Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 July 1887 — My Experience With a Bicycle. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

My Experience With a Bicycle.

F there was anv one of my various accom plishments tbat, in my younger days, I was proud of, it was my horseback riding; and, when the wild, swiftly gliding bicycle, with its fiery, untamed smile and curved spinal column, came prancing into civilization, 1 resolved at once to purchase it and ride proudly down Main street. Alas! for the sanguinity of mankind, and other Americans! I write this letter with my arm in a

sling and apiece of bicycle in my back. I am not as proud as I was yesterday; neither am las pretty. There is a sort of unnatural feeling about my frame, ns though my spinal column had broken ranks, and each vertebra had crowded out between different ribs. There is also a broad expanse of raw scalp in the neighborhood of the occipital bone, and the parietals have acquired several new styles of sutures; aud my nose temporarily reclines in the shade of my ear. A man may be a good judge of horseflesh, and yet know but very little concerning the disposition and everyday habits of the bicycle. He may even understand the construction and action of the mule, and yet he .will find more gentle surprises to the square inch in a fullgrown and active bicycle than he ever heard of in his natural life. That has been my experience. Two weeks ago I purchased an iron-gray bicycle, about seventeen hands high, and had it led around to my stable. It was a stylish, highbred thing, with a proud mien and close-cropped tail. For a while I allowed it to browse about on the lawn last night; then I commenced making overtures toward it. For a time it repelled my advances and appeared shy and girlish, but gradually becoming accustomed to my style of management, it leaned familiarly against me, and allowed me to pick up its hind wheel, and look at its teoth, and, finally, as a last token of confidence and esteem, it laid its head on my shoulder, and in a sweet, confiding way, snickered in my ear. Then, with the grace and abandon of a wild broncho trainer, I led it out on the avenue and prepared to mount the subdued racer. My wife was standing in the doorway, with a sort of doubtful smile upon her face, and, telling her that I would not be gone long, as I only intended to ride a mile or two that I might get in trim to win the prize to-day, I started on a trot alongside the bicycle. I did this to make the creature feel more acquainted, and to show it that I intended to be gentle with-it and not jab my heels Into its. ribs, and belt it over the head, and yell like a Comanche after scalps. After trotting along in this manner for a rod or two, I put my foot in the stirrup and swung into the saddle. This sudden movement probably surprised it, for it looked reproachfully at me as though I had trifled with its confidence. It evidently thought we were out for a little play spell, and were billed to trot around the square together, as a team. For a moment it continued its course, and I proudly gathered up the reins; then a dreamy, troubled look came into its eyes, ” and, concluding that I had been hornswoggled into buying a bicycle that was subject to fits, I dismounted. My usual style of dismounting is to strike the ground feet first, this time I varied the programme and introduced several new and strictly original features. It is a terrible thing to witness a full-grown bicycle in the agonizing throes of a seventeen-by-twenty-nine fit. There is something novel and awe-inspiring about it to the man who is blindly endeavoring to grope his way out from under a frisky bicycle. When you are aboard the bicycle there are only two wheels, but when the thing playfully sits straddle of your neck, there seem to be fourteen wheels and eleven dozen handles with nickel-plated points. I changed my mind about entering my name in the racing lists to-day, and have concluded that it is

better to go by degrees. And as the hours go fleeting by, I sit in my easy chair, with my Bpring overcoat wrapped about my nigh foot, while a blue-bottle fills himself with gore from the place where the back of my head used to be, and tells me,between bits, that I am not as smart as I thought I

was.

BOB FORD.

Even the Second-hand Were Too Dear. “I reckon we’ll have to give up the idee of puttin pictures in our parlor, Miranda,” remarked Jeremiah Turnipseed, as he threw the bridle under the table, “Why?” asked Miranda. “Too dear. Why, I priced one at the city, to-day, and the dealer sez, sez he: ‘That’s an old master; its price is $5,000.’ ‘Why,’ sez I, ‘looks like a second-hand pictur’.’ ‘Yes, it is,’ sez he. Then, thinks I, if a second-hand pictur costs that much, it’s no use to price a new un. So, Miranda, I reckon we’ll have to hang up a few mottoes, ‘God Bless Our Home,’ and the like, and let the pictures go.” —Pittsburg Commercial. Ottawa, Ont., wants commercial union with the United States.