All the family have colds, except the under-nurse, who has a face-ache. Poor materfamilias, who originated the trip, is in despair at all the money spent for nothing, and gives way to tears. Paterfamilias endeavours to console her with the reflection that "_he_ knew how it would be, but that, after all, St. John's Wood, where they live, is such a healthy place that, with care and doctoring, they _will soon be nearly as well as if they had never left it_!" [_Two gay bachelors may be seen contemplating paterfamilias and his little group. Their interest is totally untinged with envy._ ] * * * * * [Illustration: OVERHEARD AT SCARBOROUGH "Do you know anything good for a cold?" "Yes." "What is it?" "Have you got the price of two Scotch whiskies on you?" "No." "Then it's no use my telling you."] * * * * * [Illustration: _Snobson_ (_to inhabitant of out-of-way seaside resort_). "What sort of people do you get down here in the summer?" _Inhabitant._ "Oh, all sorts, zur. There be fine people an' common people, an' some just half-an'-half, like yourself, zur."] * * * * * [Illustration: THE OYSTERS AT WHITSTABLE FROZEN IN THEIR BEDS! (_See Daily Papers_)] * * * * * [Illustration: A DELICIOUS DIP. _Bathing Attendant._ "Here, Bill! The gent wants to be took out deep--take 'im _into the drain_!!"] * * * * * [Illustration: _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."] * * * * * [Illustration: 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!"] * * * * * [Illustration: 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 Fagged with pleasure-seeking?