* * * * *

Illustration: First Cyclist (cross-eyed). "Why the dickens don't you look where you're going?"

Second Cyclist (cross-eyed). "Why don't you go where you're looking?"

* * * * *

Illustration: QUITE IMPOSSIBLE.—Motorist. "What! Exceeding the legal limit? Do we look as if we would do such a thing?"

* * * * *

Illustration: THE INTERPRETATION OF SIGNS

Custodian. "This 'ere's a private road, miss! Didn't yer see the notice-board at the gate, sayin' 'No thoroughfare'?"

Placida. "Oh yes, of course. Why, that's how I knew there was a way through!"

* * * * *

Illustration: AFTER THE ACCIDENT

"Toujours la politesse."

* * * * *

Illustration: QUITE A LITTLE HOLIDAY

Cottager. "What's wrong, Biker? Have you had a spill?"

Biker. "Oh, no. I'm having a rest!"

* * * * *

Illustration: WHATS IN A NAME?

Old Gent (lately bitten with the craze). "And that confounded man sold me the thing for a safety!"

* * * * *

Motoring Illustrated suggests the institution of a Motor Museum. If we were sure that most of the motor omnibuses at present in our streets would find their way there, we would gladly subscribe.

* * * * *

PROTECTION AGAINST MOTOR-CARS

Sir,—I recently read with interest a letter in the Times from "A Cyclist since 1868." In it he announced his intention of carrying a tail-light in order to avoid being run into from behind. The idea is admirable, and my wife and I, as Pedestrians since 1826 and 1823 respectively, propose to wear two lamps each in future, a white and a red.

We are, however, a little exercised to know whether we should carry the white in front and the red behind, or vice versa. For in walking along the right side of a road we shall appear on the wrong side to an approaching motor-car. Would it not therefore be better for us to have the tail-light in front. Your most humble and obedient servant,

LUX PRAEPOSTERA.

P.S.—Would such an arrangement make us "carriages" in the eye of the law? At present we appear to be merely a sub-division of the class "unlighted objects."

* * * * *

CURE FOR MOTOR-SCORCHERS (suggested as being even more humane than the proposal of Sir R. Payne-Gallwey).—Give them Automobile Beans!

* * * * *

Illustration: SLOW AND SURE

John. "I've noticed, miss, as when you 'as a motor, you catches a train, not the train!"

* * * * *

HOW THE MATCH CAME OFF

A HARMONY ON WHEELS

(Miss Angelica has challenged Mr. Wotherspoon to a race on the Queen's highway.)

Fytte 1.

Mr. W. Fine start! (Faint heart!)

Miss A. Horrid hill! (Feeling ill!)

Fytte 2.

Mr. W. Going strong! Come along!

Fytte 3.

Miss A. Road quite even! Perfect heaven!

Fytte 4.

Mr. W. Goal in view! Running true!

Miss A. Make it faster! Spur your caster!

Fytte 5.

Mr. W. Fairly done!

Miss A. Match is won!

[They dismount. Pause.

Mr. W. What! Confess!

Miss A. Well then—yes!

* * * * *

Illustration: Motor Fiend. "Why don't you get out of the way?"

Victim. "What! Are you coming back?"

* * * * *

MOTOROBESITY

(A Forecast)

In the spring of 1913 St. John Skinner came back from Africa, after spending nine or ten years somewhere near the Zambesi. He travelled up to Waterloo by the electric train, and the three very stout men who were in the same first-class compartment seemed to look at him with surprise. On arriving at his hotel he pushed his way through a crowd of fat persons in the hall. Then he changed his clothes, and went round to his Club to dine.

The dining-room was filled with members of extraordinary obesity, all eating heartily. In the fat features of one of them he thought he recognised a once familiar face. "Round," said he, "how are you?"

The stout man stopped eating, and gazed at him anxiously. "Why," he murmured, after a while, in the soft voice that comes from folds of fat, "it must be Skinner. My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Have you had a fever?"

"I'm all right," answered the other; "what makes you think I've been ill?"

"Ill, man!" said Round, "why you've wasted away to nothing. You're a perfect skeleton."

"If it's a question of bulk," remarked Skinner, "I'm much more surprised. You've grown so stout, every fellow in the Club seems so stout, everyone I've seen is as fat as—as—as you are."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Round, "you don't mean to say I've been putting on more flesh? I'm the light weight of the Club. I only weigh sixteen stone. No, no, you're chaffing, or you judge by your own figure."

"Not a bit," said the other; "you and I used to weigh about the same. What on earth has happened to you all?"

"Well," said Round, "perhaps you're right. It's very much what the doctors say. It's the fashionable complaint, motorobesity. Sit down, and dine with me, and I'll tell you what the idea is. You see, it's like this. For ten years or so everybody who could afford a motor of some sort has had one. We've all had one. Not to have a motor has been simply ridiculous, if not disreputable. So everybody has ridden about all day in the fresh air, never had any exercise, and got an enormous appetite. Besides, in the summer we've always been drinking beer to wash down the dust, and in the winter soup, or spirits, or something to warm us. My dear fellow, you can't think what an appetite motoring gives you. I had an enormous steak for my lunch at Winchester to-day, and a great lump of plum cake with my tea at Aldershot, and my aunt, the General's wife, made me bring a bag of biscuits to eat on the way up, and yet I'm so hungry now that I should feel quite uncomfortable if the thirst those biscuits, and the dust, gave me didn't make me almost forget it. I suppose everyone is really getting fat. One notices it when one does happen to see a thin fellow like you. Why, in all the Clubs they've had to have new arm-chairs, because the old ones were too narrow. However, I've talked enough about motoring. So glad to see you again, old chap. Of course you'll get a motor as soon as possible."

"Well," said Skinner, "I rather think I shall buy a horse."

"My dear fellow," cried Round, "what an idea! Horse-riding is such awfully bad form. Besides, you can't go any pace. Look at me. I wouldn't get on a horse, and be shaken to pieces."

"I should think not," said Skinner, "but I think I should prefer that to motorobesity."

* * * * *

An advertisement in The Motor quotes the testimony of a gentleman from Moreton-in-the-Marsh, who states that he has run a certain car "nearly 412,500 miles in four months, and is more than pleased with it." As this works out (on a basis of twenty-four hours' running per diem) at about 143 miles per hour, we have pleasure in asking what the police are doing in Moreton-in-the-Marsh and its vicinity.

* * * * *

Noticing an advertisement of a book entitled "The Complete Motorist," an angry opponent of the new method of locomotion writes to suggest that the companion volume, "The Complete Pedestrian," had better be written at once before it becomes impossible to find an entire specimen.

* * * * *

MAXIM FOR CYCLISTS.—"Try-cycle before you Buy-cycle."

* * * * *

Illustration: Motorist (a novice) has been giving chairman of local urban council a practical demonstration of the ease with which a motor-car can be controlled when travelling at a high speed.

* * * * *

Illustration: LOVE'S ENDURANCE

Miss Dolly (to her fiance). "Oh, Jack, this is delightful! If you'll only keep up the pace, I'm sure I shall soon gain confidence!"

[Poor Jack has already run a mile or more, and is very short of condition.

* * * * *

Illustration: TU QUOQUE.—Cyclist (a beginner who has just collided with freshly-painted fence). "Confound your filthy paint! Now, just look at my coat!" Painter. "'Ang yer bloomin' coat! 'Ow about my paint?"

* * * * *

Illustration: NOTE TO THE SUPERSTITIOUS

It is considered lucky for a black cat to cross your path.

* * * * *

Illustration: WAITING FOR

A Study of Rural

"W'y, I remembers the time w'en I'd 'ave stopped that for furious drivin', an' I reckon it's only goin' about a paltry fifteen mile an hour!"

* * *

Illustration: BIGGER GAME

Police Methods

"Ar! Now them cyclists is puttin' on a fairish pace! Summat about twenty mile an hour, I s'pose. But 'tain't no business o' mine. I'm 'ere to stop motor-caws. Wot ho!"

* * * * *

LOVE IN A CAR

["I have personal knowledge of marriages resulting from motor-car courtships."—The HON. C. S. ROLLS.—Daily Express.]

When Reginald asked me to drive in his car I knew what it meant for us both, For peril to love-making offers no bar, But fosters the plighting of troth. To the tender occasion I hastened to rise, So bought a new frock on the strength of it, Some china-blue chiffon—to go with my eyes— And wrapped up my head with a length of it.

"Get in," said my lover, "as quick as you can!" He wore a black smear on his face, And held out the hand of a rough artisan To pilot me into my place. Like the engine my frock somehow seemed to mis-fire, For Reginald's manner was querulous, But after some fuss with the near hind-wheel tyre We were off at a pace that was perilous.

"There's Brown just behind, on his second-hand brute, He thinks it can move, silly ass!" Said Reggie with venom, "Ha! Ha! let him hoot, I'll give him some trouble to pass." My service thenceforth was by Reggie confined (He showed small compunction in suing it) To turning to see how far Brown was behind, But not to let Brown see me doing it.

Brown passed us. We dined off his dust for a league— It really was very poor fun— Till, our car showed symptoms of heat and fatigue, Reggie had to admit he was done. To my soft consolation scant heed did he pay, But with taps was continually juggling, And his words, "Will you keep your dress further away?" Put a stop to this incipient smuggling.

"He'd never have passed me alone," Reggie sighed, "The car's extra heavy with you." "Why ask me to come?" I remarked. He replied, "I thought she'd go better with two." When I touched other topics, forbearingly meek, From his goggles the lightnings came scattering, "What chance do you give me of placing this squeak," He hissed, "when you keep up that chattering?"

At that, I insisted on being set down And returning to London by train, And I vowed fifty times on my way back to town That I never would see him again. Next week he appeared and implored me to wed, With a fondly adoring humility. "The car stands between us," I rigidly said. "I've sold it!" he cried with agility.

His temples were sunken, enfeebled his frame, There was white in the curls on his crest; When he spoke of our ride in a whisper of shame I flew to my home on his breast. By running sedately I'm certain that Love To such passion would never have carried us, Which settles the truth of the legend above— It was really the motor-car married us.

* * * * *

Illustration: Miller (looking after cyclist, who has a slight touch of motor mania). "Well, to be sure! There do be some main ignorant chaps out o' London. 'E comes 'ere askin' me 'ow many 'orse power the old mill ad got."

* * * * *

Illustration:

Cyclist (whose tyre has become deflated). "Have you such a thing as a pump?"

Yokel. "'Ees, miss, there's one i' the yard."

Cyclist. "I should be much obliged if you would let me use it."

Yokel. "That depends 'ow much you want. Watter be main scarce wi' us this year! Oi'll ask feyther."

* * * * *

Illustration: Smart Girl (to keen motorist). "My sister has bought a beautiful motor-car." Keen Motorist. "Really! What kind?" Smart Girl. "Oh, a lovely sage green, to go with her frocks."

* * * * *

Illustration: Mrs. Binks (who has lost control of her machine). "Oh, oh, Harry! Please get into a bank soon. I must have something soft to fall on!"

* * * * *

Illustration: Miss Heavytopp. "I'm afraid I'm giving you a lot of bother, but then, it's only my first lesson!"

Exhausted Instructor (sotto voce). "I only hope it won't be my last!"

* * * * *

Illustration: SORROWS OF A "CHAUFFEUR"

Ancient Dame. "What d'ye say? They call he a 'shuvver,' do they? I see. They put he to walk behind and shove 'em up the hills, I reckon."

* * * * *

A CYCLE OF CATHAY.—The Yorkshire Evening Post, in reporting the case of a motor-cyclist charged with travelling at excessive speed on the highway at Selby, represents a police-sergeant as stating that "he timed defendant over a distance of 633 years, which was covered in 64 secs." The contention of the defendant that he had been "very imperfectly timed" has an air of captiousness.

* * * * *

"Many roads in the district are unfit for motorists," is the report of the Tadcaster surveyor to his council. We understand the inhabitants have resolved to leave well alone.

* * * * *

At a meeting of the Four Wheeler's Association, a speaker boasted, with some justification, that a charge which is brought every day against drivers of motor-cars has never been brought against members of their Association, namely, that of driving at an excessive speed.

* * * * *

Rumour is again busy with the promised appearance of a motor-bus which is to be so quiet that you will not know that there is one on the road until you have been run over.

* * * * *

Illustration: AN UNPARDONABLE MISTAKE.—Short-sighted Old Lady. "Porter!"

* * * * *

Illustration: NOSCE TEIPSUM.—Lady Cyclist (touring in North Holland). "What a ridiculous costume!"

* * * * *

Illustration: Sporting Constable (with stop-watch—on "police trap" duty, running excitedly out from his ambush, to motorist just nearing the finish of the measured furlong). "For 'evin's sake, guv'nor, let 'er rip, and ye'll do the 220 in seven and a 'arf!"

* * * * *

MY MOTOR CAP

[Motor-caps, we are informed, have created such a vogue in the Provinces, that ladies, women and factory girls may be seen wearing them on every occasion, though unconnected, in other respects, with modern methods of locomotion.]

A motor car I shall never afford With a gay vermilion bonnet, Of course I might happen to marry a lord, But it's no good counting on it. I have never reclined on the seat behind, And hurtled across the map, But my days are blest with a mind at rest, For I wear a motor cap.

I am done with Gainsborough, straw and toque, My dresses are bound with leather, I turn up my collar like auto-folk, And stride through the pitiless weather; With a pound of scrag in an old string bag, In a tram with a child on my lap, Wherever I go, to shop or a show, I wear a motor cap.

I don't know a silencer from a clutch, A sparking-plug from a bearing, But no one, I think, is in closer touch With the caps the women are wearing; I'm au fait with the trim of the tailor-made brim, The crown and machine-stitched strap; Though I've neither the motor, the sable-lined coat, nor The goggles—I wear the cap.

* * * * *

Illustration: No, this isn't a collection of tubercular microbes escaping from the congress; but merely the Montgomery-Smiths in their motor-car, enjoying the beauties of the country.

* * * * *

LINES BY A REJECTED AND DEJECTED CYCLIST

You do not at this juncture Feel, as I, the dreadful smart, And you scorn the cruel puncture Of the tyre of my heart! But mayhap, at some Life-turning, When the wheel has run untrue, You will know why I was burning, And was scorched alone, by you!

* * * * *

Illustration: FINIS

BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE