What rushes through the crowded street
With whirring noise and throbbing beat,
Exhaling odours far from sweet?
The motor-car.
Whose wheels o'er greasy asphalte skim,
Exacting toll of life and limb,
(What is a corpse or so to him)?
The motorist's.
Who flies before the oily gust
Wafted his way through whirling dust,
And hopes the beastly thing will bust?
The pedestrian.
Who thinks that it is scarcely fair
To have to pay for road repair
While sudden death lies lurking there?
The ratepayer.
Who as the car goes whizzing past
At such law-breaking stands aghast,
(For forty miles an hour is fast)?
The policeman.
Who hears the case with bland surprise,
And over human frailty sighs,
The while he reads between the lies?
The magistrate.
Illustration: FICKLE FORTUNE
"And only yesterday I was fined five pounds for driving at excessive speed!"
Illustration: IN DORSETSHIRE
Fair Cyclist. "Is this the way to Wareham, please?"
Native. "Yes, miss, yew seem to me to ha' got 'em on all right!"
SO UNSELFISH!--"Oh yes, I gave my husband a motor-car on his birthday."
"But I thought he didn't like motor-cars!"
"He doesn't. But I do!"
Q. Why is the lady bikist of an amorous disposition?
A. Because she is a sigh-cling creature.
Illustration: CROWDED OUT.--Stage-struck Coster (to his dark-coloured donkey). "Othello, Othello, your occupation 'll soon be gone!"
