Mr. Punch Awheel Part 11

_Candid Friend._ "Ah! Bet it won't be four hours before you're flat on your back again!"

THE LAST RECORD

(_The Wail of a Wiped-out Wheelman_)

AIR--"_The Lost Chord_"

Reading one day in our "Organ,"

I was happy and quite at ease.

A band was playing the "_Lost Chord_,"

Outside--in three several keys.

But _I_ cared not how they were playing, Those puffing Teutonic men; For I'd "cut the record" at cycling, And was ten-mile champion then!

It flooded my cheeks with crimson, The praise of my pluck and calm; Though that band seemed blending "Kafoozleum"

With a touch of the Hundredth Psalm.

But my joy soon turned into sorrow, My calm into mental strife; For my record was "cut" on the morrow, And it cut _me_, like a knife.

A fellow had done the distance In the tenth of a second less!

And henceforth my name in silence Was dropt by the Cycling Press.

I have sought--but I seek it vainly-- With that record again to shine, Midst crack names in our Cycling Organ, But they never mention mine.

It may be some day at the Oval I may cut that record again, But at present the Cups are given To better--_or_ luckier--men!

Ill.u.s.tration: THE MOTOR-BATH

_Nurse._ "Oh, baby, look at the diver!"

A SONG OF THE ROAD

Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car, Just to tell us where you are, While about the streets you fly Like a comet in the sky.

When the blazing sun is "off,"

When the fog breeds wheeze and cough, Round the corners as you scour With your dozen miles an hour--

Then the traveller in the dark, Growling some profane remark, Would not know which way to go While you're rushing to and fro.

On our fears, then, as you gloat (Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"), Just to tell us where you are-- Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.

"Motor Body."--"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette, shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be told from ANY fixed body."--_Advt. in the_ "_Autocar._"

The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by licking the sparking plug.

Ill.u.s.tration: _Chauffeur._ "Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she straight to Hele?"

_Major Chili Pepper_ (_a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf_).

"Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of the road!"

Ill.u.s.tration: "FACILIS

_Bikist_ (_gaily_). "Here we go down! down! down! down!"

Ill.u.s.tration: DESCENSUS!"

_The same_ (_very much down_). "Never again with _you_, my bikey!"

Should Motors Carry Maxims?--Under the t.i.tle "Murderous Magistrate," the _Daily Mail_ printed some observations made by a barrister who reproves Canon Greenwell for remarking from the Durham County Bench that if a few motorists were shot no great harm would be done. The same paper subsequently published an article headed, "Maxims for Motorists."

Retaliation in kind is natural, and a maxim is an excellent retort to a canon. But why abuse the canon first?

So many accidents have occurred lately through the ignition of petrol that a wealthy motorist, we hear, is making arrangements for his car to be followed, wherever it may go, by a fully-equipped fire-engine, and, if this example be followed widely, our roads will become more interesting than ever.

Are there motor-cars in the celestial regions? Professor Schaer, of Geneva, has discovered what _he_ describes as a new comet plunging due south at a rate of almost 8 degrees a day, and careering across the Milky Way regardless of all other traffic.

Ill.u.s.tration: OUR ELECTION--POLLING DAY

_Energetic Committeeman._ "It's all right. Drive on! He's voted!"

THE MOTOCRAT

I am he: goggled and unashamed. Furred also am I, stop-watched and horse-powerful. Millions admit my sway--on both sides of the road. The Plutocrat has money: I have motors. The Democrat has the rates; so have I--two--one for use and one for County Courts. The Autocrat is dead, but I--I increase and multiply. I have taken his place.

I blow my horn and the people scatter. I stand still and everything trembles. I move and kill dogs. I skid and chickens die. I pa.s.s swiftly from place to place, and horses bolt in dust storms which cover the land. I make the dust storms. For I am Omnipotent; I make everything. I make dust, I make smell, I make noise. And I go forward, ever forward, and pa.s.s through or over almost everything. "Over or Through" is my motto.

The roads were made for me; years ago they were made. Wise rulers saw me coming and made roads. Now that I am come, they go on making roads--making them up. For I break things. Roads I break and Rules of the Road. Statutory limits were made for me. I break them. I break the dull silence of the country. Sometimes I break down, and thousands flock round me, so that I dislocate the traffic. But I _am_ the Traffic.

I am I and She is She--the rest get out of the way. Truly, the hand which rules the motor rocks the world.