"
It was love to order, yet there was never a more beautiful home life than
that of which this most perfect flower of the English race was the centre.
In short, there is no formula for falling in love. Each one does it as the
spirit moves.
ON A BIT OF SEAWEED
The postman came just now, and among the letters he brought was one from
North Wales. It was fat and soft and bulgy, and when it was opened we found
it contained a bit of seaweed. The thought that prompted the sender was
friendly, but the momentary effect was to arouse wild longings for the sea,
and to add one more count to the indictment of the Kaiser, who had sent us
for the holidays into the country, where we could obey the duty to
economise, rather than to the seaside, where the temptations to
extravagance could not be dodged. "Oh, how it smells of Sheringham," said
one whose vote is always for the East Coast. "No, there is the smack of
Sidmouth, and Dawlish, and Torquay in its perfume," said another, whose
passion is for the red cliffs of South Devon.
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