The Jay-walkers' Jamboree.

And, it is reasonable to imagine, there will be an annual jamboree of jay-walkers in aid of the Free Ambulance,

Making The Best Of It

“A kind of benzinian bull-ring where veterans will ware red lights at maddened motors.”

with a mooch-past in the main thoroughfare at five o'clock and a trophy, presented by the Magician's Society, for the best hair-breadth escape.

Also, tough old veterans will congregate at radiator-rodeos to recapture the old-time zest in life destroyed by the advent of pedestrian-preservation. In a kind of benzinian bull-ring they will wave red lights at maddened motors and leap with their old-time adroitness as trumpeting tourers, savage sedans, careering coupes, herds of wild motor cycles and untamed taxis charge down upon them. These old gasolene gladiators must have their little bit of fun. We can&t let the old spirit die. After all, these are the men who trod the trackless wilderness and made the roads fit for heroes. If they rear and roar like a bull-moose in a milk cart we must be patient. The time will come when we will regard them proudly as bulwarks of the bitumen and write books about them with titles like “Street Rovers of the Brave Old Days,” and “Traffic Tales for Boys.”

For the old order of cross-as-cross-can passeth. The jay-walker is being forced back before the relentless advance of the traffic cop. The diagonal-dodger is defunct, the hesitator is lost.

But the crowning glory of this war-to-end-whirr is achieved when a motorist stops—yes, sir Stops—to let you cross. It takes some getting used to. At first you imagine that he is a boyhood's friend who craves word of the old home town. In consequence, you drape yourself over his door for a spot of reminiscence before you realise that he represents The New Humanity—the return to The Age of Chivalry.

Ah, me! Life goes on—benzine.