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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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.