CYCLING IN RUSSIA.
[The only lady-cyclist in St. Petersburg has lately met with an accident, and is now in hospital. The police will issue no more permits to women.]
Fair Bárinya, why did you go and tumble off your wheel?
Your sad mishap has roused Von Wahl's and all his minions' zeal—
He vows that ladies now no more shall ride their horse of steel!
What was it that upset you? Was it, pray, the great Prospékt,
With those six-sided wooden blocks that here and there project,
Or else its three-mile tram-line, where your giddy "sveeft" was wrecked?
Or were you racing, 'gainst the rules, along the English Quay,
And trying to inaugurate a Russian Battersea,
Or threading the Milliónaya with over-rapid glee?
Perhaps 'twas on Yelagin Isle you were careering round,
And ran into the flower-beds or the ponds that there abound,
Or bumped against a drunk muzhík, that brought you to the ground.
Whate'er it was, the fact remains, your fatal lack of skill
In "Peter" future lady-bikes has stopped for good or ill—
Come over, then, to London, and enjoy your daily spill!
Poker Chips from the Gold Coast.—By rejecting Great Britain's ultimatum, the King of Coomassie has paid his "ante." The next move will—in all probability—be the surrender of his Ash-antee.
Appropriate.—By what law are water rates settled? By Torren(t)s' Act.
A New Terror in the London Streets.—The Policeman.