But then he looked more willing, as I threw to him a shilling To drink my health in whisky, as oft I’d done before. And then I took my spanner, and all the bolts did hammer, And tightened up the nuts, an operation I abhor, Then I jumped into my saddle, shouting to him “_au revoir_.” Only this, and nothing more. And as I felt aweary, the road to me seemed dreary Drearier than ever it had seemed to me before, But I was weary’s master, and round the wheel went faster, And like a wingèd demon, along the road I tore, In an hour and three-quarters I had done of miles a score. This I’d done, and nothing more. And every minute faster, dreaming of no disaster, Along the road, ’mid dust and stones, my bike her master bore. While I my way was winging, I betook myself to singing, When all my nerves were palsied by a distant sullen roar; And that roaring stopped my singing, and thinks I it is a boar. This I thought, and something more. Just then a corner turning, my blood went through me burning, For there in front, with fiery eyes, a bull straight for me tore. A moment he stood eyeing, then bike and me sent flying, The perspiration trickled down my skin from every pore, And I rather think that in my flight I must have somehow swore. Merely swore, and nothing more. After such a fearful riot, I laid there on the quiet, For he treated me so lively, and I wished the joke was o’er. He had pitched me in a gutter, and my nerves were in a flutter, And into a thousand pieces my new uniform he tore, And says I he must be waiting for a taste of human gore. This I said, and nothing more. While in the gutter lying, I saw that bull go flying Along the road, at such a speed he’d never gone before. So I let him go and curs’d him, and prayed the fates might burst him, For my bicycle he’d humbugged, and he’d made me “awful” sore, And I felt he’d quite undone me, but he’d never do so more. And I muttered nevermore. I collected up the ruins of that nasty mad bull’s doin’s, And straightway did I take them unto my cottage-door. And my wife, when she espied me, said I wasn’t looking tidy. And I told the awful story to the wife whom I adore, And she said, “My dear, stop riding; do give up for evermore.” And I have, for evermore. A. J. FREELAND. Wheeling Annual, 1885. ―――――――― A CAT-AS-TROPHY.