the pretty picture.
“Low bridge,” or its equivalent in Dutch, was frequently called, and then all hands ducked their heads till the bridge was passed. Clouds began to gather, and one of the sudden rain storms which sweep over Holland descended in a pelting downpour. The passengers were driven to the cabin, which they shared with a cargo of cheese, traveling in state. But the storm soon passed over and the sun shone out brightly once more.
Windmills were in sight everywhere, their great sails turning slowly. In some places the roofs of the farm houses were on a level with the banks of the canal.
Occasionally a broad-beamed canal craft, with a patched brown sail, drifted lazily by, with a leisurely Dutchman standing at the stern placidly smoking a big China-bowled pipe, his family, perhaps, or at least a dog, voyaging with him.
“Nobody seems to be in a hurry over here,” said Raynor.
“No, it’s like that country where it is always afternoon, that we used to read about in school,” said Jack.
“Hullo,” he added suddenly, “what’s coming off now?”
The little vessel was making for a sort of garden with tables set about in it.
“Going to stop for dinner, I guess,” suggested Raynor.