THE SCORCHER

(After William Watson)

I do not, in the crowded street

Of cab and "'bus" and mire,

Nor in the country lane so sweet,

Hope to escape thy tyre.

One boon, oh, scorcher, I implore,

With one petition kneel,

At least abuse me not before

Thou break me on thy wheel.

A motorist wishes to point out the very grave danger this balloon-scorching may become, and suggests a speed limit be made before things go too far.

THE MUGGLETON MOTOR-CAR;
OR, THE WELLERS ON WHEELS

A Pickwickian Fragment Up-to-date

As light as fairies, if not altogether as brisk as bees, did the four Pickwickian shades assemble on a winter morning in the year of grace, 1896. Christmas was nigh at hand, in all its fin-de-siècle inwardness; it was the season of pictorial too-previousness and artistic anticipation, of plethoric periodicals, all shocker-sensationalism sandwiched with startling advertisements; of cynical new-humour and flamboyantly sentimental chromo-lithography.

But we are so taken up by the genial delights of the New Christmas that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his phantom friends waiting in the cold on the chilly outside of the Muggleton Motor-car, which they had just mounted, well wrapped up in antiquated great coats, shawls, and comforters.

Mr. Weller, Senior, had, all unconsciously, brought his well-loved whip with him, and was greatly embarrassed thereby.

"Votever shall I do vith it, Sammy?" he whispered, hoarsely.

"Purtend it's a new, patent, jointless fishing-rod, guv'nor," rejoined Sam, in a Stygian aside. "Nobody 'ere'll 'ave the slightest notion vot it really is."

"When are they—eh—going to—ahem—put the horses to?" murmured Mr. Pickwick, emerging from his coat collar, and looking about him with great perplexity.

"'Osses?" cried the coachman, turning round upon Mr. Pickwick, with sharp suspicion in his eye. "'Osses? d'ye say. Oh, who are you a-gettin' at?"

Mr. Pickwick withdrew promptly into his coat-collar.

The irrepressible Sam came immediately to the aid of his beloved master, whom he would never see snubbed if he knew it.

"There's vheels vithin vheels, as the bicyclist said vhen he vos pitched head foremost into the vatchmaker's vinder," remarked Mr. Weller, Junior, with the air of a Solomon in smalls. "But vot sort of a vheel do you call that thing in front of you, and vot's its pertikler objeck? a top of a coach instead o' under it?"

"This yer wheel means Revolution," said the driver.

"It do, Samivel, it do," interjected his father dolorously. "And in my opinion it's a worse Revolution than that there French one itself. A coach vithout 'osses, vheels instead of vheelers, and a driver vithout a vhip! Oh Sammy, Sammy, to think it should come to this!!!"

The driver—if it be not desecration to a noble old name so to designate him—gave a turn to his wheel and the autocar started. Mr. Winkle, who sat at the extreme edge, waggled his shadowy legs forlornly in the air; Mr. Snodgrass, who sat next to him, snorted lugubriously; Mr. Tupman turned paler than even a Stygian shade has a right to do. Mr. Pickwick took off his glasses and wiped them furtively.

"Sam," he whispered hysterically in the ear of his faithful servitor, "Sam, this is dreadful! A—ahem!—vehicle with no visible means of propulsion pounding along like—eh—Saint Denis without his head, is more uncanny than Charon's boat."

"Let's get down, Sammy, let's get down at once," groaned Mr. Weller the elder. "I can't stand it, Samivel, I really can't. Think o' the poor 'osses, Sammy, think o' the poor 'osses as ain't there, and vot they must feel to find theirselves sooperseeded by a hugly vheel and a pennorth o' peteroleum, &c.!"

"Hold on, old Nobs!" cried the son, with frank filial sympathy. "Think of the guv'nor, father, and vait for the first stoppage. Never again vith the Muggleton Motor! Vhy, it vorse than a hortomatic vheelbarrow, ain't it, Mr. Pickwick?"

"Ah, Sammy," assented Mr. Weller, Senior, hugging his whip, affectionately. "Vorse even than vidders, Sammy, the red-nosed shepherd, or the Mulberry One hisself!"

A bear in a motor-car attracted much attention in the City last week. It had four legs this time.

The Motor Car declares, on high medical authority, that motoring is a cure for insanity. We would therefore recommend several motorists we know to persevere.

Gentle Satire—"I say, Bill, look 'ere! 'Ere's a old cove out record-breaking!"

Motor Mania.—

The Poet (deprecatingly). "They say she gives more attention to her motor-cars than to her children."

The Butterfly. "Of course. How absurd you are! Motor-cars require more attention than children."

SOUR GRAPES

First Scorcher. "Call that exercise?"

Second Scorcher. "No. I call it sitting in a draught!"

Not to be Caught.—

Motorist (whose motor has thrown elderly villager into horse-pond). "Come along, my man, I'll take you home to get dry."

Elderly Villager. "No, yer don't. I've got yer number, and 'ere I stays till a hindependent witness comes along!"

Pedestrian. "I hear Brown has taken to cycling, and is very enthusiastic about it!"

Cyclist. "Enthusiastic! Not a bit of it. Why, he never rides before breakfast!"

GROTESQUERIES

Words wanted to express feelings

When your motor refuses to move, twenty miles from the nearest town.

SO INCONSIDERATE

"Jove! Might have killed us! I must have a wire screen fixed up."