because they cannot reach as high as the reeds nearby.

Ditches, canals, ponds, rivers, and lakes are everywhere to be
seen. High, but not dry, they shine in the sunlight, catching
nearly all the bustle and the business, quite scorning the tame
fields stretching damply beside them. One is tempted to ask,
"Which is Holland--the shores or the water?" The very verdure
that should be confined to the land has made a mistake and
settled upon the fish ponds. In fact, the entire country is a
kind of saturated sponge or, as the English poet, Butler, called
it,


A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd,
In which they do not live, but go aboard.


Persons are born, live, and die, and even have their gardens on
canal-boats. Farmhouses, with roofs like great slouched hats
pulled over their eyes, stand on wooden legs with a tucked-up
sort of air, as if to say, "We intend to keep dry if we can."
Even the horses wear a wide stool on each hoof as if to lift them
out of the mire. In short, the landscape everywhere suggests a
paradise for ducks. It is a glorious country in summer for
barefoot girls and boys. Such wading! Such mimic ship sailing!
Such rowing, fishing, and swimming! Only think of a chain of
puddles where one can launch chip boats all day long and never
make a return trip! But enough. A full recital would set all
young America rushing in a body toward the Zuider Zee.