[Illustration]
DEAR MR. PUNCH,--When I last wrote to you I was anticipatorily
revelling in the sea-bathing, tennis tournaments, pier band, and
evening promenades of Flatsands. Alas! that I must confess it,
but, after a fortnight's visit to that "salubrious spot" (_vide_
highly-coloured advertisements), I give it as my opinion that
Flatsands is a failure; and I think that, when you have listened to,
or rather perused, my tale of woe, you will agree with me that it is a
place to be avoided at all costs.
On the difficulties and length of my journey thither (I changed five
times, and spent nine hours in doing so), I will not dwell, neither
will I lay stress on the fact that, when I did at last reach my
destination, a prospect void of either Aunt, or conveyance of any
kind, met my view, or that a heavy sea-mist had gathered, and was
falling in the guise of penetrating, if fine, rain. After parleying
with the station-master for some time, I ascertained that the station
'bus never put in an appearance in wet weather, and that I could
not get a closed fly, because the Flatsands' conveyances were all
pony-traps, and therefore hoodless. He, however, directed me towards
Balmoral, which was my Aunt's address, and told me that ten minutes'
walk would take me, and that my luggage should be sent after me, on a
truck.
After some difficulty, for the sea-fog was very thick, I discovered
Balmoral, but not my Aunt.
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