was not there yet, but Mr. P. did not expect that he was. There being a
butler and some cooks on hand, Mr. P. considered them sufficient, and
had his baggage taken right up to the second story back room.

The butler looked a little astonished at first, but when Mr. P.
explained about the hotel, and how he didn't want to go about any
more--for from riding in the salt evening air he had already got a
little hoarse--the man brightened up immediately.

"Oh, a little horse!" said he. "If that's what you come about you'll be
welcome here. The General isn't here yet, but till he comes the rooms is
yours."

And they were!

If any one feels inclined to follow Mr. P.'s example, he begs to
recommend the President's "Old Yarns,"--the hind box on the top shelf of
the library closet.

The next morning, Mr. P. wandered on the sands. Fond memories flocked
around him, as he stood gazing on the corruscating waves.

But they were mostly memories of sheepsheads and flanneled bathers and
'tis not for these that the poet gazes into the emerald depths whence
the pearly scum, like tears of mermaids--Ah! Mermaids! Mr. P. had never
seen a mermaid. These were not among his memories He deeply woulded that
he could--and lo! he did! The creature came gliding to his very feet,
and he had barely time to bound back before she reached the shore.
Shaking the water from her spectacles, she came up, and stood before
him.