mneys of Papendrecht strung along its opposite bank. My dear friend,
Herr Boudier, of years gone by, has retired from its ownership, but
his successor, Herr Teitsma, is as hearty in his welcome. Peter, my old
boatman, too, pulled his last oar some two years back, and one "Bop"
takes his place. There is another "p" and an "e" tacked on to Bop, but I
have eliminated the unnecessary and call him "Bob" for short. They
made Bob out of what was left of Peter, but they left out all trace of
William.

This wooden-shod curiosity is anywhere from seventy to one hundred and
fifty years old, gray, knock-kneed, bent in the back, and goes to sleep
standing up--_and stays asleep_. He is the exact duplicate of the
tramp in the comic opera of "Miss Hook of Holland"--except that the
actor-sleeper occasionally topples over and has to be braced up. Bob is
past-master of the art and goes it alone, without propping of any kind.
He is the only man in Dordrecht, or Papendrecht, or the country round
about, who can pull a boat and speak English. He says so, and I am
forced not only to believe him, but to hire him. He wants it in advance,
too--having had some experience with "painter-man," he explains to Herr
Teitsma.

I shall, of course, miss my delightful William, but I am accustomed to
that. And, then, again, while Bob asleep is an interesting physiological
study, Bob awake adds to the gayety of nations, samples of which crowd
about my easel, Holland being one of the main highways of the earth.

I have known Dort and the little 'drecht across the way for some fifteen
years, five of which have slipped by since I last opened my umbrella
along its quaint quays. To my great joy nothing has changed. The old
potato boat still lies close to the quay, under the overhanging elms.
The same dear old man and his equally dear old wife still make their
home beneath its hipped roof. I know, for it is here I lunch, the cargo
forming the chief dish, followed by a saucer of stewed currants, a cup
of coffee--(more hymns here)--and a loaf of bread from the baker's. The
old Groote Kirk still towers aloft--the highest building in Holland,
they say; the lazy, red-sailed luggers drift up and down, their decks
gay with potted plants; swiss curtains at the cabin windows, the wife
holding the tiller while the man trims the sail. The boys still clatter
over the polished cobbles--an aggressive mob when school lets out--and a
larger crop, I think, than in the years gone