26 South Beach. 



The unconscious sand is held at great price, and the 

 tiger beetles have been banished to further along the shore. 

 Waiters rush about with their trays, where once the crows 

 devoured the lady crabs, and the crowd is as lithesome and 

 gay as were the sand-fleas of old. 



There are as many footsteps on the sand as on a city 

 pavement, and it is plain that it is not the beach, but the 

 people, that form the chief attraction — they come to see 

 one another. A stretch of the strand is their meeting- 

 place, while all beyond is vacant, where only a few fisher- 

 men or lone wanderers find enjoyment. 



There is a particular type that discovers the beach most 

 congenial. Here his favorite beverage abounds, and he 

 enjoys himself hugely all day long. He is possessed of 

 much rotundity of person, his eyes are bulging, he is quite 

 certain he knows all about the world. His philosophy is, 

 that we live a little while, but are a long time dead. He 

 bets that he can throw a ring over a cane, or can hit the 

 bull's eye in the target, or one of the little tin birds that are 

 ever going round. The publicity of the whole matter is 

 what pleases him, and when he rides the deer or the polar 

 bear, in the merry-go-round, he waves joyously to the 

 crowd, and claps his hands to the music of the organ 

 behind the screen. 



That wonderful cow with a tin udder, that curiously 

 enough fills her body to the exclusion of heart and lungs 

 and other less important matters, is very attractive. He 

 steps up and has some ice-cold milk, for this bovine is 

 providently organized for summer weather. 



Someone bets him that he cannot send the weight in the 



