In the _Fliegende Blatter_ two young clerks were represented discussing the question of summer holidays.
"Where are you going ?" asks A of B.
"Nowhere," answers B.
"Can't you afford it ?" asks the sympathetic A.
"Only been able to save up enough for the postcards," answers B, gloomily; "no money left for the trip." Men and women carried bulky volumes containing the names and addresses of the people to whom they had promised to send cards.

Everywhere, through winding forest glade, by silver sea, on mountain pathway, one met with prematurely aged looking tourists muttering as they walked: "Did I send Aunt Gretchen a postcard from that last village that we stopped at, or did I address two to Cousin Lisa ?" Then, again, maybe, the picture postcard led to disappointment.
Uninteresting towns clamoured, as ill-favoured spinsters in a photographic studio, to be made beautiful.
"I want," says the lady, "a photograph my friends will really like.

Some of these second-rate photographers make one look quite plain.

I don't want you to flatter me, if you understand, I merely want something nice." The obliging photographer does his best.

The nose is carefully toned down, the wart becomes a dimple, her own husband doesn't know her.