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The National Geographic Magazine
"At least," he volunteered, "the govern
ment is good to me. They are giving me a
new barn and a half house, besides paying
me for the crops I cannot grow in this foul
ness."
"A half house?"
"The barn was new, the house 30 years old.
They pay only part on a house that old." He
paused. "Will you share my lunch?" he asked,
fishing a cheese sandwich from a bag. "I
am sorry I have nothing else."
We drove in silence into Oude Tonge. Water
stains high on its walls marked the flood's
crest. Here more than 300 people died in the
February disaster. About one-fifth of the
total loss of life occurred in this area.
An Aftermath of Floods: Drought
Ironically, the people seemed to be worry
ing more about a lack of water than the recent
surplus. It was fresh water they were worry
ing about, though.
Because Holland is so low and so near the
sea, wells have a trick of yielding brackish
water. Government works in normal times
provide enough water for everybody, but the
flood wrecked some of the plants, and here
was Oude Tonge in fear of drought.
We visited an old church with a tall tower.
Three pretty girls were prying at a pile of
broken furniture and upended flagstones
blocking the entrance. Appreciatively we sur
veyed the "natives."
"Not bad at all," declared Charlie.
"A real scenic attraction," Gibby agreed.
A blonde in blue jeans glanced up from her
work, eyes flashing.
"When you characters finish sizing up the
field," she said, "you can come help with
these rocks."
Abashed, we did. Our picturesque Dutch
maids turned out to be Kansas coeds.
They told us they had a work camp of
their own, and although they weren't often
asked to reset flagstones, they had found
plenty of work for feminine hands. With
considerable regret we said goodby after an
hour's penitent labor.
Oude Tonge's cafe, we discovered, was
doing double duty. Dropping by for a snack,
we ran into a clinic in full swing. Nurses
inoculated babies on billiard tables. While
baby music rocked the walls, we downed our
tea and then started out by ferry for Wal
cheren.
In sharp contrast to stricken Overflakkee,
Walcheren proved green and lovely. A police
man told us it owed its preservation to the
largest dikes in Zeeland, the Westkapelle
ramparts that tower 15 feet above the tide.
"Few people stayed bitter about the Allied
flooding," the policeman informed us. "In
deed, we Dutch long ago showed them the
trick. In 1574 the Prince of Orange opened
the dikes so his ships could sail inland and
save Leiden from the Spaniards. The same
tactics kept the French army from capturing
Amsterdam in 1672."
Walcheren used American press-agent de
vices when it set about restoring its forests.
"Plant a tree on Walcheren," ran one slogan,
"and the island will again be the Garden of
Zeeland." It worked. Today healthy young
trees bought with contributions reach hope
fully towards the sky.
We dined in Veere while music from the
town-hall carillon floated on the evening air.
The program was Bach; we thought the bells,
cast in centuries-old foundries, superior even
to the ones in our Harkness Tower at Yale.
"Sleep is about to get me," said Gibby after
the meal. "Let's find an inn."
"I have a better idea," Ernest said. "Let's
ask a farmer to put us up. We'll save money,
and we'll really see how the people live."
In Place of an Inn, a Hayloft
Doubting anybody would take strangers
in, we drove into the country.
"Here's a nice one," said Ernest. "Pull up."
He came back out of the house in a moment,
wearing his broadest smile.
"Well, I'll be derned! He got away with
it," said Charlie.
"We'll have to sleep in the hayloft because
they don't have any spare beds," said Ernest,
"but we're in on a party. Mijnheer and
Mevrouw Kasse are celebrating their 30th
wedding anniversary."
Our hosts gave us homemade preserves and
cookies and treated us like members of the
family. The womenfolk sewed, while Mr.
Kasse and a neighbor quietly talked farming.
There was no radio or television (page 386).
At bedtime Mr. Kasse gave us blankets, lit
a lantern, and led us out to the barn.
"Now you strike the hay," he chuckled.
"For boys, the best sleeping is in the hayloft."
Vaguely aware of cows below, we slept the
sleep of the just in softly scented comfort.
Early next morning when we turned out,
three pairs of wooden shoespapa, mamma,
