On a Bit of Seaweed 一簇海草
The postman came just now， and among the letters he had 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 Kaiser2， 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. And so on， each finding， as he or she sniffed at the seaweed， the windows of memory opening out on to the foam of summer seas. And soon the table was enveloped in a rushing tide of recollections—memories of bathing and boating， of barefooted races on the sands， of jolly fishermen who always seemed to be looking out seaward for something that never came， of hunting for shells， and of all the careless raptures of dawn and noon and sunset by the seashore. All awakened by the smell of a bit of seaweed.
郵遞員剛到，送來若干信件，其中一封寄自北威爾士。（剩余6066字）