"_Oh_, _well_," _says he_, "_you flitting with us too_--
_Jack_, _turn the horses' heads and home again_."
TENNYSON, "WALKING TO THE MAIL."
September 15th and 16th were the days of the school's return to Borth. We
slipped at once and easily into the groove of last term's routine,
filling our old quarters and several additional houses. Some building
operations needed for the winter's sojourn have been mentioned by
anticipation. Our medical officer, also, and the ready pickaxe of
"Sanitary Tom" (as the boys called the navvy who was his stout ally), had
been at work laying bare the subterranean geography of our premises and
making all right. At his instance, the proprietor ran out an extended
culvert into the sea beyond low-water mark, a grand engineering work,
which remains the one permanent monument of our settlement. Having in
mind some ancient aspersions on the wholesomeness of Borth we are glad to
bear testimony to the present adequate sanitation of the place.
We do not write for the scientific, and yet we must notice (we hope
without wounding an unprofessional ear) the beautiful economy of natural
forces by which that sanitation is effected.
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