So it was that the City of Refuge (and others like it) grew up
swiftly in the wilderness.
It stands in the heathland that slopes and rolls from the wooded
hills of Gelderland to the southern shore of the Zuider Zee--a sandy
country overgrown with scrub-oaks and pines and heather--yet very
healthy and well drained, and not unfertile under cultivation. You
may see that in the little neighbor-village, where the trees arch
over the streets, and the kitchen-gardens prosper, and the shrubs
and flowers bloom abundantly.
The small houses and hotels of this tiny summer resort are of brick.
It has an old, well-established look; a place of relaxation with
restraint, not of ungirdled frivolity. The plain Dutch people love
their holidays, but they take them serenely and by rule: long walks
and bicycle-rides, placid and nourishing picnics in the woods or
by the sea, afternoon tea-parties in sheltered arbors. One of their
favorite names for a country-place is _Wel Teweden,_ "perfectly
contented."
The commandant of the City of Refuge lives in one of the little
brick houses of the village.
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