Innocent persons go to the south coast of England, thinking that fifty miles nearer the equator one is in quite a different climate. Bournemouth? Bosh! All sandy dust and depressing invalids. Torquay? Twaddle! Probably rain all the time, if not snow. England no good. Scotland or Ireland? Worse! Must go, as people say vaguely, "abroad." How about Paris? North-east wind, frost, snow and dust, worse than here. Streets windy, theatres draughty, cafés and restaurants suffocating. Brussels? Nothing but rain. Aix-les-Bains? Probably snow. Nice? That might do. No frost or snow, but very likely a north-east wind and certainly lots of dust. Besides, thirty hours' journey out and thirty hours' journey back, would only leave about sixty hours there. No good. Rome, Seville, Constantinople, Cairo? Still farther. Should have to leave on the return journey before I arrived. Where can I go to at Easter to be warm and comfortable, without so much trouble? I know. To bed! * * * * * REGARDLESS OF THE TEMPERATURE.--_Facetious Australian_ (_off Calshot Castle, to indisposed friend_). What arm of the sea reminds one of a borrowed boot? _The "I. F."_ (_feebly_). Give it--anything--up. _F. A._ Why, the _Sole-lent_, to be sure. [_The "I. F." is promptly carried below._ * * * * * AT BATH.--_Wiffling_ (_sympathetically_). Here on account of the waters? _Piffling._ No, unhappily. Here on account of the whiskies. * * * * * "A QUESTION OF THE HOUR."--Asking a railway porter the time of the next train's departure for your holiday resort. * * * * * [Illustration: Scene--_The Summit of Vesuvius_ _American Tourist_ (_to the world at large_). "Great snakes, it reminds me of hell!" _English Tourist._ "My dear, how these Americans _do_ travel!"] * * * * * [Illustration: _Friend_ (_below_). "All you've got to do when I throw you the rope is to make it fast to that projection over your head, and lower yourself down!"] * * * * * [Illustration: "THE CHURCH-GOING BELL" Sunday morning, coast of Norway. (_By our Yachting Artist._)] * * * * * [Illustration: _Parson._ "Yes, on one occasion I married four couples in a quarter of an hour. Quick work, wasn't it?" _Nautical Young Lady._ "Yes, rather! Sixteen knots an hour!"] * * * * * TO MY AIRSHIP [_The poet is being piloted on his aerial flight by a prosaic mechanician. It is to the latter that the interpolations are due._] Thou elfin Puck, thou child of master mind! (Look out! the ballast's slipping off behind.) Thou swanlike Siren of the blue sublime! (Screw up that nut, and never mind the rhyme.)