Larks, CHARLIE! It's spruce, and no pickles! You know I fly cool without fidge, But I wosn't prepared for the toppers as treddle it nigh Chelsea Bridge. No slow Surrey-siders, my pippin, but smart bits o' frock from Mayfair; It took _me_ aback for a jiff, tho' of course I wos speedy all there. "Lor, 'AWWEE!" lisped LIL, "thith _ith_ thplendid! But 'adn't _we_ better sthand by? Thee 'ow thpiffing they thpinth, thoth sthwell lydith! No,'AWWEE, I don't _like_ ter twy. Fanthy me in my cotton pwint wobbling among thuch A-wonnerth ath thoth! Look at 'er in the kniekerth and gaiterth, and thpot t'otherth Balbriggan hoth!" Poor LIL! She's no clarss, not comparative. Ain't got no savvy, yer see; And carn't 'old 'er own among quolity, not with a flyer like me. Don't like to be done, _I_ don't CHARLIE; and so I sez "Jest as yer like. Ony, if _I_ meant biking, in Battersea, dash it old girl, _I_ should _bike_!" "Oh, 'AWWEE," sez she, "you're a 'ot 'un! But let uth look on, dear, _thith_ go; Yer thee I carn't balanth, or pedal. I don't want ter myke _you_ no show." "All right," I sez, 'orty an' airy. But _ontry noo_, CHARLIE, old pal, When I stocked up them beauties on bikes, I wos most arf ashymed o' _my_ gal. One young piece in grey knicks and cream cloth, and a sort of soft tile called a _toke_, Took my fancy perdigious, dear boy. I'd ha' blued arf-a-bull to 'ave spoke, But a stiff-bristled swell in a dog-cart 'ad got a sharp eye upon _'er_; And _I_ couldn't ha' done the perlite without raising a bit of a stir. If I could ha' got rid o' LIL, I'd ha' mounted my wheel, and wired in, Balloon-tyred smart safety, old man! _I_'d ha' showed Miss GREY KNICKS 'ow to spin. One tasty young thing wos in tears, 'cos the bike she'd bespoke wosn't there, I hoffered 'er mine, but the arnser I got wos a freeze-me-stiff stare. "Thtuck-up cat, my dear 'AWWEE!" sez LIL. "Well," sez I, "she _may_ be a Princess, As a lot o' them hexercise here. Lydy B. and a young Marcherness Do paternise Battersea Park on a bike; leastways so I've bin told; And the breakfusts and five-o'clock teas give by dooks is a sight to behold." "Garn, 'AWWEE," snigs LIL, "you're a kiddin'. But, thithorth! it ith a rum thing. To thee Batterthea Park, ath wath onth all kid-cwicket and kith-in-the ring, Now the pet-pitch of thwell lydy thyclists!" "It shows yer," I sez, "'ow things move. From hansoms and bus-tops to bikes! Oh, the lydies _must_ keep on the shove. "They borrow their barnies from _hus_, arter all, LIL. Toffs want a new lark, So they straddle the bike _ah lah_ Brixton, and tumble to Battersea Park. 'Divideds' and 'Knickers,' my dysy, are sniffed at out Hislington way, But when countesses mount 'em at Chelsea, they're trotty and puffeck O K!"