Part 11 (1/2)

_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.