MAY 7, 1892

’Arry on wheels.

[Illustration:  Our ’Arry Laureate.]

  Dear Charlie,—­Spring’s on us at last, and a proper old April
          we’ve ’ad,
  Though the cold snap as copped us at Easter made ’oliday makers
          feel mad. 
  Rum cove that old Clerk o’ the Weather; seems somehow to take a
          delight
  In mucking Bank ’Oliday biz; seems as though it was out of sheer
          spite.

  When we’re fast with our nose to the grindstone, in orfice or
          fact’ry, or shop,
  The sun bustiges forth a rare bat, till a feller feels fair on the
          ’op;
  But when Easter or Whitsuntide’s ’andy, and outings all round is
          in train,
  It is forty to one on a blizzard, or regular buster of rain.

  It’s a orkud old universe, Charlie, most things go as crooked as Z.
  Feelosophers may think it out, ’Arry ain’t got the ’eart, or the
          ’ead;
  But I ’old the perverse, and permiskus is Nature’s fust laws, and
          no kid. 
  If it isn’t a quid and bad ’ealth, it is always good ’ealth and
          no quid!

  ’Owsomever it’s no use a fretting.  I got one good outing—­on wheels;
  For I’ve took to the bicycle, yus,—­and can show a good many my
          ’eels. 
  You should see me lam into it, Charlie, along a smooth bit of
          straight road,
  And if anyone gets better barney and spree out of wheeling, I’m
          blowed.

  Larks fust and larks larst is my motter.  Old RICHARDSON’s rumbo
          is rot. 
  Preachy-preachy on ’ealth and fresh hair may be nuts to a sanit’ry
          pot;
  But it isn’t mere hexercise, Charlie, nor yet pooty scenery, and
          that,
  As’ll put ’ARRY’s legs on the pelt.  No, yours truly is not sech a
          flat.

  Picktereskness be jolly well jiggered, and as for good ’ealth,
          I’ve no doubt
  That the treadmill is jolly salubrious, wich that is mere turning
          about,
  Upon planks ‘stead o’ pedals, my pippin.  No, wheeling as
          wheeling’s ’ard work,
  And that, without larks, is a speeches of game as I always did
          shirk.

  I ain’t one o’ them skinny shanked saps, with a chest ’ollered
          out, and a ’ump,
  Wot do records on roads for the ’onour, and faint or go slap off
          their chump. 
  You don’t ketch me straining my ’eart till it cracks for a big
          silver mug. 
  No; ’Arry takes heverythink heasy, and likes to feel cosy and snug.