me a half-hour of
amusement that turned at the last to a feeling of almost painful
sympathy. He was not in bathing costume, nor did he look particularly
athletic. He was teaching his young lady to ride a bicycle, and his
pupil was at that most interesting stage of a learner's career when the
machine is beginning to steady itself. With a very little assistance she
went bravely, while at the same time the young man felt it necessary not
to let go his hold upon her for more than a few moments at once. At all
events, he must be with her at the turn. She plied the pedals with
vigor, and he ran alongside or behind, as best he could; she excited,
and he out of breath. Back and forth they went, and it was a relief to
me when finally he took off his coat. I left him still panting in his
fair one's wake, and hoped it would not turn out a case of "love's
labor's lost." Let us hope, too, that he was not an invalid.

While speaking of these my companions in idleness, I may as well mention
an older man,--a rural philosopher, he seemed,--whom I met again and
again, always in search of shells. He was from Indiana, he told me with
agreeable garrulity. His grandchildren would like the shells. He had
perhaps made a mistake in coming so far south. It was pretty warm, he
thought, and he feared the change would be too great when he went home
again. If a man's lungs were bad, he ought to go to a warm place, of
course. _He_ came for his stomach, which was now pretty well,--a capital
proof of the superior value of fresh air over "proper" food in dyspeptic
troubles; for if there is anywhere in the world a place in which a
delicate stomach would fare worse than in a Southern hotel,--of the
second or third class,--may none but my enemies ever find it. Seashell
collecting is not a panacea. For a disease like old age, for instance,
it might prove to be an alleviation rather than a cure; but taken long
enough, and with a sufficient mixture of enthusiasm,--a true _sine qua
non_,--it will be found efficacious, I believe, in all ordinary cases of
dyspepsia.

My Indiana man was far from being alone in his cheerful pursuit. If
strangers, men or women, met me on the beach and wished to say something
more than good-morning, they were sure to ask, "Have you found any
pretty shells?" One woman was a collector of a more businesslike turn.
She had brought a camp-stool, and when I first saw her in the distance
was removing her shoes, and putting on rubber boots