Fulton Journal
May 22, 1885
Many of the young men about town have purchased, or contemplate purchasing, a bicycle. A bicycle is a harmless, seductive looking creature, very large and complacent in front and very small and timid at the rear. It is built a great deal like a thorough-bred bulldog, and possesses the same remarkable staying qualities. In a fair contest it would be a toss-up as to which would come out first-best, a bicycle or a bulldog. A bicycle is a careless, don't care sort of a creature and is not at all worried when everything is upside down. A young man will caress it, and pat it on the neck, and curry it off, and call it pet names, and then get on it--and, in a few minutes later will wonder how in the world the big stone college happened to fall on him, and how long it will take to dig him out. When he comes to, and sees a crowd of young ladies coming down the street, he will lead the bicycle with one hand and patch his pants with the other and go home. Then he will sit down in the woodshed and sadly gaze at the bicycle, and get a twist in his neck trying to see whether the hole in his trousers is larger than the handmade patch which he improvised. When he finds that the hole is bigger than the patch this world will seem to him a dull and dreary illusion full of torn pantaloons, bucking bicycles and derisive maidens.
