THE ANGLING, CY CLEISds 
[We solicit for publication, under this department heading, contributions of interest to Angling 
Cyclists, particularly outings on the wheel to fishing waters]. 
Women Who Ride. 
The literature of a recreation always keeps 
pace with the growth of the pastime. . Able 
pens do their work, and there is always a 
writer or two who get to the top, but of all 
outdoor sports wheeling would seem to be the 
last to develop a special literary talent, de- 
scriptive or didactic, which brings commen- 
dation even from the critical in literary mat- 
ters. Mildred Marshall, in this connection, 
comes to the fore as one of the best of writers 
on wheel subjects, and her last production, 
aligned with some really good verse, is on the 
different styles and kinds of women who ride. 
Here is what she says: 
There is the girl who sits unsteadily on her 
saddle and wobbles from her waist up like a 
badly made blane-mange. 
There is the girl who leans far forward in 
imitation of the ‘‘scorcher,” and fondly imag- 
ines she looks professional and is gaining 
speed steadily in that positlon. 
There is the girl who leans far back, her 
body at an angleof 45°, and ‘‘drives” her 
wheel as a modern Jehu does his horse. 
There is the girl who will ride on a low-hung 
saddle, and whose knees punch the air as she 
rides. 
There is the girl who rides, wearing a 
worried look, seeing neither to the right nor 
the left; she bows not to her mother nor to her 
father, nor yet to the stranger within her 
gates; she sees them all at a hurried glance 
from her eye, but bicycling is not the time or 
place for exchange of social civilities, thinks 
she. 
There is the big, fat woman, looking as if 
she had been spilt on her wheel and had ‘‘ run 
over”’ the sides of it; she rides to reduce her 
flesh; there is the scrawny and scraggy girl, 
built on the architectural plan of a hat-rack, 
riding to gain a little needed avoirdupois. 
There is the girl who grasps the handle-bars 
with a clutch of death, and wouldn’t let them 
go for the gold of Indies or of Or. There is 
the girl who rides jauntily erect and steadily 
on a high saddle, guiding her wheel with one 
hand, the other hand in the hip-pocket of her 
little bloomer-loons; she nods gaily to friends 
a-wheel and condescendingly to friends afoot, 
and she is the very girl who runs head-fore- 
most into the first vehicle that passes her. 
There is the girl who rides, inwardly loath- 
ing it, because she thinks it’s swagger to 
wheel; there’s another who rides to prove that 
there is nothing in this fiz de szécle age she 
can’t do; there’s the New Woman who rides 
to show she is emancipated; there’s the girl 
who rides because her sweetheart wants her 
to; there’s the rich girl who rides because she 
has found a new toy to spend her money on; 
there’s the poor girl who rides because she 
wants to do as the rich girls do. 
But commend us to the girl who rides for 
health and exercise, and fresh air, who loves 
the sport for its own sake, who is glad of a 
wholesome recreation to be added to the dowry 
of women. 
A Fishing Trip on the Wheel. 
‘«Up the Schuylkill,” writes an ardent lover 
of angling and the wheel, ‘‘I went last month 
on my new cycle. My objective point was 
Yankee Dam at Limerick, thirty miles above 
Philadelphia, but I intended tostop at the dam 
near Manayunk, where you and I, in the days 
gone by, have scored some mighty bass; and 
again to stop at Royer’s Ford, where we waded 
and fly fished a lovely two miles stretch of 
water more than ten years agone. 
‘‘Out Ridge avenue I pedalled over a good 
road until I reached the smoke-burthened 
town of Manayunk, where, diverging to the left, 
I found our old haunts, rocky and stream 
beautitied as they were in the oldtimes. There 
was that big boulder where you and I fished 
together in 1878, one on each side of it, and 
you, with your old jagged, worn-out leader fly, 
which left a stern-wheel steamer wake behind 
it, caught five grand black bass before I had a 
rise, although our flies lit on the cast within — 
three feet of each other. There was the 
mighty rock that subdivided the falls and left 
two great still pools, edged with mist on their 
upper ends, with white eddies curling around 
the brown sides of the big rock, and fringing it 
with lace-like folds of silver, and below the 
water, as if tired out by its great fight with 
the stone adamant, subsides in a quiet reach 
with a mass of small boulders on either side, 
and smaller ones at the end, through the in- 
terstices of which the Schuylkill sang its 
merry song before it reached the contaminat- 
ing refuse of the mills that throng its banks. 
In the pools I found bass, and stood within an 
inch (I think) of the spot where in your ‘ Two 
