finger, perched on his hat, simulated death in the palm of his hand,
and went through other evolutions with the speed of thought and the
bright spontaneous alacrity possible only to a small loyal bird. These,
however, were not for sale: these were decoys; the saleable birds lay,
packed far too close, in little wooden boxes in the man's bag. And
Scheveningen to me means no longer a mile of palaces, no longer a
"hot huddle of humanity" on the sand among myriad sentry-boxes:
its symbol is just two Black-Headed Mannikins.

From the Curhaus it is better to return to the Hague by electric tram
along the new road. Save for passing a field where the fishwives of
Scheveningen in their blue shawls spread and mend their nets, this
road is dull and suburban; but from it, when the light is failing,
a view of Scheveningen's domes and spires may be gained which,
softened and made mysterious by the gloaming, translates the chief
watering-place of Holland into an Eastern city of romance.

The fishwives of Scheveningen, I am told, carry the art of petticoat
wearing to a higher point than any of their sisters. The appearance
of the homing fleet in the offing is a signal for as many as thirty
of these garments to be put on as a mark of welcome to a returning
husband.

Probably no shore anywhere in the world has been so often painted
as that of Scheveningen--ever since the painting of landscape seemed
a worthy pursuit. James Maris' pictures of Scheveningen's wet sand,
grey sea, and huge flat-bottomed ships must run into scores; Mesdag's
too. Perhaps it was the artists that prevailed on the fishermen to wear
crimson knickerbockers--the note of warm colour that the scene demands.