(_See Daily Papers_)]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A DELICIOUS DIP.

_Bathing Attendant._ "Here, Bill! The gent wants to be took out deep--take 'im _into the drain_!!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _She._ "How much was old Mr. Baskerville's estate sworn at by his next-of-kin?"

_He._ "Oh--a pretty good lot."

_She._ "Really? Why, I heard he died worth hardly anything!"

_He._ "Yes, so he did--that's just it."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: EVIDENCE OLFACTORY

_Angelina_ (_scientific_). "Do you smell the iodine from the sea, Edwin?

Isn't it refreshing?"

_Old Salt_ (_overhearing_). "What you smell ain't the sea, miss. It's the town drains as flows out just 'ere!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: OBLIGING.

_Excursionist_ (_to himself_). "Ullo! 'ere's one o' them artists.

'Dessay 'e'll want a genteel figger for 'is foreground. I'll _stand for 'im_!!!"]

TRUE DIPSOMANIA.--Overbathing at the seaside.

AN IDLE HOLIDAY.

When the days are bright and hot, In the month of August, When the sunny hours are not Marred by any raw gust, Then I turn from toil with glee, Sing a careless canto, And to somewhere by the sea Carry my portmanteau.

Shall I, dreaming on the sand, Pleased with all things finite, Envy Jones who travels and Climbs an Apennine height-- Climbs a rugged peak with pain, Literally speaking, Only to descend again f.a.gged with pleasure-seeking?

Smith, who, worn with labour, went Off for rest and leisure, Races round the Continent In pursuit of pleasure: Having lunched at Bale, he will At Lucerne his tea take, Riding till he's faint and ill, Tramping till his feet ache.

Shall I, dreaming thus at home, Left ash.o.r.e behind here, Envy restless men who roam Seeking what I find here?

Since beside my native sea, Where I sit to woo it, Pleasure always comes to me, Why should I pursue it?

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE MURMUR OF THE TIED]

EXTRA SPECIAL.--_Paterfamilias_ (_inspecting bill, to landlady_). I thought you said, Mrs. Buggins, when I took these apartments, that there were no extras, but here I find boots, lights, cruets, fire, table-linen, sheets, blankets and kitchen fire charged.

_Mrs. Buggins._ Lor' bless you, sir, they're not extras, but necessaries.

_Paterfamilias._ What, then, do you consider extras?

_Mrs. Buggins._ Well, sir, that's a difficult question to answer, but I should suggest salad oil, fly-papers, and turtle soup.

[_Paterfamilias drops the subject and pays his account._

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUSPICION

_Stout Visitor_ (_on discovering that, during his usual nap after luncheon, he has been subjected to a grossly personal practical joke_).

"It's one o' those dashed artists that are staying at the 'Lord Nelson'

'a' done this, I know!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Aunt Jane._ "It's wonderful how this wireless telegraphy is coming into use!"]

[Ill.u.s.tration: A DREAM OF THE SEA

Ethel, who is not to have a seaside trip this year, dreams every night that she and her mamma and aunt and sisters spread their sash-bows and panniers and fly away to the yellow sands.]

THE MARGATE BATHING-WOMAN'S LAMENT

It nearly broke my widowed art, When first I tuk the notion, That parties didn't as they used, Take reglar to the ocean.

The hinfants, darling little soles, Still c.u.m quite frequent, bless 'em!

But they is only sixpence each, Which hardly pays to dress 'em.

The reason struck me all at once, Says I, "It's my opinion, The grown-up folks no longer bathes Because of them vile Sheenions."

The last as c.u.m drest in that style, Says, as she tuk it horf her, "I'm sure I shall not know the way To re-arrange my quoffur!"

By which she ment the ed of air, Which call it wot they will, sir; c.u.m doubtless off a convict at Millbank or Pentonville, sir.