Volume 158 — PRESENCE OF MIND.

Proud is not the word for me When I hear my 8-h.p. Latest model motor-bike, Having dodged the latest strike, Is awaiting me complete At the garage down the street. Joyfully I take my way (And a cheque-book too to pay The two hundred odd they thought it Right to charge the man who bought it). Still, it is a lovely creature, Up-to-date in every feature, And a side-car, painted carmine— Joy! to think they really are mine! Time is short; I don't lose much in Starting, and I let the clutch in; Lest I should accelerate Passing through the garage-gate, Feeling certain as to what'll Happen, I shut off the throttle, When—my heart begins to beat— I'm propelled across the street In a way I never reckoned, Gathering speed at every second. Frantic, I apply the brake, Realising my mistake With my last remaining wit: I've not shut, but opened it! In another instant I Hit the curb and start to fly. Aeronautic friends of mine Say that flying is divine; Now I've tried it I confess Few things interest me less, Still, I own that in a sense It is an experience. These and other thoughts are there As I whistle through the air, And continue till I stop In an ironmonger's shop (Kept by Mr. Horne, a kind Soul, but deaf and very blind). Still—I mention this with pride, For it shows how well I ride— I have left the bike outside. Little Mrs. Horne is sitting In the neat back-parlour, knitting. Mr. Horne, who hears the din Which I make in coming in, Leaves the shop and says to her: "Martha, here's a customer. From the sound of clinking metal I should judge he wants a kettle." Mrs. H. shows some surprise At the sight that greets her eyes, And, in answer to her shout, Mr. H. comes running out. Now, it's something of a strain On the busy human brain Passing through a window-pane To decide what it will do When at last it's safely through. As I gaze around I find— Horror! why, I must be blind! Blind or dead, I don't know which— All about is black as pitch; Thick the atmosphere as well With a dank metallic smell.... Guessing that I am not dead I attempt to loose my head From a kettle's cold embrace; And, meanwhile, to save my face (Finding I can't get it out), Say politely—up the spout— "Lovely morning, is it not, Horne? Think I'll take this little lot, Horne; It is such a perfect fit, And I'm so attached to it That I find I cannot bring My own head to leave the thing. So you will oblige me greatly If you'll pack them separately."