The Boymans Museum contains also modern Dutch paintings.  Wherever modern Dutch paintings are to be seen, I look first for the delicate art of Matthew Maris, and next for Anton Mauve.  Here there is no Matthew Maris, and but one James Maris.  There is one Mauve.  The modern Dutch painter for the most part paints the same picture so often.  But Matthew Maris is full of surprises.  If a new picture by any of his contemporaries stood with its face to the wall one would know what to expect.  From Israels, a fisherman’s wife; from Mesdag, a grey stretch of sea; from Bosboom, a superb church interior; from Mauve, a peasant with sheep or a peasant with a cow; from Weissenbruch, a stream and a willow; from Breitner, an Amsterdam street; from James Maris a masterly scene of boats and wet sky.  Usually one would have guessed aright.  But with Matthew Maris is no certainty.  It may be a little dainty girl lying on her side and watching butterflies; it may be a sombre hillside at Montmartre; it may be a girl cooking; it may be scaffolding in Amsterdam, or a mere at evening, or a baby’s head, or a village street.  He has many moods, and he is always distinguished and subtle.

Rotterdam has a zoological garden which, although inferior to ours, is far better than that at Amsterdam, while it converts The Hague’s Zoo into a travesty.  Last spring the lions were in splendid condition.  They are well housed, but fewer distractions are provided for them than in Regent’s Park.  I found myself fascinated by the herons, who were continually soaring out over the neighbouring houses and returning like darkening clouds.  In England, although the heron is a native, we rarely seem to see him; while to study him is extremely difficult.  In Holland he is ubiquitous:  both wild and tame.

More interesting still was the stork, whose nest is set high on a pinnacle of the buffalo house.  He was building in the leisurely style of the British working man.  He would negligently descend from the heavens with a stick.  This he would lay on the fabric and then carefully perform his toilet, looking round and down all the time to see that every one else was busy.  Whenever his eye lighted upon a toddling child or a perambulator it visibly brightened.  “My true work!” he seemed to say; “this nest building is a mere by-path of industry.”  After prinking and overlooking, and congratulating himself thus, for a few minutes, he would stroll off, over the housetops, for another stick.  He was the unquestionable King of the Garden.

Why are there no heronries in the English public parks?  And why is there no stork?  The Dutch have a proverb, “Where the stork abides no mother dies in childbed”.  Still more, why are there no storks in France?  The author of Fecondite should have imported them.