The Gardiner told me as there was such a crowd of children on larst Bank Hollerday that there was hardly room to move about, tho’ the Park is 80 hakers big; but as I am told that such a space wood hold about 80 thousand, quite cumferal, I thinks as he must have slitely xadgerated.

ROBERT.

* * * * *

A STRIKING NURSERY RHYME.

(With a Moral.)

  Tilbury, Tilbury Dock! 
  The men struck—­on a rock;
    For their U-ni-on
    Said, “Wrong you have done!”
  Tilbury, Tilbury Dock!

  Tilbury, Tilbury scare! 
  This “Striking” seems in the air. 
    Conciliation
    Should free the nation
  From Tilbury, Tilbury scare!

* * * * *

THE PROFESSIONAL GUEST.

AT THE SEA-SIDE.

[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.  The truculent-looking proprietor of the house, who answered the door, condescended to inform me that my relative “was the difficultest lady he’d ever had to do for.  And that she’d left two days a-gone.”  But where she had betaken herself to, he either would not or could not tell me.  “You’d best try along this row,” he said, and then slammed the door in my face.  Having nothing better to do, I followed his advice, and “tried along the row.”  I rang at Osborne, Sandringham, and Windsor.  I knocked at Claremont (the bell was broken there), and walked boldly into Marlborough House, for that royal residence in particular was devoid of all ordinary means of heralding one’s approach.  I was