The Bicycle Ride

[Whether bicycle riding on Sunday be sinful or not, depends entirely upon the spirit in which it is done and the associations of the ride.]

You have read of the ride of Paul Revere, And of Gilpin's ride, so fraught with fear; Skipper Ireson's ride in a cart, And the ride where Sheridan played a part; Calendar's ride on a brazen hack, And Islam's prophet on Al Borak; The fateful ride to Aix from Ghent, And a dozen others of like portent, But you never have heard of a bicycle spin Which was piously ended, though started in sin.

Tom was a country parson's son, Fresh from college and full of fun, Fond of flirting with bright-eyed girls, Raving, in verse, over golden curls, Sowing a wild oat, here and there, In a way that made the parson stare And chide him sternly, when face to face, While, in private, he laughed at the young scape-grace. But the wildest passion the boy could feel Was the love he bore for his shining wheel.

He rode it by night and he rode it by day, If he went two rods or ten miles away; And Deacon Smith was heard to remark That he met that "pesky thing in the dark And it went right by with a glint and a gleam And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream; In spite of the fact that he knew right well That evil spirits were all in—well— He wouldn't meet that thing again For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."

One Sunday morning, the sun was bright, The bird's throats bursting with glad delight, The parson-mounted his plump old bay And jogged to the church, two miles away, While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more And hid his wheel by the chancel door, And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew, "I wonder what makes dad look so blue," Till it came like a flash to his active mind, He left his sermon and specs behind.

Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn, Without his specs for a mint of gold, And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold, And right in the midst of his mental shock, The parson deceived his trusting flock, And gave them eternal life and a crown From the book he was holding upside down. Tom, the rascal, five minutes before, Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.

The horses he frightened I never can tell, Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well, And they said they feared that the parson's lad "Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad, For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days," And they thought the length of the parson's prayer Had something to do with his fatherly care. While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped, He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.

Of course you know how the story will end, The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd," When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew And laid down the specs and the sermon too. Then the parson preached in a timid way, Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day, And he added a postscript, not in the text. Saying that, when they were sore perplexed, Each must decide as he chanced to feel. And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."