Because there's such a lot of traffic.
At lightning-speed we see thee glide,
(With malice every narrow _shave_ meant),
And charge thine elders far and wide,
Or stretch them prone upon the pavement.

Round corners sharp thou lov'st to dart,
(Thou skating imp! Thou rolling joker!)
And hit in some projecting part
The lawyer staid, or solemn broker.
Does pity never mar thy glee,
When upright men with torture double?
Oh, let our one petition be
That thou may'st come to grievous trouble!

* * * * *

[Illustration: A FATAL OBJECTION.

"MOTHER, ARE THE WONDERGILTS VERY RICH?"

"YES, SILVIA, VERY."

"MOTHER, I HOPE WE SHALL NEVER BE RICH?"

"WHY, DARLING?"

"IT MUST BE SO VERY EXPENSIVE!"]

* * * * *