Volume 108 — "DEEDS-NOT WORDS!"

Dear Charlie,—You know I'm a "biker." I told yer a good bit ago 'Ow I learnt to cavort on the cycle; and now, from Land's End to Soho, There isn't a scorchinger Scorcher than 'Arry, when fair on the spin. Some might do me for pace, but for style, and for skylark, I'd jest about win. Lil Johnson—you know little Lil with the copper-wire fringe and rum lisp! 'Er as flower-mounts Clerkenwell way, an' wos donah to young Iky Crisp! She's blue sancho on learnin' to "bike," so I took 'er to Battersea Park, As I'd 'eard wos the pitch for a spry lydy cyclist as longed for a lark. Larks, Charlie! It's spruce, and no pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge, But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge. No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart bits o' frock from Mayfair; It took me aback for a jiff, tho' of course I wos speedy all there. "Lor, 'Awwee!" lisped Lil, "thith ith thplendid! But 'adn't we better sthand by? Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell lydith! No,'Awwee, I don't like ter twy. Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth! Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!" Poor Lil! She's no clarss, not comparative. Ain't got no savvy, yer see; And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not with a flyer like me. Don't like to be done, I don't Charlie; and so I sez "Jest as yer like. Ony, if I meant biking, in Battersea, dash it old girl, I should bike!" "Oh, 'awwee," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un! But let uth look on, dear, thith go; Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't want ter myke you no show." "All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. But ontry noo, Charlie, old pal, When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I wos most arf ashymed o' my gal. One young piece in grey knicks and cream cloth, and a sort of soft tile called a toke, Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke, But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got a sharp eye upon 'er; And I couldn't ha' done the perlite without raising a bit of a stir. If I could ha' got rid o' Lil, I'd ha' mounted my wheel, and wired in, Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man! I'd ha' showed Miss Grey Knicks 'ow to spin. One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the bike she'd bespoke wosn't there, I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos a freeze-me-stiff stare. "Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'Awwee!" sez Lil. "Well," sez I, "she may be a Princess, As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B. and a young Marcherness Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike; leastways so I've bin told; And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give by dooks is a sight to behold." "Garn, 'Awwee," snigs Lil, "you're a kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing. To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring, Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!" "It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move. From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh, the lydies must keep on the shove. "They borrow their barnies from hus, arter all, Lil. Toffs want a new lark, So they straddle the bike ah lah Brixton, and tumble to Battersea Park. 'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are sniffed at out Hislington way, But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea, they're trotty and puffeck O K!" World shifts it, old man, that's a moral! We'll soon 'ave some duchess, on wheels, A-cuttin' all records, and showing young Zimmy a clean pair of 'eels. Hadvanced Women? Jimminy-Whizz! With the spars and the sails they now carry They'll race us all round, pooty soon, and romp in heasy winners! Yours, 'Arry.

Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime, The poet's lot is hard! Ah! When he would find the proper rhyme, To balance with Shah-zada! I see the guardsman ride erect, The bugle sounds! Aha! My part should be, in verse correct, To greet the Shahza-da! Thy quantities have kill'd my song! Despair! I'm off to Mada- gascar, or anywhere! I long To have it right. Shah-zădă?