As we sauntered along the sea-beach the other day, in the neighbourhood of Margate, we observed a female standing out at a considerable distance from the cliffs, and at a point where she was likely to be cut off from the shore. As the tide at the time was "making in fast," prompted by a humane feeling (and not by an impertinent curiosity, in the hopes of seeing a pretty face), we immediately hastened towards her; upon a nearer approach the form was familiar to us—surely we had seen that figure before—it must be—it is—Mrs. Toddles! What can she be about? She stands motionless upon an elevated patch of sand—the white foam comes boiling and gurgling and hissing around her. She heeds it not—she stirs not; it begins to rain a little—she deliberately puts up her umbrella! What can she mean? Horrible thought! does she meditate self-destruction? Has she resolved to stand there until the mighty waters encompass her about—engulfing herself—her little black stockings—her bonnet—her shawl and all! in the deep, vast, salt, briny, hungry ocean. But what are we about? Let us hasten to prevent such an awful catastrophe! Springing forward therefore quickly, we exclaimed, "For heaven's sake, madam, what are you about? Are you determined to destroy yourself, or are you aware of your danger?" "Danger, sir?" cried Mrs. T. with a scream, "what danger, sir? I am only watching the waves." "Danger, madam! why in five minutes the waves will cut you off from all chance of escape," we exclaimed, and expressed a hope that she could swim. "Swim!" screamed Mrs. T.—"Swim! oh dear, oh dear!"—and away skuttled Mrs. T. along the sands, her little bit black legs going at a most surprising rate. However, leaving Mrs. T.'s legs to themselves, we took to our heels, and encouraged her to increased exertion, when suddenly we heard the little lady exclaim, "Oh, my basket,"—and upon looking round, we saw those little bit black legs hurrying back to the place from whence she started. We hallooed, we bawled—time and space were both narrowing with fearful rapidity—"Now! madam—haste, haste!—quick—your hand!—there, now!—ah!"—Ahah! too late! too late!—bang comes the wave—such a squash—poor Mrs. T. went off dripping wet; but we dare say she would find a little drop of comfort, in the shape of smuggled Hollands at her lodgings.