The sand-dunes of which a glimpse has been obtained at Piriapolis are characteristic of almost the entire length of the Uruguayan coast that gives upon the Atlantic Ocean. There are many spots along this open shore that are well worthy of a visit. Not the least of these is Piriapolis--a place that is in the act of making a very bold bid for popularity as a pleasure resort. Piriapolis is a spot of no little interest. Situated a little to the west of Maldonado on the southern coast that faces the open Atlantic, the place is a budding town, and is noteworthy as much for what it promises in the future as for its present aspects, interesting enough though they are. Piriapolis is remarkable in being a one-man place--by which no connection is implied with the one-horse epithet of tradition--in that it has emanated from the mind and pocket of a prominent Uruguayan, Señor Francisco Piria. Piriapolis lies to the coastward side of the railway line that is being prolonged in the direction of Maldonado, and, as matters at present stand, it is necessary to board a construction train, and to proceed soberly along the unballasted track to the point where the coach, with its four horses abreast, waits in readiness to complete the journey. It must be admitted that the road that goes rising and falling over the hilly country is not good. The future will doubtless endow the district with a network of highways of quite another kind. But Piriapolis is young. Hence the unfortunate wagon that is lit upon, shortly after the start, stuck hard and fast in the deep mud of a hollow. In the way of good Samaritans, horses are detached from the coach to assist in the struggle; but the tenacious mud clings in unyielding obstinacy to its wheeled prey. In the end the contest is abandoned for the time being; the lent horses return to their place in front of the coach, and the driver of the wagon departs gloomily to scour the neighbouring country in search of oxen. As the coach proceeds, the way lies through a wild and mountainous country that bears not a little resemblance to portions of the South West of Ireland. But here in the place of the whitewashed Irish cabins are mud ranchos, almost every one of which reposes beneath the sheltering branches of its own particular unit or group of ombú-trees. After a little more than an hour's drive the aspect of the country to the front changes abruptly, and presently the coach enters the cool shade of a great forest of eucalyptus and pine. It is difficult to conceive these stretches of giant trees as not having covered the soil for generations. Yet less than twenty years ago the face of this particular district was as bare as any of that of the surrounding country, since it is only eighteen years ago that Señor Piria planted the first sapling that went to form this present forest land.