As a result of this the heel takes a different position relative to the toe at different parts of one revolution. At the top and bottom the two are on the same level, but the heel goes down quicker than the toe and comes up quicker. This is very tiresome for the beginner, and he soon finds the calves of his legs aching sharply, but in time he will become accustomed to it, and the added amount of speed which he gets out of his machine is surprising even to himself.
There is not space enough left to say anything of girls' riding, but some time in the future this should have a short article by itself.
MAY BE SO.
BY RUTH McENERY STUART.
September butterflies flew thick
O'er flower-bed and clover-rick,
When little Miss Penelope,
Who watched them from grandfather's knee.
Said, "Grandpa, what's a butterfly?"
And, "Where do flowers go when they die?"
For questions hard as hard can be
I recommend Penelope.
But grandpa had a playful way
Of dodging things too hard to say,
By giving fantasies instead
Of serious answers, so he said,
"Whene'er a tired old flower must die,
Its soul mounts in a butterfly;
Just now a dozen snow-wings sped
From out that white petunia bed;
"And if you'll search, you'll find, I'm sure,
A dozen shrivelled cups or more;
Each pansy folds her purple cloth,
And soars aloft in velvet moth.
"So when tired sunflower doffs her cap
Of yellow frills to take a nap,
'Tis but that this surrender brings
Her soul's release on golden wings."
"But is this so? It ought to be,"
Said little Miss Penelope,
"Because I'm sure, dear grandpa, you
Would only tell the thing that's true.
"Are all the butterflies that fly
Real angels of the flowers that die?"
Grandfather's eyes looked far away
As if he scarce knew what to say.
"Dear little Blossom," stroking now
The golden hair upon her brow,
"I—can't—exactly—say—I—know—it,
I only heard it from a poet.
"And poets' eyes see wondrous things,
Great mysteries of flowers and wings.
And marvels of the earth and sea
And sky, they tell us constantly.
"But we can never prove them right,
Because we lack their finer sight;
And they, lest we should think them wrong,
Weave their strange stories into song
"So beautiful, so seeming true,
So confidently stated too,
That we, not knowing yes or no,
Can only hope they may be so."
"But, grandpapa, no tale should close
With if's or buts or may-be-sos,
So let us play we're poets, too,
And then we'll know that this is true."
NEW THINGS THAT ARE OLD.
In spite of the protests of inventors, and of those who believe they have investigated everything since the deluge, that there is nothing new under the sun, the Psalmist was right when he put that thought into the colloquial language. On the Assyrian slabs, and on more than one old European fresco, is seen the paddle-wheel for boats, although the propeller is not in evidence. The bicycle seems to have been known in China more than two hundred years ago, and the velocipede was seen in Europe even before that. On a pane of the ancient painted glass in the old church at Stoke Pogis, England, may be seen the representation of a young fellow astride of one of these machines. He is working his way along with the air of a rider who has introduced a novelty, and is the object of the unbounded admiration of a multitude of witnesses.