Military cycling in France has not so far received the same recognition that has been accorded to it in our own army. It is still in an experimental stage, beyond which we have advanced in England. There is, however, one point on which we may perhaps learn something from our neighbors in this matter. During the recent manœuvres several cyclists rode machines, which by a very simple arrangement could be folded up, one wheel upon the other, and slung on the soldier's back. He was thus able to carry his cycle across ground where he could not ride it, his load being much less than that of the ordinary French Infantry equipment. I have never seen the "Bicyclette pliante," or "folding cycle," anywhere else except in the French army. It is specially designed for military purposes, its inventor being Captain Gérard of the 87th of the line; and many of his fellow-officers share his opinion that it is the type of cycle best adapted for the special needs of the soldier.

Two years ago Captain Gérard, then a lieutenant in the 159th Regiment, stationed at Briançon, published a series of articles on military cycling, in the Revue du Cercle Militaire. These were republished last year as a pamphlet: "Le Problème de l'Infanterie montée resolu par l'Emploi de la Bicyclette" (Paris, Baudouin). After giving some account of the success of "Cyclist Infantry" in England, he dwelt on the necessity of having a force of some kind of Mounted Infantry with a modern army, to co-operate with, and in certain cases replace, the Cavalry in reconnoitring and outpost work; and he further argued that a mass of such Infantry could be used with great effect in raids round an enemy's flanks and against his communications, after the manner of the raids of Stuart and the Southern Cavalry during the War of Secession. But to provide any considerable body of Mounted Infantry with horses would be out of the question. It was difficult enough at present in France to find horses for the -Cavalry, Artillery, and train. The

men

obvious alternative was to mount the on cycles, but then a twofold difficulty had to be faced. The cyclist must in the main keep to roads and beaten tracks. He cannot cross country like a horseman on a good mount, nor can he traverse woods, rocks. and broken ground like the Infantry soldier. Again, when he fights he must leave his machine on some neighboring track in charge of a comrade while he advances and fires, and he runs a certain risk in case of a reverse of being cut off from the point where the cycles have been left. In any case the freedom of action of a company of Cyclist Infantry is limited by their having to keep in touch with the point where they first dismount; and at the same time they lose a certain portion of their effective fighting strength by having to leave a guard with the cycles.

He proposed, therefore, the adoption of a new type of machine, which would enable the soldier to keep his cycle always with him. If it was not carrying him, he would be carrying it, and this in a way that would leave both hands free for the use of his rifle. This new type was the “Bicyclette Pliante," or, as he called it at first, the "Bicyclette transportable." As is usually the case with inventors, his first design was subsequently very much modified. In his pamphlet he proposed a machine with geared pedals on a front wheel. rather smaller than that of the ordinary safety, the saddle being fixed over this wheel, and the rear wheel, of still smaller diameter, being attached to the forewheel by a hinged connectingbar. His articles in the Revue secured for him the practical co-operation of a very useful ally, in the person of M. Morel, a manufacturer of machines and tools at Domène, near Briançon. The Parisian cycle dealers to whom he had submitted his idea had treated it as impracticable. M. Morel, however, took it up warmly, and after some experiments he and Captain Gérard evolved the type of folding cycle which has stood the test of actual use.

Briefly it may be described as a rear

driven safety. The rider sits on a saddle supported on a fork directly over the centre of the rear wheel. There is thus very little weight or strain on the jointed backbone of the cycle. The joint is made by bevelling off the ends of the two parts of the tube, which are held together and turn on a steel pin. When they are in line with each other, an outer tube slides over them, and once it is secured with a catch, the tube is quite rigid. To fold the cycle, the cyclist unfastens the catch, slips back the outer tube, turns one wheel over the other, and bends the steering handle down so as to lock the whole together. Attached to the handle are a couple of leather slings. He passes his arms through these and the machine then hangs comfortably on his back. It weighs rather less than half that of the ordinary Infantry pack. It projects very little beyond the arms on each side, so that men carrying their cycles can march in a very close firing-line. It takes half a minute to unfold it and mount, and the same time to fold it up and sling it. The tyres are solid rubber, because the inventors are not satisfied as to the adaptability of the pneumatic tyre for rough work, but there is a specially constructed saddle for which they claim that it does away with most of the vibration. The length of the machine "over all" is a metre and a half, its weight twenty-six to twentyeight pounds. The height of the saddle is such that the rider can stop the machine for a moment, place both feet on the ground, and standing thus astride of the saddle, fire without actually dismounting. But Captain Gérard's idea is that the cyclists should dismount, sling their cycles and work as a line of tirailleurs, unfolding their cycles and remounting again as soon as they reach favorable ground after the "Cease fire." He asserts that riflemen thus equipped ought to be able to go anywhere, and proposes that the Chasseur Regiments should be all converted into Cyclist Infantry, and pushed forward with the Cavalry.

battalions well to the front as a support to the Cavalry screen. For this purpose the men's packs were conveyed in carts, but even thus lightened it cost them hard and rapid marching to reach the positions assigned to them. This is the very work for Cyclist Infantry, whether equipped with the folding cycle or the older and more familiar type of machine. In this connection Captain Gérard insists upon a point which it might be worth while to consider with reference to our own Cyclists and Mounted Infantry. He urges that the uniform worn by the Cyclists should in its general appearance be as like as possible to that of the Infantry of the Line. If the Chasseurs are turned into Cyclist Infantry, he would like to see them given the red trousers of the linesmen instead of the blue which they wear at present. It is important, he says, to be able to lead an enemy to believe that he has perhaps in front of him not a mere handful of Cyclists, but the advanced guard of a strong force of Infantry. In any case it will take him some time to find out which it is he has to deal with, and until he is quite sure of it he will act cautiously.

So far it may be said that Captain Gérard's invention has stood the test of actual use in manœuvres, and that it is not a mere paper project. Many officers of high rank in the French army (among them, if rumor speaks truly, General Saussier) are favorably impressed by his experiments and the theories he has based thereon. Doubtless the folding cycle, now that it has obtained recognition in one great Continental army, will be tried elsewhere, and as in the case of other inventions, engineering and manufacturing skill will further improve on the original type, and produce several varieties of it adapted to special tastes and needs.

From The Speaker.

IN AUTUMN WOODS. The leaves are falling from the pop

sionally in little showers. night has done its work, and what were erstwhile glowing green leaves are now fast spreading the sward with a sombrely yet sumptuously colored carpet. There is no wind, and the pearly haze hangs oppressively over the tree-tops thereby obscuring the true outline of the branches. It is this dead stillness and gloom that make the fall of the leaves so arresting; no flutter of wind drifts them through the air, no subtle rays of sunlight play upon their glossy surfaces to make ephemeral fairy glintings as they wave; not even the robin sings to them as they glide through the stirless space from branch to earth; their disappearance from the picture is marked by nothing but the solemn rustle as each leaf touches and settles upon the growing heap.

In the coppice, but a short distance from the poplar grove, there is a scene of surpassing beauty. The narrow, winding path is completely hidden by dead leaves, their colors mingling in charming confusion. Sycamores are heaped on sycamores, and broad horse-chestnuts over all, while ever and anon feathery ashleaves drift lazily down. The tints of this medley of leaves bewilder description: red and gold and orange are thrown together with dainty effects, while some of the horse-chestnuts still retain a few streaks of green. Even as we gaze on this wondrous scene of color, the mist disperses and the sunbeams pour down, further to enliven what was already gay. As far as eye can see through the maze of trunks, the earth is strewn with gorgeous hues, lit up anew by the streaming rays. As the light varies, the shadows shift, and now the orange, now the gold, is all aflame.

The woods are pervaded by a silence broken only by the challenge of the blue tits in the dense firs, and the croaking of the rooks afar among the acorns. Not a song is there to cheer the solitude, as the leaves drip-drip continuously. When the path takes us out of the wood, we leave the sheltered stillness behind, and feel the cool breath of the breeze that has sprung up with the lifting of the fog. In the foliage of the

wrens are singing in broken snatches. Even in summer their song, though high-pitched, is short; and now the little fellows stop suddenly in the midst of their hurried tune, for want, perhaps, of stimulation and encouragement. Their tiny forms are hardly distinguishable high up in the dark shadows; only a little flutter now and again tells where they may be found. Farther along, a couple of wood-pigeons crash hastily out of the oaks and make for the adjoining plantation, where the cries of jays tell that acorns are to be had.

So late in autumn we hardly look for the beauty flowers. One short hedgemound, however, displays quite a number of dainty blossoms. Thick as daisies on a lawn, the tiny field speedwells stud the exposed side of the slope; their leaves are still a tender green, and the blue of the flowers equals that of the veronica of May, while this we treasure for its lateness. In the brambles above there are still a few pale petals, but sadly torn and discolored by wind and frost. Another late blossom is the golden cinquefoil, with its. pretty five-branched leaves trailing hither and thither. Though long dead, the tall docks yet defy the season, and raise aloft a slender spike of deep red, singularly like the sorrel-tips that toned the buttercup-fields of midsummer. Like the docks, the teasels are grey and dry and brittle, but look strong as ever, growing from the shallow ditch, and rearing their tall stalks and prickly plumes almost to the hedge-top. But perhaps the rarest of all these flowers of the fall is one little spray of hawthorn bloom. Though so inseparably connected with spring, it is here in the drooping of the year, with its snowy petals and delicious fragrance. This single group of florets recalls the May day, just after the swifts came, when first the succulent green of the hawthorn was dappled with flakes of blossom, and the call of the cuckoo was heard in the land. How changed the scene since then!

Five teams are engaged in ploughing up a broad, sloping meadow, where the blood-red clover grew, and about the

steaming horses the rooks are wheeling and settling here and there. Over the same field flocks of larks and finches are flitting, seldom staying long in the damp furrows among the brown clods that hide them so completely. A moment ago two larks were straining in song high above their fellows and the quarrelsome rooks; and, what is rare in autumn, their notes were uttered with the old persistence and charm. Along the blackthorn hedge blackbirds start out now and again with their peculiar nervous chuckle, so irritating to the sportsman, but a note of warning to other birds. They hesitate to leave the cover of the hedge, for it is a long flight to the gorse opposite, and eventually determine to rely on the shelter of the dead grasses that thickly envelope the blackthorn stems. Before we have long passed them, their hilarity, so long subdued, bursts out in a defiant shriek as they follow one another up into the pollard oaks.

In the dense green coverts of the summer hedgerows nests were difficult to find, but now they show at every turn. The cunning basket-work of the lesser whitethroat, so frail as to seem incapable of holding the smallest egg, is filled with rotting black leaves and haws that have dropped thus early. Screened by the trailing dog-rose branches are heads of yarrow flower and a few worn dandelions, mingling with the purple that stains the wood

bine drooping almost to earth, and the crimson of the blackberry foliage. With the failing light that precedes sundown, a blackbird and a thrush join their notes and delight for a while the ear, now all unused to such harmonies of woodland song.

Beneath the rosy-clouded sky come black battalions of rooks, with their attendant daws almost equally numerous. Night after night, with striking regularity, vast numbers of these broad-pinioned birds pursue their way to the elms and beeches that form their rendezvous. When their hereditary roost-trees are reached, they mount aloft, and, with an eccentric turn, swoop towards the beech-tops, apparently to plunge amongst them; but, turning abruptly, they rise again, to repeat their diving movements. In these manoeuvres, oft repeated, jackdaws accompany the rooks, performing strange aërial feats. Sometimes they race and plunge like nesting pewits. For an hour at a stretch rooks and daws execute these strange evolutions, and the former lose for the time all their usual unwieldiness. As the daylight continues to fade the birds still keep high in air, while some few descend to the sward, which they dot in the distance with doubtful specks of black. When at last the faint gleam of sunset disappears from the woods, the clangorous rooks in the swaying trees are beating assembly for the night.

The Feast of Tabernacles.-If ever a feast seemed doomed to a short life, Tab ernacles appeared so doomed. It was in essence an agricultural feast, a celebration designed for tillers of the soil, for those who literally reaped the harvest, not for those who metaphorically did so. Now, the Jews have dwelt in towns instead of tents for more than twenty centuries, their virtues and their vices are the virtues and the vices of town life; their characteristics in modern and mediæval periods were modified and conditioned by long successive generations of divorce from the direct service of nature. Yet the Jews have not long

passed out of the pretty habit of bearing myrtle and palm branches in their hands, and even of dwelling for a week in the temporary structure, or Succah. The old superstition which connected the Tabernacle with the good things of the Messianic age, which imagined huge feasts on massive leviathans in enormous booths, had at least this element of truth in it-that the Feast of Tabernacles, more, perhaps, than any other festival, typifies the Providential love of God, without which no future regeneration is possible, without which all hopes of millennium are futile and impossible.

Jewish Chronicle.