Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car,
Just to tell us where you are,
While about the streets you fly
Like a comet in the sky.
When the blazing sun is "off,"
When the fog breeds wheeze and cough,
Round the corners as you scour
With your dozen miles an hour--
Then the traveller in the dark,
Growling some profane remark,
Would not know which way to go
While you're rushing to and fro.
On our fears, then, as you gloat
(Ours who neither "bike" nor "mote"),
Just to tell us where you are--
Tinkle, twinkle, motor-car.
* * * * *
"Motor Body."--"One man can change from a tonneau to a landaulette,
shooting brake, or racing car in two minutes, and, when fixed, cannot be
told from ANY fixed body."--_Advt. in the_ "_Autocar._"
The disguise would certainly deceive one's nearest relations, but as
likely as not one's dog would come up and give the whole show away by
licking the sparking plug.
* * * * *
Illustration: _Chauffeur._ "Pardon, monsieur. This way, conducts she
straight to Hele?"
_Major Chili Pepper_ (_a rabid anti-motorist and slightly deaf_).
"Certainly it will, sir if you continue to drive on the wrong side of
the road!"
* * * * *