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Title: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2. No. 17, February, 1921 - America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy
Author: Various
Language: English
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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 17, February, 1921
_Moe Thompson’s Masterpiece_
I went to see my girl one night;
For her love I was seeking,
I missed her mouth and kissed her nose;
The gosh darn thing was leaking.
—_Whiz Bang Bill._
_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_
[Illustration]
OUR MOTTO:
“_Make It Snappy_”
February, 1921 Vol. II. No. 17
Published Monthly by
W. H. Fawcett,
Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota
Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post office at
Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.
_Price 25 cents_ _$2.50 per year_
“_We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is
loyalty to the American People._”—_Theodore Roosevelt._
Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett
[Illustration]
_Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated
to the fighting forces of the United States._
_Drippings from the Fawcett_
By CAPTAIN BILLY
Along about the first of September last year, my cellar supply gave out
and on the second day I had a look of languor like a homesick bum. Then
it was that I met my old “Turk” friend, Casey, who immediately shanghaied
me while he was cockeyed on a mixture of fusel oil, barbed wire,
turpentine, tuba, rotgut, red-eye, wood alcohol, ether and dynamite. In
fact, his mixture would make the Dove of Peace challenge the American
Eagle to mortal combat.
Casey is a vagrant minstrel of human interest and I was only too glad to
accept of an invitation to join him at his country home in Golden Valley.
But here it is necessary to explain that Golden Valley is different than
most communities in these good old dry United States. In Golden Valley it
doesn’t appear to be necessary to distill the corn. Nearly every shock
contains its gallon jug hidden away in the darkened recesses. The farmers
merely leave the empty receptacle and come back later to find it has been
mysteriously filled.
Well, friends and fellow-countrymen, Casey and I surely worked hard
that night in the corn fields and about the last thing I can remember
was Casey mumbling a story about a colored family in St. Paul named
Henderson—man, wife and two grown daughters, who had been suspected of
bootlegging for some time.
“There is also a coon in St. Paul named Johnson,” Casey explained, “who
got very drunk and was placed under arrest.”
To the police judge’s inquiry as to how and where he obtained the liquor,
the negro replied:
“I found it in a corn-field, your honor.”
“Did you ever get anything from Henderson?” asked the magistrate.
“No, sah. Nevah got nothin’ from him.”
“From Mrs. Henderson?”
“No, sah, not from Mrs. Henderson.”
“Nor from Miss Henderson?”
“Jes’ a minute, jedge—is you’ all still talkin’ ’bout booze?”
* * * * *
New Year’s morning, bright and early, Gus, the hired man, wanted to start
off right, so he whispered to my 8-year-old son to go and find something
with whiskey in it. The lad, in boyish innocence, replied: “Just a
minute, Gus, an’ I’ll go and wake up father.”
* * * * *
I remember the only time I ever was in New York. I was still a
commissioned officer in the army and had registered at a Broadway hotel
as “Captain Gunn.” I immediately got loaded; dreamed I was discharged and
awakened to find myself shot to the devil. My brother Harvey, who was a
buck private in the tank corps at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, met me at
the Marlborough hotel while he was A. W. O. Ling in New York. Evidently
on account of the lack of tanks in the tank corps, Harvey decided to
bring one back to Gettysburg. And, believe me, boys, it was a mogul tank
he had when last I saw him. Of course, he’ll say the same about me—in
fact, he accused me of being so rash as to pat a colonel on the back in
the Pennsylvania depot with the salutation of “Hello, old trapper, this
is a heluva war.” But I really don’t believe I did anything of the kind.
At least I can’t remember having done so.
On the return to Camp Lee, I carried along a goodly supply of medicine.
Somehow or other, I managed to land in an upper berth and when I awoke in
Richmond next morning, my faithful satchel and contents were safely in
bed beside me. I cannot recall having ever awakened with a more pleasant
companion than that old grip. I carefully peeked through the curtains to
see if the coast was clear before partaking of a morning’s nip.
I shall always have a good word for New York. After all, our likes or
dislikes for a city depend entirely on how we enjoy ourselves and the
friends we are fortunate enough to meet. I was treated with a reckless
abandon and true western spirit of congeniality. At first, their language
was difficult to fathom, but later I became used to the lack of the
letter “R.” If it ever happens that Ford cars go up in price so I can
sell my 1915 model, I’ll surely sneak away from friend wife for a week or
two of bright lights and green witches.
_The Vampire’s Fool_
Hello, Tom! Glad to see you. What was that crowd I saw as I came aboard
ship? Looked to me like an accident. Suicide! Young Parmerly killed
himself, and for a woman!
_“A Fool there was, and he made his prayer,_
_Even as you and I,_
_To a rag, and a bone, and a hank of hair;_
_We called her the Woman who did not care,_
_But the Fool, he called her his Lady Fair—_
_Even as you and I.”_
Good God. Here I am back in New York, alone, alone; wife and child and
friends, all gone; disgraced, dishonored, and for that woman!
_“A Fool there was, and his goods he spent,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Honor, Faith, and a sure Intent;_
_But it wasn’t the least what the Lady meant,_
_And a Fool must follow his natural bent—_
_Even as you and I.”_
Age comes, the body withers, the brain grows dull, the blood becomes
thin, the soul grows weary; and the power to live, as once we lived, is
taken from us. We sit, white-haired, blue veined, drinking in the sun,
through shriveled pores, to drive the chill from our shrunken frame. It
will come to you, to me, to all of us, and neither man nor God may stop
it.
You, Tom, you here? Before you begin, let me tell you that it is useless;
nothing that you can say to me will change me in the slightest; I’ve made
up my mind and my decision is unalterable. Gone, gone! Tell me what you
think, Tom; tell me what every one thinks; put into words the scorn and
contempt I see in every eye that looks into mine and every mirror that I
look into. Gone, gone! Tell me something of your own; tell me the things
that lie here and burn in my brain, and burn and burn, tell me something!
Alas, not that; I know that by heart! Don’t, Tom, don’t try to save me!
What is there left to save—nothing but memories, nightmares!
I drink to you, gentlemen; I drink to you, Parmerly; I drink to you,
Rogers, and to you, Van Dalm; I drink to you, even as you drink to me!
Bumpers, gentlemen, bumpers! Bumpers? Good God, what has come over me?
I thought from the beginning it was too late—the loss of honor, and
dignity, and manhood, and self-respect were all new to me, Tom, and I
couldn’t understand. I cursed myself and swore to God that I would not
become the thing I am. Look at me, The Honorable John Schuyler!
I prayed to God, Tom, but he didn’t help me. He didn’t, he didn’t; and
I couldn’t help myself. I tried, oh, I tried and tried, but it was no
use; there was something, I don’t know what it was! It was her eyes, Tom,
it was her eyes, and I couldn’t help myself. I tried to kill myself as
Parmerly did, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t, and the only forgetfulness lay
in drink.
Drink that sapped my strength and raised my veins, and shriveled up my
brain. Don’t hate me, Tom!
Pity me, for the love of God, pity me, pity me!
_“The Fool was stripped to his foolish hide,_
_Even as you and I,_
_Which she might have seen, as she threw him aside;_
_But it wasn’t on record the Lady tried,_
_So some of him lived—but the most of him died—_
_Even as you and I.”_
* * * * *
The Wrong Button
In a crowded omnibus a stout woman vainly endeavored to get her fare out
of the pocket of her cloak, which was tightly buttoned as a precaution
against pickpockets.
After she had been working in vain for some minutes, a gentleman seated
on her right said: “Please allow me to pay your fare.”
The lady declined and recommenced her attacks on the pocket.
After these had continued for some little time her fellow-passenger
said: “You really must let me pay your fare. You have already undone my
suspenders three times and I cannot stand it any longer.”
* * * * *
A woman is never so disappointed as when she asks a man to behave, and he
behaves.
* * * * *
“Oh, Dear, You Hurt”
Imagine the scene: A big, comfortable chair, a beautiful girl snuggled
down in it, her head leaned back so that she is looking up into the face
of the man who is bending so attentively over her.
Now he reaches his arm around her. Her head is pressed against his heart.
Speech at this time would be impossible.
Listen. We hear her struggled whisper: “Oh, dear, you hurt.” In a low,
earnest voice he says: “Well, I simply cannot help hurting you a little
bit. You don’t mind that, do you?”
Again we hear only silence. They seem perfectly contented.
It is not long, however, that they remain in this position. He does not
seem content with what he sees in her face.
Her eyes are a violet gray. He bends farther over so that he can see
into—well—see into her mouth.
Because, of course, it is the dentist repairing her teeth.
* * * * *
Perhaps He Was Lucky
The worried countenance of the bridegroom disturbed the best man.
Tiptoeing up the aisle, he whispered:
“What’s the matter, Jock? Hae ye lost the ring?”
“No,” blurted out the unhappy Jock, “the ring’s safe eno’. But, mon, I’ve
lost ma enthusiasm.”
* * * * *
It’s a sure sign of being in love if you shave twice.
_Movie-Land Gossip_
_Editor’s Note: In the March issue, The Whiz Bang will publish
a story for girls with movie ambitions. The scene of the story,
which is true to life, is woven about the home of a well-known
Hollywood character, Prince Troubetskoy. The Prince ranks as
one of the greatest sculptors in the world and his California
home saw many a high jinx. Do not miss this story, which tells
of the system used by designing men in leading astray the
unwary._
Doug Fairbanks must darn his own socks at night for all anyone ever sees
of him. He used to strut about town with Bull Montana, Kid McCoy, Spike
Robinson and a bunch of other retainers proudly walking in his wake. But
Mary must be charming Doug in wondrous fashion. He did show up with Mary
at the Mission theatre opening and the two marched between packed borders
of humanity at the curb.
Mary looked contented and as proud as a queen. Fairbanks formerly
appeared rather sloppy, but, in severe evening dress, he impressed his
auditors very well indeed. Evidently the two to date have made a hit with
one another.
At this writing, Nevada had poked its official nose into the
Fairbanks-Pickford marriage again. It seems the solons are about to
decide something momentous, which no one gives a hang about. As Kitty
Shepherd said down at Hamburgers: “They’re married, ain’t they?”
Mary Thurman is said to have moved from the Beverly Hills hotel. Mary
seemed to be in the money for awhile. It costs to live at Beverly. A
pretty thing, Mary, but life is just one thing after another.
Let us give vent, brethren, to a long sigh of relief that Mildred Harris
Chaplin has ceased yapping for the moment at least. Or is it just some
temporary lull that goes before another wind or brainstorm?
Now that Charles is said to have kicked thru with one (or was it
$200,000?) Mildred appears to have fired her parting shot and retreated
to a mystic place from which she is scheduled some day to emerge with a
knock ’em dead voice.
Far be it from us to dispute with a talkative lady or enter into argument
regarding the merits or demerits of her case. But the public in Los
Angeles grew almost afraid to glance at a morning paper for fear that the
fair Mildred has broken loose again with a new brand of dope regarding
the elusive Charles.
Along about the time that stomach settlers were being called into use as
a result of the slush credited to the comedian’s storm and strife, people
began to reflect that, though many crimes had been charged against his
curly head, Chaplin himself remained cloistered in a cloud of silence so
far as mention of the fair Mildred was concerned.
Millie did all the talking, or at any event the sob brothers and sisters
placed her in that light. One minute she was calling Charles a tight-wad
and the next stating that she loved him. Just how a woman can love a man
and simultaneously inform the wide, wide world that he is a cheap skate
passeth understanding.
Several million or so perfectly good white columns of newspaper space
were spoiled with the most wanton brand of domestic prattle ever dished
out in a city already weary with the frothy doings of its ultra frothy
society.
Then Chaplin’s attorneys announced that if Mildred shut up and quit using
the Chaplin name that she could take a couple of hundred thousand shekels
and call it quits.
The worst thing Chaplin ever was heard to say about his wife hasn’t been
printed, probably for the reason that the bepestered young man didn’t
say it. Chaplin may be a cheap skate, a nickel counter, and own but two
automobiles, but his closest friend and most persistent interviewer never
drew from him a word against the unfortunate partner of his domestic woes.
Chaplin has admitted that he had no business getting married in the
first place. He declared frankly that he wasn’t made that way. He said
that marriage interfered with his work and many believe that his sudden
dropping from the pictures was done with the deliberate intention of not
returning to it until his bread had been buttered on the other side.
It was more a surprise to Chaplin’s friends that he married in the first
place than a shock at reports of trouble that sounded their fanfare thru
the newspapers. Everyone thought he’d marry Edna Purviance, if he married
at all; though Miss Purviance’s feelings in the matter may not have been
given due consideration or interrogation by the gossip mongers.
* * * * *
Mary had a Thomas cat,
It warbled like Caruso;
A neighbor swung a baseball bat—
Now Thomas doesn’t do so.
* * * * *
The Mystery of Mankind
On Christmas we noticed a lot of you angling around with your
tongue hanging out,
And tearfully beseeching everybody to point your ears toward a
place where they sell licker
Made out of barbed wire and red ink, with a touch of rat poison
thrown in to take the curse off,
And you were willing to divorce yourselves from a complete set
of a dozen dollars
For the privilege of assaulting your stomach with a bottle of
it.
And when you couldn’t get it you were as peeved as a hen that
tries to get results from a doorknob.
And you are the same lads who were whooping it up for pop and
ice water at election time.
And who said that Demon Rum had killed more people than the
doctors.
If you are a dry, why do you run yourselves bowlegged hunting
for unhealthy licker,
And if you believe another lil’ drink won’t do us any harm, why
do you vote the Sahara Desert ticket?
What’s the answer?
Darned if we know. We’re a Mick.
_High Life in South America_
_Reverend Golightly Morrill, veteran of many travels in sinful
climes, will tell of the wickedness of the West Indies in the
March issue of the WHIZ BANG, and how he, sophisticated as he
is, succumbed to the enticements of one of Eve’s daughters
with a tempting bowl. He describes his experience thusly:
“Hot courtesan that yields readily, that drinks and laughs,
that stains the cloth and the gown—the ribald orgy that shows
its foot and its leg, quick to snatch its stiletto from its
garter—” Read it in the next issue._—THE EDITOR.
By REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL
Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.
Buenos Aires, Argentina, and Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, have the dual
reputation of being the Sodom and Gomorrah of South America.
The theatres of Buenos Aires begin at 9 p.m., and the Devil’s Mission
opens at the same time. I followed some of his congregation to the
“Royal Theatre” and paid $1.50 gold to stand up in the back part of
the house behind a rail and look at some silly French films. They were
followed by the real entertainment which was opened by an American chorus
whose flat voices would have been high-priced at 25 cents admission. I
endured it in shameful silence, but the audience was “cynical,” and
by barks and obscene onomatopoeic sounds, instead of hisses, showed
its dissatisfaction. So far, this was but a prelude to the interlude
intermission when everybody adjourned to an upper and lower foyer where
the band played, the men and women marched and countermarched, flirted,
paired off and sat at the tables eating and drinking.
The “ladies” were especially friendly to me, alone and idly looking on.
They spotted me as a gringo, and in French, German and Spanish, Italian
and English said “Good evening,” asking me if I would not have a drink or
go out for a little walk. One coveted my scarab pin, thinking it would
make a nice breast-pin. I compromised with her on an American flag which
she proudly bore aloft. Another as unmindful of my calling as I was of
not standing “in the way of the ungodly,” chucked me under the chin and
said, “Hello, kiddo, how’s New York?”
This was the life or death I didn’t care to cultivate. I told them I
had no time or money to waste and that my wife was waiting for me to
help pack the trunk, since we were to sail in the morning. I returned
to my standing place to get my money’s worth of torture. It was over at
twelve, when I left. Hurrying to the hotel, I met the hotel runner. He
asked where I had been. “Everywhere,” I said, and told him. He laughingly
replied I was in the “wickedest city” in the world and hadn’t seen
anything. Then he proceeded to introduce me to the Red Lamp district
across the river, where the sailors are searched and relieved of their
arms; where the arms of the frail denizens relieve them of their money
by charging dollars for dime drinks; where blistering curses and kisses
echo through the darkened rooms; and where colored movies of human and
animal life are shown that would make the pornographic pictures of Paris
and Havana look like a Pilgrim’s Progress film.
Here are the painted women whose keen eyes stab, whose vampire lips
suck life blood, whose tresses are winding-sheets, and bodies graves in
which honor and purity are buried. Happier for them had they dressed in
a shroud, clasped hands with a leper and kissed a red-hot stove than to
have dressed, drunk and debauched as they did.
These midnight marauders seemed to think the stars were lit to lead them
on from shame to shame, while the truth is they sadly look down on souls
whose beating pulses live for a pleasure that murders time, health,
wealth, character and reputation.
They follow Satan as a guide, hypocrisy as a lawyer, impudence as an art,
pleasure as an object and damnation as their end. If their minds were
like matter and could show decay, they would smell like carrion. They
wear fine clothes and live in beautiful houses, but their minds are empty
and their souls in rags.
Religion has pleasure, but their pleasure was religion, and Cupid and
Bacchus their saints.
The fabled Greek Temple of Pleasure had a large doorway for entrance,
lights, music and lovely women within, but back of it all a wicket-gate
which opened into a pig-pen.
Thus, the end of vice is not satisfaction, but satiety, and the bacchanal
worshiper of what appeals only to his physical senses is thrust out
naked, ashamed and alone. Satan smiles, and hell is happy.
A dying king dreamed he would be met on the other shore by a beautiful
woman and led to a throne. Instead, he was welcomed by a horrible hag who
leered and laughed at him. When he recoiled and asked who she was, she
replied, “I am your sins and have come to live with you forever.”
Leaving this bare-breasted, forbidden fruit untasted, I bought some navel
oranges, and went to my hotel thankful that, if I had been led into
temptation, I had been delivered from evil.
The Devil’s calling cards he gives to visitors here, have B. A. after his
name, and it does not stand for “Bachelor of Arts,” although he has that
degree from several European and American universities. Last impressions
are first in mind. I had hoped that B. A. (Buenos Aires) would stand for
“Better Afterwards,” but just before the boat pulled out I found it meant
“Bad Always.”
A well dressed man sold my wife some pretty post cards, of the city, and
while she was looking at them he took me to one side, whispered “dirty
book” in my ear, and offered me something “nice” to read on the trip. I
read the title, “The Lustful Experiences of a Physician,” and refused
him, saying I was no doctor, didn’t intend to study for the profession,
or do anything that would make it necessary to contract for medical
services in advance. As the ship sailed out of the harbor I gazed
ruefully at this roué paradise of a city, repeating the lines of the poet,
“Farewell, dear, damned, distracted town;
Ye harlots live at ease.”
Oh, that last night in Rio de Janeiro. The city was brilliantly lighted
but we saw some shady places to make the picture complete. Passing by the
brightly lighted movie foyers, where the waiting crowd is furnished with
seats and music, instead of being log-jammed as they are in the United
States, I went down the Avenida through a public park. Its main gate
opened into a street, not filled with churches, libraries and museums,
but aristocratic “maisons de joie.”
There was a corner café with a score of well-dressed women sitting at the
tables, but no men. They seemed social as I passed by and beckoned me
in. When I went on they followed me with a loose collection of Spanish,
French, German and English oaths. That was the only way they could
follow, for there was a man on horseback at the street corner prepared
to run them in if they ventured out. It was eight o’clock, we were the
only ones on the street, and must have looked lorn and lonely, for in
every doorway stood a besilked, bediamoned, benighted beauty who looked
compassionately on and invited us to come in and make ourselves at home.
A long walk brought us to a kind of Leicester Square of many theatres.
Believing they were all equally good or bad, we entered one and saw and
heard a Portuguese comic opera. It was comical to see some of the red
light scenes we had just escaped, enacted on the stage. Again we went
out of the light into the night, passing through narrow streets of dives
brighter and blacker than any we had yet seen. This was the busiest place
in Rio. Although it was midnight, an unending stream of humanity poured
up and down the walks, the patrolling police charging the crowds time and
again.
I was sorry I had not seen Brazil’s “men of war” because it was foggy
when we entered the harbor, but I was more sorry to see most of them
gambling, drinking, going in and out of the dives along these streets.
Here vice was wholly evil and lost none of its grossness. It was dirty,
dowdy and depraved. Jack Falstaff would have hurried away as fast as his
fat legs could carry him, and not paused to pity, endure or embrace the
poor, half-dressed, painted, powdered prostitutes. There is a sharpness
of teeth hiding in their cruel kisses, poison in the honey of their
lips, and many a deluded lover starts up terrified as if he heard snakes
hissing in their hair. Rio de Janeiro is damned with a debauchery which
the natural beauty of its harbor can not redeem.
On leaving Rio I met two young ladies on shipboard who told me a “white
slave” story. A Buenos Aires agent for vaudeville had come to New York
and booked them through his agency. He said conditions were better in
South than North America; that they could each earn $50 a week, and have
all expenses paid, if they would “just sing American songs.” But before
landing they learned from some one who knew this agent, that gambling
and wine rooms were run in connection with the theatre, and that it
would be necessary for them to carry revolvers for protection. When they
realized their danger and decided not to land, but board our ship for
New York, they were nabbed by the police, who work hand in hand with the
white slavers, and had it not been for the American consul and others
interested who raised enough money for their return passage, and insisted
that the contract of the agent’s false promises be broken, these two
girls would have been placed in durance vile for two years, according to
law.
South America is the white slave market of the world. She has black
slaves in gold mines and rubber camps of the interior, and white slaves
on the coast who have been brought from every country of the world with
promises of marriage or respectable employment.
The white slaver is the Devil’s missionary who lays nets which Lucretia
cannot avoid, and gives baits and bribes which move Penelope.
Babylon had a marriage market for her women; Rio has a girl’s slave pen,
over whose portals is written Dante’s Hell motto.
“She has been in South America,” is the living epitaph of many a poor
girl dead in trespasses and sins.
* * * * *
Suggested Motto for Newlyweds
“Another Good Man Gone Wrong.”
* * * * *
His Protecting Prayer
A celebrated revivalist came to address his flock, and before he began to
speak, the pastor said: “Brother Jones, before you begins this discourse,
there are some powerful bad negroes in this here congregation, and I want
to pray for you,” which he did in this fashion:
“O Lord, gives Brother Jones the eye of the eagle, that he may
see sin from afar. Glue his ear to the gospel telephone, and
connect him with the central skies. Illuminate his brow with a
brightness that will make the fires of hell look like a tallow
candle. Nail his hands to the gospel plough, and bow his head
in some lonesome valley, where prayer is much wanted to be
said, and annoint him all over with the kerosene oil of Thy
salvation and set him afire.”
* * * * *
Happy Though Married
A learner at golf was surrounded by a large and interested circle of
friends.
After missing the ball several times, amid the laughter of his pals, he
turned and said: “I must apologize for this rotten performance, but I can
assure you that no one feels his misses more than I do.” And still they
laughed.
* * * * *
“A worm may eat of a king, a man may eat of a fish that has fed
on the worm. Thus a king may run a course through the guts of a
beggar.”—Shakespeare.
_Questions and Answers_
=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—I have been going with a red-headed girl, but as I
am leaving school I want to get rid of her. I think, too, that she uses
henna. I’m enclosing a further description. What would you advise me to
do?—=Iowa Rah-Rah.=
I’d suggest that you publish a want ad in the Whiz Bang as follows:
To Whom It May Concern: I cheerfully recommend my old girl to
any young man wanting a suitable dating companion for next year:
She is a good dancer physically and morally.
She is a good looker.
She is a good listener.
She isn’t too good.
She is an excellent pedestrian, in fact, she will always say
she likes to walk, although she is not prejudiced against a car.
She is a woman of deep emotions whom only you will be able to
thrill.
She has, to the best of my knowledge, absolutely no ideas of
her own on any subject, except you.
My sole and simple reason for quitting her is that I am leaving
school. Treat her right. She likes to be treated.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain=—Why is Mary Pickford like castor oil?—=Hollywood Holly.=
I reckon it’s because both are “queen of the movies.”
* * * * *
=Dear Bill=—Women are generally referred to as the “weaker sex.”
Is it because they are more cowardly than men? My experience as a
hen-pecked husband has led to the belief that this expression is sadly
misplaced.—=Palefaced Peter.=
Once again I referred a question to Mrs. Bill, which, at the outset,
showed my weakness. Then the fight was on, but she got in the last word,
or words, and here they are:
“Our moral courage is infinitely superior to man’s. No male being would
dare go into a shop and pull everything off the shelves only to walk
out and buy nothing. Men say they wouldn’t like to give the trouble for
nothing. But it isn’t that at all. They haven’t the courage. We don’t
pull things about to be spiteful, but to see if we can get what we want.
If we don’t find it—how can we buy it? And to buy something else to make
up is sheer cowardice.”
* * * * *
=Dear Captain=—I see in your Whiz Bang where you answer some puzzling
questions. I have one. What is a gollywhopper?—=Rott N. Peaches.=
A gollywhopper, according to the Encyclopedia Bullconica, is a species of
humdinger, descendant of the whangdoodle and cousin of an icthyosaurus.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Billy=—Why is the moon like a woman’s heart?—=Lovelorn.=
Because it’s always changing and it always has a man in it.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Fawcett=—If it takes an eight months old woodpecker with a
rubber bill six months to peck through a cypress log big enough to make
300 shingles, how long would it take a six months old grasshopper with a
corkscrew leg to kick the seeds out of a cucumber?—=Johnny Jumpup.=
Our hired man, Gus, says that he was told by Gus, our village butcher,
that an Alabama black man had got a straight tip from the jockey’s bible
that it would take just as long for the grasshopper to do the trick you
mention as it would take a two-stripe member of the 27th Division to pick
off 3,000,001 cooties with a pair of 16-ounce boxing gloves.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—If you had a girl out riding in your automobile, and
she complained of being cold and said she would be all right if she only
had something around her, would you drive back, as I did, and get her
coat?—=Bashful Bob.=
No, but I wouldn’t do what you did, you cheerful prevaricator.
* * * * *
=Dear Capt. Whiz Bang=—I am about to attend a “dry” party, but would like
your suggestion as to a good “wet” toast for dry days.—=Ike Atchum.=
How about this one? “Here’s to the little doggy that met a little tree.
The little tree said: ‘Come, purp, have one on me.’ The little purp
replied, as gentle as a mouse, ‘No, thank you, little treelet, I’ve had
one on the house.’”
* * * * *
=Dear Skipper=—What’s the difference between old fashioned and new
fashioned kisses?—=Movie Maid.=
About five minutes.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain of the Aft=—I see where you are taking a stand for personal
liberty. Still, wouldn’t you be willing to admit that rum is your
foe?—=Al K. Hall.=
I can’t help admitting, Al, that I’m disgusted with the way the coward
Demon has gone into hiding.
* * * * *
=Dear Kernel Bill=—What is meant by the expression: “bones of
contention?”—=Willie Wringlenut.=
It probably refers to cocked dice.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain Billy=—Unless I am too presumptuous, would you mind telling
me what is your average income?—=Curious Pussy.=
I referred your question to Mrs. Bill, who insists it is after midnight
and about a quart a day.
* * * * *
=Dear Captain=—What would make a good wedding anniversary present for
Douglas Fairbanks?—=Madge Talma.=
Why not give him an autographed book on “How to be happy, though Mary’d.”
* * * * *
An angel of a girl generally plays the devil with a man.
_Pajama Parties ’n Everything_
Hollywood is still talking of the “wonderful” social season that
surrounded Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Even away
out here on the snow-covered Minnesota prairies there filters through a
story or two. But the best one we’ve heard is the pajama affair tendered
by one of the real picture queens. The party was probably not as rich
as really painted, but it is known, however, that in the wee sma’ hours
anyone in pajamas could glide into the festivities whether invited or
not. The hostess, we are told, is such a grand little lady that we will
not embarrass her by any undue publicity.
It appears that during the course of the evening one of our best
actorinos struck up a friendly flirtation with a prim and very agreeable
married woman. That is, it was friendly at first; becoming so lovely
later on. For reasons best known to themselves, the pair decided to leave
the storm and fret and booze behind and go and find—but that is the first
part of the story.
Oh girls, before you risk a kiss,
And tie up for your lives,
Recall if singleness is bliss
’Tis folly to be wives.
Along about five in the morning, an hour or so after he had returned
with his fair conquest, Mr. Man, now rather bibulous, was reciting some
alleged woes and calling down his wrath upon the “long hairs.” “Long
Hairs” is right in Los Angeles just now, except in high society. There
isn’t a night but that the “morals squad” or “break-in cops” charge down
on some rooming house and there do batter and probe, dragging out the
unfortunate wights who cannot show a wedding license. It appears that
the actor and his fair conquest, after leaving the pajama party, had
experienced some embarrassment, at least such was the impression the man
left by his startling conclusion. He said:
“It’s getting so you can’t take a decent married woman to a rooming
house in this town without running into some cops looking for a bunch of
painted dames.”
Needless to say the fair charmer, who had been listening somewhat
nervously to the initial outbreak, all but collapsed when she heard the
final denunciation. If her husband hasn’t heard the story, he’s the only
one in town not laughing about it.
The midnight bathing parties in Los Angeles and Hollywood are a little
passé just now, on account of the weather for one thing. Since one of
our best known citizens was suddenly taken with cramps in one of the
Romanesque pools without wearing even his B.V.D.’s, the sport has assumed
a classification regarded as “dangerous indoor sports.” In this instance
most of those who ran to the troubled man’s assistance are said to have
been ladies with—well, the wife of one of our leading politicians was
nervous for some weeks lest the newspapers print the names of those
present, so we’ll pass her up this time.
The ladies who bathe in midnight pools, especially if considerable liquor
has been provided, are not particular about their sea-going attire. They
quite often prefer the no-piece bathing suit, although the shock of the
water often arouses a sober moment. Then milady wonders with dismay how
she can emerge amidst the highly interested group of lookers-on.
The cops who raid the little rooming houses and resorts of the less elite
would reap a mighty harvest if they cared to intrude upon Wilshire or
Hollywood. But what’s a little party of pajama-clad men and women bred in
the purple if the copper gets a few choice jolts.
* * * * *
Talked Like a Tailor
The members of the choir were practicing the well known anthem “As the
Hart Pants After the Water Brooks.”
The rendering of the opening stages was apparently not quite to the
satisfaction of the gentleman who wielded the baton.
He considered it necessary, therefore, to tender some advice to the
soprano section, and caused great consternation and not a little
embarrassment among his flock by the following announcement:
“Ladies, your expression is simply splendid, but the time is very
poor—really, your pants are far too long.”
* * * * *
How Perfectly Lovely
“Is this—can it be love?” sighed Angebella, as she sat on a seat in
the park with MacCuthbert’s arm around her waist and his soft voice
whispering fondly in her ear. Oh, it was lovely! “It is, my darling,”
MacCuthbert assured her. “But tell me, sweet one, how do you feel?” “I
feel,” cooed the lady, “as though my heart would leap from my throbbing
breast! My parched throat contracts and then expands, while my breath
comes in quick, choking sobs.”
There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them as a sleeping tramp
crawled forth and glowered at them. “I’d take something for it, miss,” he
growled. “That ain’t love you’ve got; it’s hiccups.”
* * * * *
Ruined Reputations
“Whisky has ruined the reputation of many men.”
“Yes,” replied Broncho Bob, “and at the same time, I ain’t so sure that
a lot of naturally no-account men haven’t done their share to ruin the
reputation of whisky.”
* * * * *
Do You Blame Them?
A “strong-man” actor, wishing to demonstrate his strength, made the
following announcement from the stage:
“I would like to have three young ladies volunteer from the audience to
come up on the stage, stand on my chest and I will then sing a song.”
Needless to say, none responded.
_Strolling With Jane Gaites_
To Love
Love, once you came to me,
I laughed the long day through;
For I was young, and happily
I reveled in this love so new.
Oh, it was good to live and love!
I vowed that I’d be true,
And of the sob behind the smile
I never dreamed—I never knew.
For every joy I’ve shed a tear;
Love left me long ago.
I’ve nothing now but memories—
How could you hurt me so?
* * * * *
Outside the Movies
By JANE GAITES
After wrecking a dozen homes or more and crushing at least six or nine
perfectly good hearts, the movie “vamp” quickly slipped into her street
clothes and hurried away from the noisy studio to buy her baby a doll.
After completing the “Adventures of Nan,” the little “convent” girl
rushed into her dressing room and was not surprised to find a note from
her husband saying that business had called him out of town.
She smiled somewhat significantly and then, carefully powdering her saucy
little nose and arching those two tiny perfect lips, she hurried away
from the noisy studio to keep an appointment with the “vamp’s” husband.
* * * * *
Silly Sonnets
By JANE GAITES
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”
“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.
“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”
“If it so please you, sir,” she said.
“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”
“What is your income, sir?” she said.
“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”
“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.
* * * * *
Dickory, dickory dock,
A mouse ran up the clock;
But this clock, I find,
Was a different kind,
And her cries could be heard up the block.
* * * * *
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,
Sharing her good curds and whey;
They were hugging and kissing,
When her Ma found her missing
And frightened fond lover away.
* * * * *
The Lure
By JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,
“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”
“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,
“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”
“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”
Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;
And a thing I hate is to change my bait,
So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
_Whiz Bang Editorials_
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
Nature moves oftener to the time of “L’Allegro” than “Il Penseroso”—the
major, not the minor chord, predominates. The carol of birds, hum of
insects, rustle of leaves, ripple of water and chirrup of cricket are
only sad to those whose natures are harsh. There is more of light than
shadow, and we feel it as we look at matchless sunrise and sunset,
glinting stars, deep green of forest, lighter color of meadow and grain
field, and the sunbeams chased by the wind across hillside and valley.
The church is not a cemetery, the minister is not a death’s head, and his
church members should not be mummies. The world was given us to cheer
our hearts; religion was never designed to make our pleasures less, and
when it does we have less of religion and more of something else. To be
a child of God is to be a happy member of his family in a present Eden
which thrills the brain, fills the heart, and makes us rejoice in the
hope of a home where sin and sorrow shall never enter.
The historian Hume found that King Edward II had paid a jester a crown
to make him laugh. That was a good investment. How much better it is to
have a fool to make one merry than experience to make one sad. Why not
have Christmas cheer fifty-two weeks in the year and let it brighten and
bless spring, summer and autumn till winter comes again?
Shakespeare says, “One may smile and smile and be a villain,” but I think
the man who does not smile is the villain “fit for treasons, stratagems
and spoils.”
A smile is the difference between a man and a brute, though a laughing
hyena is preferable to a scowling misanthrope, and a heathen who only
wears a smile to a Christian garbed in gloom.
Cheerfulness does more for health and holiness than pills and preaching.
Why not smile in a good world with a gracious God?
The man ought to be arrested who comes downtown in the morning with an
insulting scowl that curdles the milk of human kindness. One smile is
worth a dozen snarls.
Horace, the Latin poet, taught truth by laughter; in politics a smile
has controlled kings; and Swift and Heine did more by their smiles for
freedom than swords. We can’t all be poets, painters and presidents, but
we can all be end-men to Life’s minstrel show. Mark Tapley was always
cheerful, and Sydney Smith said, “I have gout, asthma and seven other
maladies, but otherwise, thank the Lord, I am very well.”
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”
* * * * *
Pacific Coast physicians are conducting a campaign which has for its aims
“the conservation of public health”—specifically, the elimination of the
advertising doctors, whom they designate quacks, and the squelching of
“cranks” who oppose vivisection.
The editor of the Whiz Bang may be put down by the doctors as among the
“cranks” because he doesn’t like the idea of vivisection. I suppose I’m
one of those sentimental birds, but any goop who tries to carve up my
dog, my pony, or even Pedro, my pedigreed bull, will have a fight on his
hands.
If surgeons must have live bodies upon which to experiment, it is
suggested they utilize some of the less useful members of the medical
profession. Most doctors are good citizens, and we include some
advertising doctors, too. They have, it is true, a somewhat exaggerated
idea of importance in the general scheme of things, but their delusion is
honest. They regard the profession highly, and rightly so.
This being the case, nobody would object if a doctor showed the courage
of his convictions by allowing his fellow “cut-ups” to strap him on an
operating table and dissect his carburetor and other inside machinery.
But until doctors assume this attitude, most regular people will regard
vivisectionists as a low species of bloodthirsty coward, pandering to a
perverted taste for twisting entrails.
* * * * *
Puritans of the city of Spokane, Wash., are seeking to have a city
ordinance regulating the length of skirts. Our correspondent in that
neck of the woods says he sees no need for such an ordinance, and that
the girls are wearing skirts now that are as long as the distance from
Spokane to the Canadian border, 100 miles, and that anyway he would
rather live on the border.
However, that’s neither here nor there. The big question in Spokane, now
that the old maids and senile lawmakers have agreed that the skirts ought
to stay below the knees, is to whom should authority to enforce such an
ordinance be given?
Some seem to think the ordinance ought to be enforced by the commissioner
of public health, while others want the commissioner of public safety.
Therefore, the question seems to be whether short skirts are a menace to
somebody’s health or whether they are dangerous to public safety.
We’ll say that it depends largely on circumstances. If a girl’s short
skirts cause a crowd to gather in the street, and automobile drivers to
look around while driving, then it’s a question of safety. Otherwise, and
in certain other circumstances, it might bring about a danger to public
health.
In any case we declare it to be interfering with the liberties of the
subject. Our sympathies are with the fair sex all the time. If a girl
has a shapely ankle, why should she hide it? It is part of her stock in
trade—in fact, a show window for the male-and-female market, or marriage
market, or whatever you want to call it. Frequently it enables a girl to
obtain a good position, it is said.
You might just as well expect a girl to cover up her face if she is a
good-looker, or place blinders or goggles on her eyes if they sparkle
too much. Besides, we have the poor policemen to consider. Do we wish
to take all the joy out of their lives? These cops virtually live on
the streets. Their pleasures are few. Are we to deprive them of viewing
shapely ankles, etc.? Do let us be a little broad-minded and give the
girls liberty.
* * * * *
Roughly estimated, 14,000,000 microbes, scientists reported, gathered on
our grandmother’s skirt. Now it would require a germ a foot high to catch
on the hem of a damsel’s garment. Isn’t that some compensation?
* * * * *
If some married women would only realize the value of a chic robe de nuit
en crepe de chine, and other dainty lingerie in retaining their hubby’s
admiration, they’d never be found sleeping alone in flannelette while he
entertained a bit of fluff outside the home circle.
* * * * *
Give Him a Little Time
“She says she has an ideal husband.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Three weeks.”
“Shucks, all husbands are ideal for the first three weeks.”
* * * * *
Sweet Essence of Prune Juice
He had known her for years. He had seen a good deal of her—in more ways
than one.
He had sat across the parlor from her; she had, of course, crossed her
legs; he had seen her trim ankles, her…
He had seen her at the seashore, wearing her tantalizing, silky bathing
suit, with its short dress, with its cute little slippers, with its…
He had seen her in her traveling suit; in her cape; in her house dress;
in her…
He had seen her at full dress affairs, and considering these dresses as
they are, he had, of course, seen…
But it was not until a long, long while that he approximated the
ultimatum. It was just a parlor date—one of many—which did not give
promise of being any different from all the others. But one thing will
lead to another! Finally, by a little slip of the arm, by a little
jerk of the head, a little this, and a little that, some hairpins
came out; her hair hung a little loosely at the sides; and—essence of
compromise!—he saw her ears!
* * * * *
Probably Their Face
Shaving off the eyebrows and substituting a thin black painted line is
said to be a remarkable new face fashion adopted by a section of smart
women. Really one begins to wonder what they will shave next.
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_Whiz Bang, in its next issue, will bring back to life Robert W.
Service’s “Lady That’s Known as Lou,” and the picturesque Alaskan barroom
of his tragical masterpiece, “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”_
_“But I want to state, and my words are straight,_
_And I’ll bet my poke they’re true,_
_That one of you is a Hound of Hell,_
_And that one is Dan McGrew.”_
_That’s a flash of the trail which Service leads to the realm of
Dangerous Dan. It will be republished in full in the March issue._—THE
EDITOR.
The Shimmy Shaker
By CARL M. HIGDON
Did you ever hear the story
Of the shimmy-shaking maid,
Who could shake a wicked shimmy
But of men she was afraid?
She could shimmy in the morning,
She could shimmy in the night,
She could shimmy in a bedroom,
She could shimmy loose or tight.
She could shimmy in the ballroom,
She could shimmy on the street,
She could shimmy after dinner
With a wiggle slow and sweet.
She could shimmy on a mountain,
She could shimmy in a pool,
When it comes to shimmy-shaking
She’s a shimmy-shaking fool.
* * * * *
A Tom Fooler Rhyme
It was midnight on the ocean,
Not a street car was in sight,
The sun was shining brightly
And it rained all day that night.
It was a summer night in winter,
The rain was snowing fast,
A barefoot boy, with shoes on,
Stood, sitting on the grass.
It was evening, and the rising sun
Was setting in the west,
And the little fishes in the trees
Were huddling in their nest.
The rain was pouring down,
The moon was shining bright,
And everything that you could see
Was hidden out of sight.
While the organ pealed potatoes,
Lard was rendered by the choir,
While the sexton rung the dish-rag,
Someone set the church on fire.
“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;
In the rain he lost his hair;
Now his head resembles Heaven,
For there is no parting there.
* * * * *
How’s Business
“Business is poor,” said the beggar;
Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”
“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;
The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.
“It’s all write with me,” said the author;
“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;
“My business is sound,” said the bandman;
Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”
* * * * *
Answer from Your Heart
_Note: The author of the following poem is an ex-sailor who now lives in
Long Beach, California. It is a poem that all red-blooded men should read
and then ponder a bit. Here is the writer’s prelude, explaining how he
happened to bring forth such a gem:_
_“In and out of the service, I have noted that when two or more men
engage in conversation, their talk eventually turns to women. Women—bad,
indifferent, and sometimes good—is generally the chief topic of the man,
but when one brings in some word about a good woman, he is often silenced
by stares or cutting remarks. Recently I was confined in a naval brig (no
need to mention the offense), and a conversation was being carried on in
the “bull pen” that caused me to write the following lines:_
E. H. GANTENBEIN
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—
Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—
I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,
You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.
You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have been,
And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon gin;
While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,
And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea;
The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,
And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—
You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name,
You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the same.
Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girls
Have you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls?
How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God for you,
Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.
Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,
Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.
Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:
Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a man?
Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your wife,
And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that right?
Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do your part,
Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.
* * * * *
A Sailor’s Delight
By HAROLD TAYLOR
When I was young and handsome,
It was always my delight
To go to balls and dances
And stay out late at night.
’Twas at a ball I met him,
He asked me for a dance,
I knew he was a sailor
By the buttons on his pants.
His shoes were nicely polished,
His hair was neatly combed,
I danced with him all evening,
Then he asked to see me home.
He pressed me to him gently,
Then heaved a heavy sigh
And said: “Dear Nellie, darling,
My love will never die.”
Now all you girls, this warning,
Just take a tip from me:
Don’t ever let a sailor
Take you sailing o’er the sea.
For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,
And say there’s none like you,
But when he gets that bit of love
He’ll sail across the blue.
* * * * *
The Hop-head Blues
By B. T. Los Angeles
_“In this land of dopey dreams, smiling, hoppy-headed scenes, where the
Chinamen are smoking all day long; as I lay me down to sleep, hoppy
visions o’er me creep, then I hear the snow-birds sing this evening
song: Tam, tam, tam the coke and morphine; I can hear my mother’s moan;
underneath the starry flag, we must take another drag, and return some
day to our beloved home.”_
_Yep, Whiz Bang readers, here are some more selections written by a dope
fiend, the first of his series appearing in the January issue. From the
standpoint of human interest towards the unfortunate victim of the drug
habit, his poems are mighty interesting. Furthermore, they point a strong
moral to lay off the “junk.”_—THE EDITOR.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,
Reclined on a bamboo bunk,
With a bamboo pipe and lighted pot
And a deuce-spot smeared with junk.
For when I feel downcast and blue,
Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,
Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,
Forgetting the weary world a week.
Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,
Dope has led me far astray,
Still I think of the one who left me
A year ago on Christmas Day.
My love for her has never left me,
And I know it never will,
Even though I’m a fiend to dope
And a slave to the hashish pill.
But here I lie in a suey-bow,
With another night half spent,
With a pipe and a card of poppy mud
And a hop cook from the Orient.
* * * * *
Pangs of Conscience
By B. T., Los Angeles
For now I’m down and out,
And broken is my will,
I’d sell my very clothes
For a marewanna pill.
O, once I was good,
But now I’m very bad,
For the Chinks took from me
Everything I ever had.
It’s the white man’s curse,
The yellow man’s joy,
The angels’ dread
And the devil’s toy.
No good ever comes,
And no good ever will,
To anyone who smokes
The hashish pill.
* * * * *
She May Remember This
Your hands were made to hold, my dear;
Your hair to lure me on;
Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;
Your face to gaze upon.
Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;
Your waxen ears petite
Were made to catch the silver strains
Of music soft and sweet.
Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;
Your arms were made to cling;
Your voice was made to speak, my dear,
Not to sing.
* * * * *
Still at It
My loveless lady of the ancient day
Sought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.
I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,
She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.
* * * * *
The Land of the Swinging Door
When night steals up from the golden cup
And the cares of the day are done;
In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,
As we watch the dying sun;
Oh, memory strong with its ancient song
Goes back to the days of yore,
When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,
Where our foot in comfort sat;
Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,
And the dear old bar-room cat;
Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,
And the highly polished floor,
Belong to the show of the long ago
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,
Has finished this land at last,
And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,
Are memories of the past;
Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda loke
And drinks we now abhor,
Are but empty chimes of virile times
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, a lemonade or a cocalade
Sounds good in a “pro-hi” town,
But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizz
To our friend, the old rumhound;
Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,
And the beer and wine’s no more;
So let them fret, we won’t forget
The Land of the Swinging Door.
With nicotine, our ruling queen,
And a match and an easy chair,
We lie at ease and smoke as we please
And dream of the bar-room fair;
With purity waves and reforming aides,
Tobacco will soon be o’er,
But they can’t legislate our mental state
And the Land of the Swinging Door.
* * * * *
Down in Oklahoma
We’re down here in Okla.,
Where you never have the blues;
Where the bandits steal the jitneys
And the marshals steal the booze;
Where buildings horn the skyline;
Where the populace is boost;
Where they shoot men just for pastime;
Where the chickens never roost;
Where the stickup men are wary
And the bullets fall like hail;
Where each pocket has a pistol
And each pistol’s good for jail;
Where they always hang the jury;
Where they never hang a man;
If you call a man a liar, you
Get home the best you can;
Where you get up in the morning
In a world of snow and sleet,
And you come home in the evening
Suffocating in the heat;
Where the jitneys whizz about you
And the street cars barely creep;
Where the burglars pick your pockets
While you “lay me down to sleep;”
Where the bulldogs all have rabies
And the rabbits they have fleas;
Where the big girls, like the wee ones,
Wear their dresses to their knees;
Where you whist out in the morning,
Just to give your health a chance,
Say “Howdy” to some fellow who
Shoots big holes in your pants;
Where wise owls are afraid to hoot
And birds don’t dare to sing—
For it’s hell down here in Okla.,
Where they all shoot on the wing.
* * * * *
In Lapland
They sat alone in the moonlight,
And she soothed his troubled brow.
“Dearest, I know my life’s been fast,
But I’m on my last lap now.”
* * * * *
Barbara Frietchie
(From the Norsk Nightingale.)
Recited by HARRY DIX
Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,
Her age it ban tree score and ten.
She living in Frederick, Maryland,—
It ban yust a dinky von night stand.
But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,
And folks ban talking about her yet.
Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,
Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.
Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,
Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;
For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,
And some of dem calling the yen’ral “pal.”
Yackson, he sees dem on both sides
Shooting dis bunk to save deir hides.
Den op in vindow he see big flag,
And tenk at first he must have a yag.
No; sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.
So Stonevall stand on his horse’s back,
Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,
And into the gutter flag skol fall.
Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,
And say, “Ay skol fule deze geezers yet.”
She run to her bureau double haste,
And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,
Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,
And say: “Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.
Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,
Ef it ant qvite holy enough for you,
And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,
But spare yure country’s flag!” she said.
Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,
And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.
He say: “Dis lady skol standing pat.
She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.
Who taking a shot at yon bald head
Skol die lak puppy dog, skip along,” he said.
All day long in Frederick town
Soldiers ban marching op and down.
And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,
Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.
And Stonevall Yackson say, “Vat yu tenk.”
And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
* * * * *
Eve’s Retrospection
Once Eve took a glance at us here,
And her poor heart was filled with good cheer;
“When I ran around nude
I thought I was rude,
But I note I’m in good style this year.”
* * * * *
Pickled Workin’s
There was a young lady named Perkins
Who had a great fondness for gherkins;
She went to a tea
And ate twenty-three,
Which pickled her internal workin’s.
* * * * *
Shame on You, Oscar
Said a fellow named Oscar H. Titus:
“The shimmy is danced to delight us.”
They asked him, by chance,
Who invented the dance,
And the answer he gave was: “St. Vitus.”
* * * * *
Passing the Buck
The milkman came and left the milk,
The nursemaid got the same,
She vamped him and he married her,
And now the cow they blame.
* * * * *
At the Beach
“Oh, mother, may I go out to swim?”
“Oh, yes, my darling daughter,
But hang some clothes on each pretty limb,
For the po-lice insist you oughter.”
_Pasture Pot Pourri_
Oh, aspirin, dear aspirin, my head aches for you.
* * * * *
_A trip on the ocean will bring out all the good that’s in you._
* * * * *
In the army it was: “Gimme,” “Let me take,” and “Have you?”
* * * * *
When your comprenez vous rope is cut,
When you’ve bats in your belfry that flut,
When there’s nobody home
In the top of your dome,
Then your head ain’t a head—it’s a nut.
* * * * *
Last night I went to see a fortune teller. She read my mind, started to
blush, and slapped me right in the face.
* * * * *
No, Geraldine, Rex Beach is not a summer resort.
* * * * *
It is said that a woman ofttimes will drive a man to drink. For the
land’s sake, show me one.
* * * * *
Superintendent—“How long did you work at your last job?”
Applicant—“Ten years.”
“What doing?”
“Ten years.”
* * * * *
The Garter Blues
I bought my girl a pair of jeweled garters for Christmas, but now she’s
given them to another girl.
Now I know I’ll never see those garters again.
* * * * *
“A wild woman caused my downfall.”
“How’s that?”
“She tripped me.”
* * * * *
_Now, boys and girls, let’s all sing “I’ve Got the Blues,” in A flat._
* * * * *
There’s water in the ocean,
There’s water in the sea,
For the last year or two
They’ve been watering me.
* * * * *
Dear Bill: I don’t feel right; I feel so blue; please write a line and
tell me what to do.
Drink ink—makes everything write.
* * * * *
Mrs. Smith to Mrs. Johnson: “Ain’t it funny what some folks will do to
get their name in the paper? Now there’s the Olson family. I see by the
Tribune this mornin’ where they’ve got a new baby at their home.”
* * * * *
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here;
Some liar said I had real beer.
* * * * *
A wife may be a necessity—another man’s wife is certainly a luxury.
* * * * *
_Virtue is its own reward—and too often its only reward._
* * * * *
Watchful Waiting
(From the Dubuque Times-Herald.)
GAS OVERCOMES GIRL WHILE TAKING BATH
Miss Cecelia M. Jones owes her life to the watchfulness of Joel Colley,
elevator boy, and Rufus Baucom, janitor.
* * * * *
Murderers appear to me to be happy-go-lucky fellows—they take life so
easily.
* * * * *
When the “pay-off” men are shy of dough
And want a little “jack,”
They take us poor old farmers
And sell a street car track.
* * * * *
Sayings of the Famous: Old Crow—“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust; if
saloons don’t get us the drug stores must.”
* * * * *
“I’m a little stiff from lacrosse.”
“Oh, Wisconsin?”
* * * * *
A little snow covers a multitude of rubbish.
* * * * *
Gossip kills more souls than vice. Reformers, take notice.
* * * * *
Whenever I see a chorus girl with a new Hudson seal coat, it is none of
my business.
* * * * *
Times Change
’Tis true times do change. A man used to take his musket and powder horn
and go hunting for a deer. But now the little dear takes a powder puff
and goes hunting for a man.
* * * * *
Somebody Is Always—
Old Hiram Keller went to the cellar
To get a wee nip on the sly;
At the foot of the stair, he found his wife there,
And didn’t she give him the eye!
* * * * *
Sworn Off
No, thank you. As I say, the friendship of a good man for his good
friend’s good wife is a rare and fine thing.
But for ordinary human nature it is too risky.
* * * * *
Life always has some horrid clog
To trip a fellow up,
And it’s hard to be a gay, gay dog
On the income of a pup.
* * * * *
A Matter of Habit
Pat—Johnny Newlywed says he has the most economical wife in town.
Mike—How’s that?
Pat—He says that the morning after he was married, he happened to think
that his wife needed a little money, so he gave her a five dollar bill,
whereupon she reached into her stocking and handed him two dollars
change.
_Classified Ads_
Leathery People
(From Mandan Daily Pioneer.)
High Grade Bags for men and women of extra quality leather.
* * * * *
Make It Two, Please
(From the Michigan Daily.)
WANTED—Room from Thursday to Monday with woman student.
* * * * *
Especially in Edgetown
(From the Momence Progress.)
A box social will be hell at the Edgetown School District No. 37, on
Saturday.
* * * * *
Is She Entertaining This Winter?
(From the Dixon, Ill., Telegraph.)
Found—Brown fur collar. Owner can have same by paying for ad and calling
on Mrs. William Greig.
* * * * *
Engaged Couples Preferred
(From the Oak Parker, Ill.)
For Rent—Furnished front room; warm and sunny; twin beds; new house; to
persons engaged; references. Call after 4 p.m.
* * * * *
Just a Rehearsal
(From the Elgin News.)
Mr. and Mrs. Pierce left immediately on a short honeymoon trip. The
“real” honeymoon trip is soon to be made, into various parts of Virginia.
* * * * *
My Daughter, O My Daughter!
(From the Indianapolis Star.)
WOODRUFF PLACE, 571 E. Drive. Room and board; modern, home privileges;
gentleman preferred. Daughter wishes congenial roommate. Woodruff 6110.
* * * * *
With Best Regards
(From the Lancaster, Wis., Teller.)
The low-down, scurvy halfbreed that swiped our log chain from the bridge
where we were working does not need to bring it back, as we have another
one, but if there is a hell for dogs I hope he gets a seat in the front
row with my compliments.
* * * * *
A Few More Want Ads
WANTED—Man to work in dog kennel; $12 a week; sleep in or out.—Pittsburg
Post.
WANTED—Good home for young lady who requires very little attention at
night.—New Orleans Times-Picayune.
FOR SALE—About 100 year old chickens.—Waterloo (Ia.) Courier.
* * * * *
Pitiless Publicity
(From the Mount Vernon Argus.)
—W. Harshbarger, of Pleasantville, is the guest of Mrs. A. E. Blackman,
of North Fulton Ave.
—A. E. Blackman is away on a hunting trip.
* * * * *
A Model Husband
There is a man who never drinks,
Nor chews, nor smokes, nor swears;
Who never gambles, never flirts,
And shuns all sinful snares.
He’s paralyzed.
There is a man who never does
A thing that is not right;
His wife can tell just where he is
Morning, noon and night.
He’s dead.
_Jest Jokes and Jingles_
_“If you can’t laugh at the jokes of this age,_
_Laugh at the age of these jokes.”_
He Didn’t Write So Very Often
Mr. Ever Sharp of Lead, S. Dak., had the nerve to write that his most
embarrassing moment happened when he asked a young lady clerk in a
stationery store for some lead. I’m glad I use a fountain pen.
* * * * *
Isn’t the X-ray wonderful? A Chicago dispatch says with the X-ray it is
now possible to have pictures taken of your “diverticula of the sigmoid”
for the loved ones at home.
* * * * *
A Domestic Disaster
“Isn’t it awful! My husband has run off with our cook.”
“Terrible, and cooks are so scarce!”
* * * * *
No Chance
“There, what was I telling you—figures never lie!”
“No, they can’t—not with the dresses the girls are wearing nowadays.”
* * * * *
A “Major” Operation
“What’s the matter, old top? You look sick.”
“I’ve just undergone a serious operation.”
“Appendicitis?”
“Worse than that. I had my allowance cut off.”
* * * * *
How often, oh how often,
As drunk as a son of a gun,
Two moons rose over the city
Where there should have been but one.
* * * * *
Modern Methods
Kindly gentleman to little girl: “My, but your folks must take good care
of you.”
Little girl: “Well, they ought to—I’ve got enough of ’em.”
“What do you mean, little girlie?”
“Well, mister, I’ve got three mamas by my first papa and two papas by my
last mama.”
“Can that really be so?”
“Yes, sir, and my last papa just told me that I had a little baby brother
at home and I’m going home now and tell mama.”
* * * * *
She flaunts a skirt cut rather high,
And quite a length of hose,
The city girl is never shy,
However, shy of clothes.
* * * * *
Beware of a Skunk, Dead or Alive
Men, take warning and never go fur-shopping until you are entirely
familiar with the vernacular of the fur store. Listen to my tale of
woe. My wife requested that I buy a vermin fur piece for a Christmas
present. Later, when I asked the pretty blonde fur clerk if she’d show
me her vermin, she gave a look that made me feel like a spare tire on a
decootieized tin lizzie. Then I asked for some skunk and she called the
floor-walker. I asked him if he had charge of the skunk and he promptly
asked me out of the store. But the fresh air felt so refreshing and Mrs.
Bill still wears her cloth coat of the vintage of pre-war prices.
* * * * *
Our Monthly Motto
“_Keep your feet on the ground and your mind on Heaven._”
* * * * *
Especially in Cold Weather
The new housemaid was, in most respects, quite satisfactory, but the
mistress had observed that Bridget in her dusting operations, always
appeared to miss a beautiful model of Venus. “Bridget,” cried the
mistress at last, “why don’t you dust this figure? See”—and she touched
it with her fingers—“she is quite covered with dust.” “Bejabers,” replied
Bridget, “I hev been t’inking fer a long time, mem, that she should be
covered with something.”
* * * * *
A mirage is a marriage that never happens.
* * * * *
Authenticated Military Message
Three soldiers—an American, an Englishman and an Irishman—from a trench
watched a German airplane overhead. A piece of paper fluttered down and
landed in a shell hole a few feet away.
Thinking it might be of value, the American crawled out after it. It
proved to be a crumpled bit torn from a piece of wrapping paper. Thinking
to have some fun with his comrades, he returned and said: “It looks as
though it has been of value, all right, but I can’t make it out.”
The Englishman said he would try, and after he had investigated he took
his cue from the American and admitted that he also was unable to read it.
“Faith,” said the Irishman, “I’ll bet I can dissect it,” and he started
for the shell hole. In a few minutes he was back.
“Did you read it?” he was asked.
“Sure and I read it,” he replied, “but all I could make out was that the
Germans are badly frightened and their entire rearguard has been wiped
out.”
* * * * *
The Irish lad and Yiddish boy were engaged in verbal combat. First one
would insist that his father or mother were better than the other’s. Then
it was their pet bulldogs and their teachers. Finally the subject came
down to respective churches.
“I guess I know that Father Harrity knows more than your Rabbi,” the
little Irish boy insisted.
“Shure, he does; vy not?” replied the Jew boy. “You tell him everything.”
_Our Rural Mail Box_
=Skipper Bill=: Accept my best wishes for the season, and may each
festive day find you squatted ’round some board arrangement heaped with
viands, digestible and otherwise; and may the platitudes, provoked by the
year’s munificence and the fact that you’re alive, be salt to the root of
the tree of good fellowship. And may the years to come endear you more to
the thousands of American “Bohemians,” who recognize you now as a damn
good fellow.
Even though the desert remain arid, and we are forced to sip from lips
that burn, and betray, for inspiration, we’ll remain in the fight until
old Mother Earth calls upon us for our quota of bone and flesh—dust.
Yours for the bull-con, E. W. Welty.
* * * * *
=Ima Cumming=: If, while going through the park at night, you should hear
some maiden say, “Sweet, Daddy,” that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s
talking to her father.
* * * * *
=Betty B. Good=: Don’t complain that your confidence has been betrayed.
The fault is your own for pouring unsafe talk into a leaky mind.
* * * * *
=Van Perry=—It seems plausible enough that Mandy acquired her big feet
from walking through the squashy, mushy mud of the rich Brazos county
soil but I hardly believe she was so lazy as to have ever sat down on the
job of cotton picking. Too good to be true.
* * * * *
=Tiny.=—Can not quite make out the letter. If it was an (o) your father
shot himself. If it wasn’t, he didn’t.
* * * * *
=Henpeck=—If your wife really loved you she’d have married someone else.
* * * * *
=Lover=—Squeeze them, tease them, anything will please them.
* * * * *
=Lord Helpus=: You don’t have to be a seasoned veteran to put “pep” in
your work.
* * * * *
=Dolly Dollars=: Yes, we all blow many beautiful bubbles of iridescent
hue, and of course, some of ’em are just bound to bust.
* * * * *
Said mother to father:
“It’s time that girl of ours was married.”
“Oh, what’s the rush? Let her wait till the right man comes along.”
“Why should she? I didn’t.”
* * * * *
It ’Appened in Hingland
Both the vicar and his curate were extremely devout churchmen, and so
when Lent came round they naturally decided that each must deny himself
something, and thus set a proper example to the flock.
Unfortunately, however, the curate could not make up his mind as to what
he should forego. He therefore consulted the vicar on the point and asked
what his worthy superior had decided to do without.
“I shall abstain from tobacco,” said the vicar, in answer to the curate’s
question, “and I can but suggest that you should either do the same or
refrain from taking alcohol.”
“But, vicar,” protested the curate, “you surely know that I am a
non-smoker and a teetotaler.”
“Ah! I had forgotten that,” replied the vicar; “in that case the only
thing left for you is to put your wife from you for six weeks and live as
a celibate.”
This, the curate agreed, would indeed be self-denial; however, he
promptly proceeded to put the plan into action.
Already he had got about half-way through this trying period, when one
morning he was awakened by a gentle tap on his door.
“Yes; what is it?” he demanded, wondering why on earth he should be
aroused at such an unearthly time.
“John, dear,” came his wife’s plaintive voice from the other side, “the
vicar’s in his garden, and—and he’s smoking!”
* * * * *
No Cheap Skates Wanted
The world’s Stingiest Man shuffled off finally and departed heavenwards.
He was challenged at the pearly gates by St. Peter.
“What deeds of good did you do on earth?” queried Peter.
“I once gave a plugged penny to a poor beggar woman,” the stingy man
replied.
The Recording Angel, assisted by Mother Eve, then glanced over the
loose-leaf filing system to verify the claim.
“Is that all he has to his credit?” St. Peter asked.
“Yes, ’tis all—’tis all,” replied the angel.
“Well then, give him back his plugged penny and tell him to go to hell.”
* * * * *
Thrift Lesson No. 1
“Do you know,” said the Englishman, “I gave my wife a ten-pound note for
a birthday present, and she managed to save a sovereign out of it towards
our summer holiday. Not bad, eh?”
“I dinna think it’s so verra guid,” replied the other. “I reckon ma
wife’s mair thrifty.”
“How’s that?”
“Weel, she gives the bairns a bawbee to do wi’oot their supper, and when
they’re in bed and asleep, gangs and taks it frae them. Then, in the
mornin’ they have no breakfast for losing it. That’s thrift.”
* * * * *
This will be a heluva country if it ever goes dry.
* * * * *
Sprinkle Some Sunshine
By F. A. ROBERTSON
We never can tell, and we never will know,
When it will rain, sunshine or snow;
We never can tell, from the cradle to the grave,
Whether we are rich or only a slave;
Whether we’ll ride in automobiles,
Work in the shop or plow in the fields;
Perhaps go to bed in vigor and wealth
And awake in the morning broken in health.
So don’t let pride your judgment beguile,
Give all a shake and a pleasant smile;
Always be polite, courteous and kind,
And thus scatter blessings over mankind.
* * * * *
Good Old Crow
(With apologies to “Old Black Joe.”)
Gone are the days of the booze so full and free,
And gone are the friends that always drank with me;
Gone from this drought to a wetter land I know,
I hear their happy voices toasting, Good Old Crow.
I’m going, I’m going
To a place that’s not so slow.
I hear the Cubans gaily toasting
Good Old Crow.
Why should I stay when my throat is full of pain,
Soon will go our smokes, so why should I remain?
Dreaming of days of the once sweet long ago,
While my friends are sadly calling, Poor Old Joe.
—E. N. Hosier.
* * * * *
During the war a boy from Wiggin, Nova Scotia, who was stationed in
Palestine, wrote to his mother as follows:
Dear Mother: I am in Palestine where Christ was born and wish
to Christ I was in Wiggin where I was born.
Your affectionate son.
* * * * *
The other day a returned soldier asked me for a job and as I always like
to favor the “vets” I gave him the place. I told him that his duties on
the farm would be to get up at 5 in the morning, milk the cows, feed the
teams, clean out the barn, haul hay, plow the fields, shock the corn,
chore around—
“And is there any clay on your farm?” asked the young man.
“Why, what has that to do with it?” I answered him.
“Oh, I thought maybe I could put in my spare time making bricks.”
* * * * *
Mary Ann—The landlord’s here to boost the rent again!
Hubby—That means you have no fur coat this year, my dear!
Wife—Oh, I don’t know. I may be able to find a friend like the woman in
the story, “The Tale of a Fur Coat,” and you bet I’ll not pawn it!
* * * * *
Full many a race is lost
Ere even a step is run,
And many a coward fails
Ere even his work’s begun,
Think big, and your deeds will grow,
Think small, and you’ll fall behind,
Think that you can, and you will,
It’s all in the state of mind.
* * * * *
[Illustration: BATHING BEAUTIES!]
Real photographs of the famous California Bathing Girls.
Just the thing for your den.
Size 3½×5½.
Positively the best on the market.
Assortment of 6 for 25 cents or 25 for $1.00.
Send money order or stamps.
Foreign money not accepted unless exchange is included.
Egbert Brothers, Dept. W. B., 303 Buena Vista Street, LOS ANGELES,
CALIFORNIA
_Wholesale agents wanted everywhere in the U. S. Write for wholesale
terms._
* * * * *
_Pull the Shades Down, Mary Ann_
Pull the shades down, Mary Ann,
Pull the shades down, Mary Ann,
Last night in the pale moon light,
I saw you, I saw you;
You were combing your golden hair,
It was hanging over a chair;
If you want to keep a secret
From your future man,
Pull the shades down, Mary Ann.
* * * * *
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