Next morning a short walk dissipated all idea of finding game, and having made the discovery that he was still fifteen miles from the proper shooting-ground on the beach, he returned to the house, and in order to enjoy a few hours ere the wagon for his further transportation would be ready, joined a bathing party. It was quite a sociable affair; both sexes, dressed in their bathing clothes--the girls without shoes--crowded down in the bottom of an open wagon. But surely it is not fair to tell how one of the flannel-encased nymphs nearly fell from the wagon, and was caught in the arms of the writer, who had jumped out for the purpose; nor how the rest drove off to leave them; nor how he bore his lovely burden--plastic grace and beauty personified--bravely in pursuit; nor how his foot chanced to trip--accidentally, of course--and they fell and rolled in the sand together. If he would tell, he could not; words do not exist for the purpose. Try, male reader, to carry one hundred and twenty pounds of essential loveliness with only a single flannel garment to protect it; feel it give to your pressure; clasp its exquisite but yielding contour; press it to your heart, and then in an ecstasy roll over and over with it in the sand. Having done so, endeavor to describe the sensation, or forget that particular girl in a life-time. The road to the beach lay through a village formerly known by the euphonious and distinctive title of Crab Town--a village of a thousand inhabitants. It was evening ere Crab Town was reached, and just beyond, the driver came upon a bevy of female acquaintances. In a moment the suggestion was made that they should ride; after a little demur they accepted, and were crowded in. The stage was not large, but there would have been room if they had been twice as numerous; they filled every seat, and every lap besides. There are days in one’s lifetime that should be celebrated as anniversaries; and if any gentleman has carried in his arms, and rolled in the sand, one charming Jersey girl in the morning, and has had another equally charming sit on his lap in the evening, he may look upon that day as never likely to repeat itself. There was a hum of pleasant voices--words like, “Oh! Deb, we should not have got in;” “Why, Mary, we may as well ride--it’s all in our way.” “Now, Lib, don’t say I’m married.” “Well, your husband is a good way off.” But who could attend to what is occurring around him when seated in the dark with a lovely angel in his lap? So situated, the ride appeared very short, and the next mile, which was as far as our delightful freight would go, was passed seemingly in about a minute and a half, decidedly the fastest time on record. At the end of it, on a suggestion from the driver, who lived in that section and knew the country, toll was taken of their rosy lips as passage-money. Jersey is a glorious place.