Stones in Sermons.
"Sermons in stones," the poet says; and when
Smelfungus scolds, and rails, and girds, and groans at us,
We feel that worst of sermonising men
Is—throwing stones at us.
Mrs. R. observes of a respectable young man among her acquaintances, that she was sorry to hear he was incremated in a recent swindling case.
BIKE v. BICYCLE.
Some Tennysonian Bouts-rimés.
[Mr. Ernest Shipton, Secretary of the Cyclists' Touring Club, protests against the term "bike" as being unmitigated slang.]
Bike, bike, bike,
By your leave, oh C. T. C.
Quite too long for my tongue to utter
Is "bicycle"—bike for me!
O well for the slang-loving boy,
That he "bikes" with his sister at play!
O well for the lass or lad
Who don't Mr. Shipton obey!
For, in spite of him, "bikes" go on,
Thus called, over dale and hill;
And "bicycles" soon will be vanished, and
The voice of the pedant still.
Bike, bike, bike,
Mr. Punch says, oh C. T. C.
And the tender grace of a term that is dead
Will never come back to me!
To Squire Punch.—Sir,—I don't quite know how to spell the gentleman's names, whether its "Tycho" or "Tykeo Brahe," but, anyhow, he was a sharp chap, and all I want to learn for certain is, was he one of the good old genuine "Tykes," and a Yorkshireman?
Yours,
John Browdie's Grandnephew.
