Brake, brake, brake
On my brand-new tyre, Marie!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fishmonger's boy
That his tricycle's mean and squalid;
O well for the butcher lad
That the tyres of his wheel are solid!
And the reckless scorchers scorch
With hanging purple heads,
But O for the tube that is busted up
And the tyre that is cut to shreds.
Brake, brake, brake--
Thou hast broken indeed, Marie,
And the rounded form of my new Dunlop
Will never come back to me.
A SUGGESTION IN NOMENCLATURE.--The old name of "Turnpike Roads" has, long ago, with the almost universal disappearance of the ancient turnpikes, become obsolete. Nowadays, bicycles being "always with us," why not for "Turnpike Roads" substitute "Turn-bike roads"? This ought to suit the "B. B. P.," or "Bicycling British Public."
Illustration:
"Oh, did you see a gentleman on a bicycle as you came up?"
"No; but I saw a man sitting at the bottom of the hill mending an old umbrella!"
