1895. 



THE AMERICAN BEE-KI-:i':PER. 



2!»3 



THE OLD TIME FRlENDS. 



"I like to meet the old time friends," thffl 



speaker said, "for, oh! 

 The best part of our lives is in the days of 



long ago! 

 And memory's sun upon the past in mellowed 



light descends. 

 I want to see the scenes of old and meet the 



old time friends! 



"Sweet memory wears them in her crown — 



her brightest diadem, 

 I stretch my arms and fain would share my 



heart— my all with them! 

 And on their love that trusting heart with 



tenderest love depends. 

 The dearest friends earth holds for me are 



still the old time friends!" 



Then one walked weeping from the crowd— 

 and no one sought to check. 



He grasped the speaker by the hand and fell 

 upon his neck. 



And said: "I'm Jones, the grocery man- 

 though changed and broken so. 



I wish you'd add a twenty to that bill of long 



Then the speaker changed the subject, and he 



seized a hickory stick 

 And shouted to the audience, "Here's a raving 



lunatic ! ' ' 

 And they trounced him, and they bounced 



.iim, and they hustled him, and, oh! 

 They sent him up for thirty days— that friend 



of long ago ! 



— Atlanta Constitution. 



A XIGHT RIDE. 



The bicycle is a queer instrument. 

 You think you know all about it; then 

 suddenly you find there are still things 

 to learn. The other evening I got on njy 

 bicycle and worked my way for five or 

 six miles through one of the prettiest 

 lanes in England to a country village 

 where a friend of mine lives. The lane 

 which leads to this village is one in 

 which I did a good deal of practicing 

 when I first took to the bicycle some 

 months ago. It is bordered by hedges 

 and trees on each side and looks like a 

 long green tunnel through which the 

 sun sends some flittering, flickering rays 

 down on the excellent roadway, making 

 a sort of dancing carpet of light and 

 shade, eternally weaving themselves to- 

 gether and mimicking in shadow and 

 sunshine the interlacing of the trees 

 above. 



But there is, alas, along the side of 

 this lane a ditch with which I have be- 

 fore now made acquaintance while 

 teaching myself how to ride. It is al- 



ways a pleasant experience for a bicy- 

 cler to revisit a spot where he has had 

 his conflicts with the machine. It gives 

 him a sense of having accomplished 

 something. I recognized all the places 

 where I had been thrown in the ditch 

 and where I had been thrust through the 

 hedge. It was nice to know that these 

 exciting days were past, and that I now 

 rode the machine as if I were a part of it. 



The lane is a lonely place at anytime 

 of the day. Broader roads and more di- 

 rect ones lead to the little village I have 

 spoken of, but whose name I need not 

 mention. My friend proved so entertain- 

 ing that I staid on and on. I was in- 

 vited to stop for dinner, and I did. I 

 was afterward censured for this, when 

 I ultimately did reach home. People in 

 the country, I was told, were not al- 

 ways prepared to receive unexpected 

 visitors to d:nuer. It was not the thing 

 to drop down with my bicycle upon a 

 helpless man in the country and then 

 hang abound the premises until I was 

 invited to dinner. I am always putting 

 my foot in it this way. It makes me feel 

 guilty afterward, but what is a man to 

 do? 



It was pitch dark when I left the 

 house, and when I came to the entrance 

 of the lane it was even darker than 

 pitch, if such a thing be possible. I lit 

 my bicycle lamp for the first time in 

 my life. The lamp had cost me a lot of 

 money and was said to be the best in 

 the market, but when it tried to com- 

 pete with the appalling darkness of the 

 lane I saw what a futile thing it was. 

 It shed a dim circle of light a long way 

 ahead that didn't seem to me to be of 

 much practical use. I pushed the ma- 

 chine along and sprang lightly on its 

 back. Now I thought I knew how to 

 ride perfectly, but I was to find out that 

 riding in the broad daylight and riding 

 in the darkness are two entirely differ- 

 ent things. The machine gave a wabble 

 first in one direction and then in the 

 other and my heart came into my mouth 

 when I fowid that unless I saw the 

 wheel I did not know how to balance 

 the concern. Sitting down a moment 

 afterward, fortunately not on the side 

 where the ditch was, I had some time 

 to meditate on tlie situation. The wheel 

 was on top of me, and the lamp was 

 out. This was i ild times over again, and 

 I had not even the chance in the dark- 



