When we came to Amsterdam, we determined, Pashley, Shirtliff and I, that we would take the earliest opportunity of seeing Marken. Wonderful place, by all accounts. Little island, only two miles from mainland, full of absolutely unsophisticated inhabitants. Most of them have never left Marken—no idea of the world beyond it! Everybody contented and equal; costumes quaint; manners simple and dignified. Sort of Arcadia, with dash of Utopia.

And here we are—actually at Marken, just landed by sailing-boat from Monnickendam.

All is peaceful and picturesque. Scattered groups of little black cottages with scarlet roofs, on mounds. Fishermen strolling about in baggy black knickerbockers, woollen stockings, and wooden shoes.

Women and girls all dressed alike, in crimson bodice and embroidered skirt; little cap with one long brown curl dangling coquettishly in front of each ear. Small children—miniature replicas of their elders—wander lovingly, hand in hand. A few urchins dart off at our approach, like startled fawns, and disappear amongst the cottages. Otherwise, our arrival attracts no attention.

The women go on with their outdoor work, cleaning their brilliant brass and copper, washing and hanging out their bright-hued cotton and linen garments, with no more than an occasional shy side-glance at us from under their tow-coloured fringes. "Perfectly unconscious," as Shirtliff observes, enthusiastically, "of how unique and picturesque they are!"

All the more wonderful, because excursion steamers run every day during the season from Amsterdam.

We walk up and down rough steps and along narrow, winding alleys. Shirtliff says he "feels such a bounder, going about staring at everything as if he was at Earl's Court." Thinks the Markeners must hate being treated like a show. We shouldn't like it ourselves!

That may be, but, as Pashley retorts, it's the Markeners' own fault. They shouldn't be so beastly picturesque.

Fine buxom girl approaches, carrying pail. On closer view, not precisely a girl—in fact, a matron of mature years. These long, brown side-curls deceptive at a distance; impression, as she passes, of a kind of Dutch "Little Toddlekins"; view of broad back and extensive tract of fat, bare neck under small cap. She turns round and intimates by expressive pantomime that her cottage is close by, and if we would care to inspect the interior, we are heartily welcome. Uncommonly friendly of her. Pashley and I are inclined to accept, but Shirtliff dubious—we may have misunderstood her. We really can't go crowding in like a parcel of trippers!

Little Toddlekins, however, quite keen about it; sees us hesitate, puts down pail and beckons us on round corner with crooked forefinger, like an elderly Siren. How different this simple, hearty hospitality from the sort of reception foreigners would get from an English fishwife! We can't refuse, or we shall hurt her feelings. "But whatever we do," urges Shirtliff, "we mustn't dream of offering her money. She'd be most tremendously insulted."

Of course, we quite understand that. It would be simply an outrage. We uncover, and enter, apologetically. Inside, an elderly fisherman is sitting by the hearth mending a net; a girl is leaning in graceful, negligent attitude against table by window. Neither of them takes the slightest notice of us, which is embarrassing. Afraid we really are intruding. However, our hostess—good old soul—has a natural tact and kindliness that soon put us at our ease. Shows us everything. Curtained recesses in wall, where they go to bed. "Very curious—so comfortable!" Delft plates and painted shelves and cupboards. "Most decorative!" Caps and bodices worn by females of the family. "Charming; such artistic colour!" School copybooks with children's exercises. "Capital; so neatly written!" What is she trying to make us understand? Oh, in winter, the sea comes in above the level of the wainscot. "Really! How very convenient!" We don't mean this, but we are so anxious to please and be pleased, that our enthusiasm is degenerating into drivel. Girl by the window contemplates us with growing contempt; and no wonder. High time we went.

Little Toddlekins at the end of her tether; looks at us as if to imply that she has done her part. Next move must come from us. Pashley consults us in an undertone. "Perhaps, after all she does expect, eh? What do we think? Would half a gulden—— What?"

Personally, I think it might, but Shirtliff won't hear of it, "Certainly not. On no account! At all events he'll be no party to it. He will simply thank her, shake hands, and walk out." Which he does. I do the same. He may be right, and anyhow, if one of us is to run the risk of offending this matron's delicacy by the offer of a gratuity, Pashley will do it better than I.

Pashley overtakes us presently, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Did he tip her?" "Yes, he tipped her." "And she flung it after you!" cries Shirtliff, in triumph. "I knew she would! Now I hope you're satisfied!"

"If I am, it's more than she was," says Pashley. "She stuck to it all right, but she let me see it was nothing like what she'd expected for the three of us."

Shirtliff silent but unconvinced. However, as we go on, we see a beckoning forefinger at almost every door and window. Every Markener anxious that we should walk into his little parlour—and pay for the privilege. All of them, as Pashley disgustedly observes, "On the make"; got some treasured heirloom that has been in the family without intermission for six months, and that they would be willing to part with, if pressed, for a consideration. We don't press them; in fact, we are obliged at last to decline their artless invitations—to their unconcealed disgust. Nice people, very, but can't afford to know too many of them.

"At least the children are unspoilt," says Shirtliff, as we come upon a couple of chubby infants, walking solemnly hand in hand as usual. He protests, when Pashley insists on presenting them with a cent, or one-fifth of an English penny, apiece. "Why demoralise them, why instil the love of money into their innocent minds?" Shirtliff wants to know.

He is delighted when they exhibit no sort of emotion on being thus enriched. It shows, he says, that, as yet, they have no conception what money means.

The pair have toddled off towards a gathering of older children, and Pashley, who has brought a Kodak, wonders if he can induce them to stay as they are while he takes a snapshot. Shirtliff protests again. Only spoil them, make them conceited and self-conscious, he maintains.

But the children have seen the Kodak, and are eager to be taken. One of them produces a baby from neighbouring cottage, and they arrange themselves instinctively in effective group by a fence.

Pashley delighted. "Awfully intelligent little beggars!" he says. "They seem to know exactly what I want."

They also know exactly what they want, for the moment they hear the camera click, they make a rush at us, sternly demanding five cents a head for their services.

Shirtliff very severe with them; not one copper shall they have from him; not a matter of pence, but principle, and they had better go away at once. They don't; they hustle him, and some of the taller girls nudge him viciously in the ribs with sharp elbows, as a hint that "an immediate settlement is requested." Pashley and I do the best we can, but we soon come to the end of our Dutch coins. However, no doubt English pennies will—— Not a bit of it! Even the chubby infants don't consider them legal tender here, and reject them with open scorn.

Fancy we have compromised all claims at last. No; Marken infantry still harassing our rear. What more do they want? It appears that we have not paid the baby, which is an important extra on these occasions, and which they carry after us in state as an unsatisfied creditor and a powerful appeal to our consciences. Adult Markeners come out, and seem to be exchanging remarks (with especial reference to Shirtliff, who is regarded as the chief culprit) on the meanness that is capable of bilking an innocent baby.

"What I like about Marken," says Pashley, when we are safely on board our sailing boat, to which we have effected a rather ignominious retreat, "what I like about Marken is the beautiful simplicity and unworldliness of the natives. Didn't that strike you, Shirtliff?"

We gather from Shirtliff's reply that he failed to observe these characteristics.

At Munich.—Mr. Joddletop (to travelling companion at Bierhalle). What they call this larger beer for I'm blessed if I know! Why, it's thinner than the Bass I drink at home!

Mrs. Tripper (examining official notice on the walls of Boulogne). What's that mean, Tripper, "Pas de Calais"?

Tripper (who is proud of his superior acquaintance with a foreign language). It means—"Nothing to do with Calais," my dear. These rival ports are dreadfully jealous of one another!

Very Much Abroad.—Brown. I say, Smith, you've been here before. Tell me where I can get a first dish of TÊte de veau?

Smith. TÊte de veau? Let's see, that's "calf's head," isn't it? Well, I heard of a place where they ought to have it good, as they call it the HÔtel de Veal.