Punch: Punch (89.1885)

July 4, 1885.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

11

"A DAY IN THE COUNTRY."

Pent in close, unwholesome places,'
Where the sun can scarcely shine,

Little children, with pale faces,

In their abject squalor pine.

'Tis a spot that's fever-haunted,

Where they draw a poisoned breath;

But the Poor work on undaunted,

In that atmosphere of death.

Though the children that they cherish
Swiftly fade away and die;

Though the little babies perish,

Ana in nameless grave-plots lie;

Still the workers plod on grimly,

Where the thick black smoke is curl'di;

Sometimes maybe feeling dimly
There's somewhere a brighter world.

Those poor children, sad the story,

Never saw a stately tree,

Ne 'er beheld the sunset glory,

O'er the flower bespangled lea.

Never saw the starry daisies,

And the streams that wimple down ;

Far the meadows' fragrant mazes
From the close courts of the Town!

They have never seen the ocean
Break in thunder on the strand,"

All the wild waves' mad commotion,
When the surge o'erleaps the land ;

Never known the twilight tender,

When the storm-wind has passed by;

Or the pale moon's silver splendour,
When the sea reflects the sky.

Take them one day, then, from sorrow,
From the haunts of sin and crime,

That from gladness they may borrow
Comfort for the aftertime.

Let them see the country smiling,

Shining stream and flower-clad. plain;

All their wee sad hearts beguiling
From a life so full of pain.

One small luxury untasted,

One delight in all the hours,

And the pittance won't be wasted,

Since the children see the flowers.

Sir, your button-hole has posies.

Madam, your fan too. Suppose,

You for once give up your roses,

That the Children see one rose.

CYCLOMANIA.

Chapter IV.

After my spill oil the " Shoreditch Zephyr," my
"Costume" is a thing of shreds and patches, and the
Machine a thing of cogs and smashes; still I feel re-
markably cool and collected.

Suddenly remember a story of a man who met with a
railway accident, and thought nothing of it at the time,
but went raving mad exactly six hours afterwards. _

A Rustic appears. He is the man who was shouting to
me at the top of the hill. He tells me there's a board
there " a-warning of wheelers not to ride down." Well,
why didn't he shout louder ? I ask him. He says he
" hollered " as loud as he could, and tries to harrow me
with a tale of a man who was thrown oS a tricycle on
this very hill last week, and "took to the orspital."

Am rather pleased to hear of this. Don't feel at all
harrowed. It shows what tremendous peril I realljr have
been in without knowing it. I wheel the machine to
the Station.

Hang " Dragonfly Form " ! Shall do rest of journey
by train.

At Station.—A difficulty arises. Station-Master
objects to my machine going in Guard's Van. Says that
the Guard " isn't bound to take a lot of broken iron and
bits of india-rubber in his van."

" But I've got a tricycle ticket," I point out, indig-
nantly.

" O'erjoyed was lie to find.

That, though, on Pleasure she was bent,

She had a Frugal Mind."

She. " And don't forget to order Six Dozen of the vsrf Driest
Champagne you can get, for our Dance on Tuesday nfxt."

He. "But the Ladies, as a rule, don't like very Dry Champagne."

She. " No, Love, they don't. No more do the Waitmrs!"

" D'you call this thing a tricycle?" Station-Master asks, with withering
sarcasm.

I wish Sprogger were here now to listen to the "Shoreditch Zephyr"
being abused. Station-Master retires, and leaves the matter in Porter's hands.
I leave a little matter (of a shilling) in Porter's hands. Porter thinks a truck
would be the best thing for the machine.

As a result have to hire special truck—cost, twelve shillings. The Shore-
ditch Ztphyr" is fast becoming a very expensive and unmanageable form of
nightmare.

I have to visit Station-Master's office, and sign a paper about the "tricycle
being my own risk." So it is, so it has been.

Query—What are Speogger and Harkaway doing now ?

At Brighton Station.—Heavens 1 _ Miss Fanny and her sister have been
travelling down in the same train with me. They've caught sight of me!
And my coat is torn, my face grimy, and my hands a mass of dust and oil.

And pretty Fanny Harkaway says, as if nothing had happened, " Well, and
how have you enjoyed your ride ?"

I assure her that " nothing could have been pleasanter. I keep the stirring
tale of my accident for a more opportune moment. Then I hurry off to see about
my machine, and promise to rejoin Clara and Fanny at the Hotel.

As it is now quite a quarter to seven, and they were due at six, having
changed my attire, I am persuading Fanny and Clara that it's no good to wait
any longer, when we hear a sound in the distance. Yes— there's no mistaking
it—it is somebody '' tootlin g " on a trumpet; in fact, there are two trumpets, and
they seem to be tootling different tunes.

In another minute Sprogger and Harkaway are seen dashing along on
their machines. They are dusty, hot, tired, fearfully thirsty, hut apparently in
excellent spirits.

"Never had suoh a splendid spin," they both shout, as soon as they catch
sight of us.

Sprogger addresses me as "old stick-in-the-mud!" I believe he's been
drinking. Ask him. significantly, if he has dined anywhere.

" Wheelmen don't dine! " says Sprogger, scornfully ; " took a lot of fuel on