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Title: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 20, May, 1921

Author: Various

Editor: W. H. Fawcett

Release date: April 25, 2018 [eBook #57047]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN BILLY'S WHIZ BANG, VOL. 2, NO. 20, MAY, 1921 ***




Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)





Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 20, May, 1921





STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY
THE ACT OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912.


Of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, published monthly at Robbinsdale,
Minnesota, for April 1, 1921.

State of Minnesota, County of Hennepin—ss.

Before me, a notary public in and for the State and County aforesaid,
personally appeared Harvey Fawcett, who, having been duly sworn according
to law, deposes and says that he is the business manager of Captain
Billy’s Whiz Bang, and that the following is, to the best of his
knowledge and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management (and
if a daily paper, the circulation), etc., of the aforesaid publication
for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August
24, 1912, embodied in Section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed
on the reverse of this form, to-wit:

1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing
editor, and business managers are: Publisher, W. H. Fawcett, Robbinsdale,
Minn.; editor, W. H. Fawcett, Robbinsdale, Minn.; managing editor, none;
business manager, Harvey Fawcett, Robbinsdale, Minn.

2. That the owners are: (Give names and addresses of individual owners,
or, if a corporation, give its name and the names and addresses of
stockholders owning or holding 1 per cent or more of the total amount of
stock.) W. H. Fawcett, Robbinsdale, Minn.

3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders
owning or holding 1 per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages,
or other securities are: (If there are none, so state.) None.

4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving the names of the owners,
stockholders, and security holders, if any, contain not only the list
of stockholders and security holders as they appear upon the books
of the company but also, in cases where the stockholder or security
holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other
fiduciary relation, the name of the person or corporation for whom
such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs
contain statements embracing affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to
the circumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security
holders who do not appear upon the books of the company as trustees,
hold stock and securities in a capacity other than that of a bona fide
owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person,
association, or corporation has any interest direct or indirect in the
said stock, bonds, other securities than as so stated by him.

5. That the average number of copies of each issue of this publication
sold or distributed, through the mails or otherwise, to paid subscribers
during the six months preceding the date shown above is: (This
information is required from daily publications only.)

                                                (Signed) HARVEY FAWCETT.

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 11th day of March, 1921.

                                                        ROBERT P. KIRBY.
    [SEAL.]                     (My commission expires December 1, 1927.)




                            _Captain Billy’s
                               Whiz Bang_

                             [Illustration]

                         _America’s Magazine of
                             Wit, Humor and
                               Filosophy_

                     May, 1921      Vol. II. No. 20

                            Published Monthly
                    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

        Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication
             of any part permitted when properly credited to
                        Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

           “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_


Out on Rural Route No. 2 we haven’t much class, as the saying goes, but
we have a lot of fun. We haven’t any bright lights, although the folks
about the country have thought so liberally of my little bundle of bunk
lately that I have been able to put in a small farm lighting plant in the
Whiz Bang house, barn and yard.

Not many Minnesota farmers can afford, in these low-wheat-price days,
such a luxury as an electric lighting plant, and so the one put in at the
Whiz Bang farm created quite an interest.

Gus, our hired man, thought it would be a good idea to have a sort of
celebration over the new electric lights. The idea met with instant
approval from Mrs. Bill and the kids. The next question was how to
celebrate the great event. Gus suggested a “snoose” party, but as not
all of my neighbors chew the Copenhagen breakfast food, his suggestion
received a cool reception, particularly from Mrs. Bill, who dislikes the
habit. It was left to my twelve-year-old daughter to solve the problem,
later in the day, when I discovered her in the loft of the old red barn
practicing toe dancing. This suggested to my mind a dancing party.

And so we gave the party. I wired the hay loft with electric lights and
dumped a pail full of oatmeal on the floor to make it slippery. We
picked Gus as the dance master, and here was his predominating action for
the evening:

    On a balmy night, when the weather’s clear,
    The boys and girls from far and near;
    We’ll congregate on the Whiz Bang farm,
    To cut some capers in the old red barn.

    We have a drum and a jew’s harp, too,
    Jim Moss plays on the tin bazoo;
    And a fiddler over from Sugar Creek,—
    Pick ’em up Silas and lay ’em down deep.

    Oh, we’ll dance all night to the latest tune,
    The Maiden’s Prayer or the old Hip Croon;
    We’ll walk the dog and ball the jack,
    And promenade around the old hay stack.

    The horses nicker and the roosters crow,
    Balance all and away you go;
    Dance that one step nice and clean,
    Possum trot and the lima bean.

    Now swing around like the old barn door,
    If the music stops, then holler “more.”
    Oh, pinch your gal on her rosy cheek,—
    Pick ’em up Silas and lay ’em down deep.

    Pick ’em up Silas and lay ’em down deep,
    Ain’t no game of hide and seek,
    Pick them knot holes from the floor,
    Change your partners, forward four;
    Hear the music to your feet,
    Pick ’em up Silas and lay ’em down deep.

The only fault we had to find with Gus’ musical attainments was that he
didn’t say anything about the dingbusted lighting plant going on the
blink during the dance. Something went wrong and the lights went out, and
when we came to again, I was horrified. Mrs. Bill says we can’t give any
more dances; not if those girls from Sugar Creek are allowed to attend.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here it is Spring, the poets are with us and the Thursday musicales can
now render “The Coming of Spring” by a scanty Aphrodite girlie in true
aesthetic rhythm, but I hearken naught to their artificial atmosphere. I
crave Mother Nature in all its ruggedness.

Hence I have fared to my log cabin settlement on the shores of Big
Pelican lake in northern Minnesota, accompanied by Mrs. Bill, the
five kids, my dog Shep, our new perfumed Persian pussy and, last but
not least, the good, old pedigreed bull, Pedro. Fred La Page, my
French-Canadian friend and the lord and master of the Pequot settlement,
threw in a couple of cows in the deal wherein I acquired title to the
cabins and the shore property and advised me to bring the pedigreed bull
along to keep the cowlets company. And so here we are at Pequot, and as I
said before, it is Spring and the birdies are singing in the treelets.

We’ve hardly been here a week when into our wild and wooded midst enters,
like an angel from Heaven, a pretty young miss, a graduate of Minneapolis
aristocracy and unlearned in the ways of we simple country folk. She
had never seen a real pumpkin sprout in the garden of nature and her
knowledge of the products of the soil was confined to what she had read
in some seminary institution.

The first evening, Gus, our hired man, picked some of Brother La Page’s
wild asparagus. We did it up in butter, as was my wife’s custom, and
served it in big helpings on the old pine table.

Miss B⸺, our guest and new acquaintance, was guided by etiquette and
started to eat her asparagus with a knife and fork, but Gus changed
her mind. Now Gus is a careless sort of fellow. When he surrounds a
plate of grub he is like time and tide. He waits for no man. He simply
surrounds his lips, arms, fingers and what-not in mad haste to consume
everything on the table. He is oblivious to anything or anyone else. So
Gus grabbed the butt end of a big stock of asparagus and sipped the tip
of the vegetable in much the same fashion as a steam suction hose cleaned
the streets of Paris in our soldier days. But Miss B⸺ was game. In
manner demure, she nervously grasped a luscious piece within her slender
fingers. Blushingly, she placed the tender morsel between her pearly
teeth. She was a game little girlie, despite her embarrassment. The warm
butter slobbered over her but, to her credit, may it be said, she went
through the ordeal much like a seasoned veteran.

At this writing, I am glad to say, our angel is rapidly becoming
accustomed to backwood etiquette and she now can eat away at any size
asparagus just as well—well, almost as efficiently as Gus. I said almost.
It would be impossible, I believe, to equal his record.

       *       *       *       *       *

At last, thank God, Mrs. Bill admits I have one good quality—that of
being tender-hearted. I overheard her telling Gus that I was so tender
of heart that I wouldn’t kill a poor, defenseless fly, or even beat a
carpet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pedro, famous pedigreed bull of the Whiz Bang farm, has quite a
reputation as a county fair prize winner. Gus, the hired man, decided
he’d make a few extra dollars one week while I was “tooting it up” in
Minneapolis, so he started charging admission to the many who came to
view the noble animal.

A visitor approached Gus the first day of admission charges and inquired
as to the cost for himself, wife and nine children, for viewing the bull.

“Not a cent,” promptly replied our faithful man. “Come right in; I want
Pedro to see you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The girls of Texas, we judge from correspondents, are madly in love with
the confection known as the lollypop or all-day sucker. We’ve received
several complaints from love-lorn swains requesting that we ask the Texas
girls to protect their tresses from the sticky lollypops.

       *       *       *       *       *

So many Whiz Bang readers have requested that we send them the automobile
seat left on our farm by a daring couple while they hiked to Robbinsdale,
to report the theft of their motor car, that we have decided to retain
it. An auto seat, you know, is valueless without the car.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gus is a progressive hired man. He progresses from penny ante to nickel
heart games to two-bit moonshine. It’s a good thing he’s not very strong
for the ladies. He has plenty of bad habits now.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gus is a great fellow to play pranks. Whenever he wants to chop wood
around the smokehouse, he goes to the farm house, opens the back door and
rings the dinner bell. All the flies swarm inside and take their places
in the dining room. Then Gus closes the doors behind the flies and goes
to the wood-pile to work undisturbed. You have to hand it to Gus for
originality.

       *       *       *       *       *

Spooky Stuff

At a seance the other evening the spiritualists were telling of their
experiences with residents of other worlds. One man told of conversing
with a ghost, another had dined with one. A woman declared she had shaken
hands with a departed friend, and others followed suit until it seemed
they had exhausted the list of possible activities with spirits.

“We have heard the testimonials of the circle,” said the medium, “but so
far nobody has told of being in love with a ghost. Is there anyone here
who has had that interesting experience? Has anyone ever loved a ghost?”

“I have, lady,” said an Irishman in the rear of the room.

“Step right up in front, I am sure everybody will be interested in your
experience,” said the medium. “In all my life I’ve never heard of an
instance of a human loving a ghost.”

“Hell!” sputtered the Irishman, “I thought you said a goat!”




_Sissified Flirts_

    _Our Hollywood and Universal City writer is very indignant this
    month. It appears he attended a movie ball in Los Angeles and
    was pestered by divan dearies, and so he shoots us a red-hot
    opinion of these sissies, together with some spicy gossip of
    the dressing rooms._

By RICHMOND


The male sissified flirt is becoming more and more a social pest. One
is liable to bump into this queer creature at any social function,
regardless of its exclusiveness.

Let us dwell for a moment upon the great masque ball recently held under
auspices of theatrical people at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles.
It is the latest creation in behalf of the wealthy tourist who visits
Southern California.

In this huge pile, which somewhat resembles a great depot, in depth of
its long corridors and maze of shops and stands, a scene of merriment
occurred that has not been rivalled in the history of winter tropics.

The affair was stopped, it is understood, by order of the hotel
management, when word freely was passed that by some hook or crook booze
was to be had on an upper floor. Just how booze might get into a great
hotel and gradually cause the dance to become rather flushed may have
been a problem that puzzled and nettled those responsible for the good
name of the house so far as Uncle Sam is concerned. At any event the
fiddlers left and the impression went about that the hotel people weren’t
going to stand for the party getting rough.

Into the main dining-room, before the evening was well started, two of
our leading male comedians strode, both with an ill-concealed bottle
protruding from the usual pocket. One of these comedians is a heavy
gentleman and a jolly one. The other is gaining fame as a comedian
because he never is known to smile.

Just what was in the bottles cannot be proved, but the incident caused
some words of criticism from other members of the movie colony, who
figured the boys were “putting it on” a little too strong in view of
the assemblage present, ever ready to declare that the “movies” are
impossible.

But these two cheerful individuals, at the worst, were only mistaken if
they really intended to show off or be funny or daring. Many a person
present would have been glad to join them, in consideration of their hip
pocket protrusion. Yet the occasion, the time, the place, and so on, made
it seem a bit garish.

But what about the rouge-soaked males in feminine attire, and displaying
toe to hip extremes, garbed in lace tights, whose every movement, look
and word indicated absence of the masculine instinct as they pranked and
tripped about the ballroom floor, mingling with dainty women and stalwart
males who moved uneasily away as the queer folk swung simpering and
smirking among them?

Take the two merry boys with the bottles in the main dining-room, a
little wild, perhaps, and making somewhat of a show—but, withal, regular
men taking a lark as they found it—maybe somewhat “lit up,” but exuding
rough masculinity in their uncouth playfulness. To be censured?

One regular he-man, or a party of them, invaded under ordinary
circumstances by queer-acting customers, would make short shift of “sissy
simps” and abide by the consequences—there being small reason to fear
consequences. But a public gathering is different.

By the way, Mildred Harris (Charlie’s used-to-be) led the Grand March
with Earl Williams. It is remembered that Williams recently, after his
marriage, paid a certain lady a sum (reputed to be $40,000) as a result
of a friendship which existed prior to the picture star’s entrance into
matrimony.

They are getting to be very businesslike, these ladies. They give, but
demand payment at times. But if Earl Williams parted with $40,000, his
partner in the dance, fair Mildred, was rejoicing in a little sum of
$200,000 or so, which is the amount Charles is said to have settled upon
her when they parted at the ways.

Bookkeeping on the leaders of the Grand March, it would appear that Earl
and Mildred, between them, were $160,000 ahead of the matrimonial deal,
figuring Earl’s loss of $40,000 and Mildred’s winnings of two hundred
grand.

Mary and Doug did not mingle with the ballroom dancers to any extent.
They are largely home folks and only drop in on occasions at a party, and
then usually beat it in jigtime for the fireside.

One of our best-known young newspaper scribes had half the house betting
that he was dancing with Edna Purviance, garbed in Turkish emblems. But
when she doffed her mask it was not Edna at all, but a charming youngster
of the pictures but not well known to fame.

Since Edna has been resurrected in all her beauty for Chaplin’s new
picture, “The Kid,” the former friendship between her and Chaplin has
been rehashed where the gossip-mongers meet for Wednesday night meeting.

Another pleasing sight was the return of Lucille Carlisle, until recently
Larry Semon’s leading lady. Rumor hath it that Lucille and Larry waged a
young war about something, as children will. But the soaring young funny
man of filmdom and his fair partner were turtle doves who found no one to
dance with but themselves.

A false report went out that Bull Montana attended the ball costumed like
an ape. This is untrue, for two reasons. One is that Bull wasn’t present,
and the other that he needs no costume when imitations of a gorilla are
in order. Bull’s face has become his fortune and he is proud of it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A girl may not let you kiss her, but the chances are she appreciates your
wanting to.




_Whiz Bang Filosophy_


Prohibition is morality on a jag.

       *       *       *       *       *

A good woman is chaste—so is good whiskey.

       *       *       *       *       *

Virtue, although often lost, is seldom advertised for.

       *       *       *       *       *

After man came woman and she has been after him ever since.

       *       *       *       *       *

A woman who can love but once is pretty badly stuck on herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

It may be peculiar, but a horse can eat best without a bit in his mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Man is made of dust; along comes the water wagon of fate and his name is
mud.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before a man marries, he swears to love; after marriage, he loves to
swear.

       *       *       *       *       *

Human nature shows to better advantage at a dog fight than at a prayer
meeting.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love is blind. Perhaps that accounts for some of the bad shots he has
made.

       *       *       *       *       *

Blessed is the man that is born of little furniture, for it shall be
easier to move.

       *       *       *       *       *

Most women are both good and true; in fact, most of them are too good to
be true.

       *       *       *       *       *

You can never judge the length of a woman’s tongue by the size of her
mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love has been called miserable happiness. Not so, it is what makes
happiness miserable.

       *       *       *       *       *

He is a mean father who has his whiskers shaved off because the baby
likes to pull them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some women kiss their pet dogs in preference to their husbands. Some men
are born lucky.

       *       *       *       *       *

The girl who wishes she had been born a boy will never make a good
wife—she will want to wear the pants.

       *       *       *       *       *

A pretty woman with brains usually sends some man to the devil. If she
hasn’t brains, she goes there herself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some men promise to stop smoking after marriage without exacting a
similar promise from the girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

If Mother Eve had been as wise as some of her daughters, what a fool
she’d have made of that snake.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man will promise a woman or a baby anything to keep them quiet.
Sometimes he delivers the goods in the case of the baby.

       *       *       *       *       *

All of us believe in law and order, of course, but a surprisingly large
number of people like to see a policeman get whipped.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course polygamy is dreadful, but an Oriental wife can come within four
or five guesses of knowing where her husband spends his evenings.

       *       *       *       *       *

The wise virgins of olden days kept their lamps trimmed and burning;
those of the present day keep the gas turned low, and they manage to trim
as many suckers as their predecessors.

       *       *       *       *       *

Blessed is the man that is born for woman. He hath a short life and
little joy. He springeth up in the morning like a huckleberry bush and is
crushed to earth at night by a mother-in-law.

       *       *       *       *       *

Life’s Hard Course

    _This bit of filosophy is as old as the hills, but like good
    liquor and fruits of human thought, it grows more rich and
    mellow with age. Its quaintness is its virtue, and so here it
    is again._

Man comes into this world without his consent, and leaves it against his
will. During his stay on earth his time is spent in one continual round
of contraries and misunderstandings.

In his infancy, he’s an angel; in his boyhood, he’s a devil, and in
his manhood, he is everything from a lizard up. In his duties, he’s a
damphool.

If he raises a family, he’s a chump. If he raises a check, he’s a crook.
If he is a poor man, he is a poor manager and has no sense. If he is
rich, he is dishonest but considered smart. If he is in politics he is a
grafter and a thief. If he is out of politics, you cannot place him as he
is an undesirable citizen. If he donates to foreign missions, he does it
for show; if he doesn’t, he is stingy and a tightwad.

When he comes into the world, they all want to kiss him; before he leaves
it, they all want to kick him.

If he dies young, there was a great future before him. If he lives to
a ripe, old age, he is only in the way, just living to save funeral
expenses. So Life is just one damn thing after another.

       *       *       *       *       *

Everything has gone down except paper and envelopes. They are stationery.




_Adventures of Sven_


Dere Uncle Billy: Since Ay writing you las time Ay bane having swell
time acting in moving pictures. Las week Ay working in Sex picture in
Hollywood Studyo and we got one big scene where leading man be banker
faller and git fresh with hired girl while him’s wife bane gone out to
week-end party. Ayskol be butler with short tail coat and gold buttons
made of brass. When somebody kome in Ayskol stand by door and take him’s
card on pie-plate. Director he say, “Sven, when banker git fresh you skol
yump in an’ poke him’s nose yust like real life with plenty pep.” Banker
git fresh alright an’ you bet Ay show Director Ay am dam gude actor. Ay
poke leading man so he don’t wake up till half past sax an’ dey don’t
finish scene till next week. Leading man he git sore on me an’ try to git
me fired but Ayskol told him if he enta shut up Ay poke him ’gain so he
keep still an’ Ay don’t lose may Yob.

Week behind las’ Ay playing in cave-man picture with whiskers glued on
may face so Ay look like Smith Bros. on cough drop box. They got real
elephant from Universal City an’ glue whiskers all over him too, so he
skol be a baskardon. We go out in woods with a lot of other animals an’
monkey ’round all day yumping in and out hole in hill some fallers dig
for cave.

Ay meet rich woman that say she skol star me yust so soon her husband go
to Seattle. She gat big lemonzine an’ diamonds an’ she shake her shimmy
when she walking. She bane gude skout all right, you bat my life, an’ she
say Ay gat fine fizzic. She like strong faller an’ she like me be strong
for her. Ay bat your life Ay gitting new suit from Foreman Clark an’ silk
shirt with blue stripe. She standing in gude with assistant Director an’
git me gude Yobs right long. Ay meet four more Swedes here in pictures
an’ they take me to place one night they call wild party an’ Ay drink
some coctaila made out of prune yuice and Skloan’s Liniment. When Ay got
more news Ay skol let you know right off. Moving picture game bane gude
bet for faller with plenty pep.

                                 Goodby,

                                                         SVENS PETERSON.

Post Chips: If you see may brother Olaf tole him Ay say bootleg business
bane pretty gude out here yust now an’ if he want to kom out Ay skol git
him in on ground floor.—S. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

What a Pity, Poor Kitty!

    There was a young man from the city,
    Who met what he thought was a kitty;
          He gave it a pat,
          Said, “Nice little cat!”
    And they buried his clothes out of pity.




_Venezuela’s Abominations_

    _As full of dynamite and fusel oil as ever, Reverend Morrill
    returns to Minnesota this month brimful of information on
    the South and Central American countries, which for the past
    three months he had been touring for the Whiz Bang, and here’s
    his first report. Incidentally, Reverend Morrill’s home in
    Minneapolis is broken into by burglars nearly every time he
    goes away on a Whiz Bang jaunt, and last fall he lost $3,000
    worth of choice red-eye. This last trip he left a note: “Dear
    Boys: You won’t find any booze or Liberty Bonds, but some
    good books, especially this Bible, which says, ‘Thou shalt
    not steal.’ God forgive you—I do. G. L. Morrill.” Whether or
    not the note was responsible is undetermined, but nothing was
    missing this time._

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.


“Easy is the descent to hell”—except by way of Venezuela, at whose
ports of entry one suffers so many inconveniences in the form of
passport visés, custom fees, red-tape, delay and insolence, that if
the Devil wishes to sustain his reputation of a conductor of luxurious
pleasure-tours to the infernal regions, he should immediately get rid of
his disagreeable officials there. At La Guayra, custom authorities rob
the traveler of time, money and patience. These sun-burnt bandits would
steal the pennies from the eyes of their dead father, and body-snatch
their dead grandmother to sell her entrails for sausage-casings. The
visitor should be on his guard, too, lest the city’s dark-eyed daughters
of delight steal away his heart.

La Guayra señoritas, like the scenery, are wild, beautiful and romantic,
though there are many wizened witches, rheumatic, mustachioed and
flea-bitten, who make one sea-sick on land. The local enchantresses
give the stranger a good (bad) time—as well as a choice assortment of
undesirable souvenirs. It is a pestiferous port where the laudable
profession of prostitution is much practised. These moral lepers are much
more dangerous than the physical ones in the big asylum in the outskirts.
Gay girls throw kisses to the tenderfoot as he walks the streets—a most
sanitary and microbeless pastime.

Here I entered a girls’ school where the young misses were learning much
and not missing anything, for as a practical object-lesson in physiology
a naked little boy had strolled in from the street and was roaming about
the room. Some of the citizens are quite devout and show their gratitude
to God for his numerous blessings. I passed a saloon bearing the
inscription, “Gracios a Dios” (Thanks to God). Thus do the simple-minded
people obey the Scriptural command, “In everything give thanks.”

A few minutes’ train ride takes you to Maiquitia, where there is a
popular shrine and a more popular brewery. At the other end of the town
lies Macuto, where, if lucky, you may “clean up” yourself in a sea-bath,
or a pile of filthy lucre at the roulette table.

As our vessel steamed away from La Guayra, I thought what a magnificent
city it was—from the stern of a ship.

In Valencia I read a placard in a church admonishing the men not to wink
at the girls during service. The town had just been ravaged by a fever
called “Economica,” because it was said the people caught it in the
morning, languished in the afternoon and died at night.

At the Hotel Los Baños, Puerto Cabello, one goes in swimming _au
naturel_. Many modest maidens are only clad in a blush, making a _tableau
vivant_. Verily, as the guide-book saith, “The natural beauties of
the place are charming.” The harbor is deep; so is the despair of the
political prisoners who I saw working in rags. One poor fellow was
toiling away stark naked among the breakers and sharp rocks. It is
reported that the victims are beaten in the early morning, during the
call of the reveille, to cover up their cries.

Caracas, the capital of Venezuela, lies at a 3,000-foot “hell”evation
above the sea. It is the “Paris of South America” with its churches,
parks, public buildings, Pantheon, palace and promenades. The
nerve-center of the city is Plaza Bolivar, with an equestrian statue of
the hero who stood for liberty, and around which congregate people who
stand for everything. Certain “Carac”teristics make this a viva “city”
and lubri “city.” The climate is cool, but tempered by the “melting”
glance of the _bonita muchachas_, whose smiles would ripen peaches on a
wall.

The dapper younkers of Caracas pursue their studies at the University,
and the señoritas on the highway. Their “curriculum” also includes the
race-track, bull-ring, roulette-wheel (as omnipresent as the Victoria
coach-wheel), and art works, imported from Paris and Barcelona, as
vile and vivid as the paintings of Parrhasius. Even picture portraits
of Beethoven and Wagner are made by grouping together nude portions of
female figures.

Lottery-tickets are not the only things sold in town. Mothers come
to the Plaza with their daughters for sale. Wantons from the suburb
lupanars solicit under shadows of the trees, and their “Hist! hist!” is
as familiar as the sibilant call of the _filles publiques_ in Paris, who
figure so frequently in the tales of De Kock, Sue and Maupassant.

At “Madame Gaby’s” mansion of shame I found a girl scarcely 12 years old.
How shocking! But one expects to be shocked in a city that is subject to
earthquakes. Not only pedestrians, but pederasts, i. e., “maricos” or
“fairies,” haunt the streets and parks of Caracas. Powdered and painted,
they promenade with mincing gait and ogling glance, marching to the music
of the band and making “overtures” to the bystanders. The police know of
this disgusting depravity, and of the hordel resorts “for men only,” but
wink at it. This is as rank and rotten as anything I ever saw in Algiers,
or the Cairo “fish-market,” where men were dressed as women.

In old Egypt the Temples of Isis were centers of disgusting filth.
In ancient Greece, even among her greatest orators and philosophers,
“Socratic love” was proverbial and portrayed on the stage in the plays of
Aristophanes, although the Athenians officially punished it with death.
Livy, in his History of Rome, castigates this heresy of love. The Ganymed
pervert, Geiton, is the hero of Petronius’ sinister novel, “Satyricon.”
Martial’s epigrams and Juvenal’s satires flay this moral decadence. Out
from Naples I visited the island of Capri, where the Roman goat Emperor,
Tiberius, hired companies of catamites for his entertainment. Domitan
forbade the practice while Christianity did much to suppress it. The
student of history knows the infamous lives of Russian rulers and of
Henry III, of France, in the seventeenth century. St. Paul scored the
Romans for this sin—what an epistle could he indite against the Caracas
“maricos” who amuse, instead of disgust, the Caraquenians, who seem to
believe with Baudelaire that “_La Débauche et la Mort sont deux amiables
filles_” (Debauch and Death are two amiable girls).

The worst spot in Venezuela is the despot dictator, President Gomez. His
authority is absolute, with the accent on the “loot.” He takes what he
wants; a man’s personal property, wife or daughter. Dark stories make
him a modern Bluebeard. He is a moral and physical leper. Rumor says
that he sacrifices children and drinks their blood to cure his maladies.
Gomez is the government; the legislative, executive and judicial branches
consisting of the cockpit, race-track and palace harem. He has panderers
who scour the country to procure beautiful women for him. His personal
and public character is so putrid, that many of the inhabitants would
like to elect him president of a Guano island, with a salary in Guano. In
the land of Bolivar, the Liberator, Gomez muzzles the press, suppresses
free speech, maintains an army of spies, and has imprisoned some of the
best and brainiest men of Venezuela in horrible dungeons for the crime of
loving liberty. The following would seem to be his daily prayer:

    “My Father which art in Hell, powerful be thy name.

    Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in Venezuela as it is in
    Hell.

    Give me my daily bread, booze, and beef, whether everybody else
    starves or not.

    And forgive me my debts, but not as I forgive my debtors.

    And tempt me not into revolutions with my neighbors, and
    deliver me from the evil of any defeat; for thine and mine is
    the kingdom, and the power, and glory, forever. Amen.”

Coffee, cacao, cane, cattle, corn and illegitimate children are the
principal products of the country. At one time the official census for
three years in Caracas gave legitimate births as 3,848, and illegitimate
as 3,753. The ratio is even worse in the country districts. A Venezuela
bachelor who hasn’t a half-dozen mistresses, has lost caste and is
looked down on; a married man is expected to run two or three home
establishments. Love is free, but drugs are costly. A friend of mine in
the interior had a dear motherly lady come to him and offer her three
daughters for five dollars a week.

’Tis said Alexander the Great wanted to destroy the antique town of
Lamsachus because of its Priapus worship and obscene rites. Caracas was
overturned by an earthquake in 1812, when 12,000 people perished. If that
was a visitation of God’s wrath on account of its wickedness, another
punishment is due, for it is in the class of the “Cities of the Plain”—

    _“Cities of hell, with foul desires demented,_
    _And monstrous pleasures, hour by hour invented.”_

       *       *       *       *       *

Why Sergeants Are Liked

For a miserable hour the new squad had been drilled by the sergeant, and
then this army product remarked sweetly to the men:

“When I was a child I had a set of wooden soldiers. There was a poor
little boy in the neighborhood and after I had been to Sunday school one
day and listened to a talk on the beauties of charity I was softened
enough to give them to him. Then I wanted them back and cried, but my
mother said:

“‘Don’t cry, Bertie, some day you will get your wooden soldiers back.’

“And believe me, you lob-sided, mutton-headed, goofus-brained set of
certified rolling-pins, that day has come.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Parley Vouz?

Several officers were seated around the mess table in France. One
serious-minded major was in habit of taking a French girl out to lunch
two or three times per week and taking a French lesson afterward.

“How much do you figure your French lessons have cost you to date?”
queried one of his companions, winking around the board.

“Roughly?” asked the major.

“No, respectably.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Shocking!

My brother Roscoe, who is a captain in the Air Service, tells the
following:

Officers in a garrison school were studying “Small Problems for
Infantry.” Turning to the large-sized map on the wall, the major
instructor called upon one officer, Jones by name.

“Jones,” said he, “your battalion is camped here at cross-roads 435
(indicating on map). It is enemy country and you are told to cross this
cornfield toward farmhouse half-mile distant for the purpose of bringing
in the farmer or somebody who might furnish information of the movements
of the enemy. It is in September, the corn is cut but not shocked, and
as you make your way across the field you suddenly ran into two young
ladies. What do you do?”

“I-I-I-I don’t know,” falteringly replied the second looey. “I didn’t get
time to study the lesson today. But, did I understand you to say that the
corn had not been shocked?”




_Questions and Answers_


=To Captain Billy= (thru channels)—It is requested that the Captain give
his expert advice on the following subjects: (a) Girl in question insists
on wearing filmy Georgette waists, which are just about as efficient as
chicken wire as far as concealment is concerned. There is no objection on
my part to looking through them, but do not desire others to have same
advantage. (b) Passing along our main drag the other day, observed squab
with brilliant green stockings. Promptly remembered General Order No. 2,
and followed it out to best of my ability, when another one hove in sight
with red, white and blue effect on limbs. Puzzled to know which color to
pay attention to in case it happens again.—=Gerry Ed.=

Indorsements in reply—(a) Would suggest that you drape your girl in
question in heavier attire. (b) You did perfectly right in observing
both sets of stockings, as your general orders are: “To walk my post in
a military manner, observing everything that takes place within sight or
hearing.”

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is most like a hen stealing?—=Dismal Dan.=

A Cock Robin, I s’pose.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Bill=—Who is the lightweight champion of America?—=Private Stock.=

My coal dealer.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is a husband?—=Will B. Schmellie.=

Husbands are very useful things to have about the house. Caught young
they make useful pets and can be taught to do a number of tricks. Some
husbands are domesticated and stay at home in the evenings. I knew one
who used to spend every evening at home. He suffered with gout. Others
stay out late and then, having good friends, they get carried straight
in. The duty of a husband is to touch the cash register and look
pleasant, and so he spent his time trying to live round a seven by six
family on a two by three salary. Very few husbands ever live any longer
than is absolutely necessary.

       *       *       *       *       *

=dEAR WhiZ bAng Bil=—my name is OLE. My brother GUS he go away 7 yeres
ago to work in Minnesoty milkking cows. Ay skol lak to know if your hired
man is my brother GUS, as you SaY in yure magazeen that your hired man
GUS has strong feet.—=Ole Skolstad.=

No, Ole, my hired man is not your brother. He says that all hired men
have a bad odor about their pedals, due, he says, to the brand of snuff
they snoose.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—Do you like Popcorn Balls?—=Sig. R. Liter.=

I don’t know; I never was to one.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—What’s the extreme penalty for bigamy?—=Ophelia
Anckel.=

Two mothers-in-law.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—My husband stays out every night and he always says he
sits up with Jack, but he won’t tell me his friend’s last name. Can you
advise me?—=Grace Gravydisch.=

Your husband probably is attending Jack Pot.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Farmer Bill=—As you are living on a farm, perhaps you may be able
to give me the correct definition of a filly.—=Cobb Webb.=

A filly, my dear sir, is a lady horse that has never had a honeymoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—I’ve heard the expression, “The Evening Wore On,” and will
you please tell me what it wore?—=E. Normous Nutt.=

Must have been wearing The Close of the Day.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—What would you recommend as a good hair tonic?—=Rundown
Ike.=

Wine of Pepsin, but I didn’t think they used it on their hair any more.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—How may I become popular as an aesthetic
dancer?—=Miss Fitt.=

Simply shiver and shake and look wicked.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—Why is a sailor usually referred to as an “Old Salt”?—=Cap
Pistol.=

After saltpeter, which is used so much in the navy as an ingredient in
the manufacture of high explosive shells.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Capt. Billy=—What is a Peruvian Phump?—=G. Howie Pants.=

An animal found only in the Arctic Circle, and having two or more speeds.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—What’s the difference between a model woman and a
woman model?—=Krazy Kookoo.=

A model woman is a bare possibility, while a woman model is a naked fact.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Professor Bill=—What range of mountains did Napoleon cross, what
year, and what mode of travel?—=Hyley Shocked.=

I am not much of an historian but I think it was in 1492 that Napoleon
crossed the Rockies in a canoe.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Capt. Bill=—I have lived in the city all my life but have decided
to become a farmer. Can you tell me whether or not macaroni is a
profitable crop to grow?—=Carse E. Noma.=

They don’t grow macaroni any more, they make it. Just take a big long
hole and put dough around it. I have been told that in some foreign
countries they use this hole for vermicelli.




_Limber Kicks_


Gabriel’s Trump

    The young man led for a heart,
      The maid for a diamond played,
    The old man came down with a club,
      And the sexton used a spade.

       *       *       *       *       *

    It wasn’t the folly of Willie and Molly
    Nor the heat of the sun or the sands,
    That made Willie silly, and Molly so jolly,
    ’Twas the Whiz Bangs they had in their hands.

       *       *       *       *       *

Forgetful Maiden

    “Here’s to the girl who is mine—all mine;
    She drinks and she bets,
    And she smokes cigarettes,
    And, sometimes, I’m told,
    She goes out, and forgets
    That she’s mine—all mine.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Quick, Mama, the Handkerchief

    _The little boy had quite a cold—_
      _The weather it was hot;_
    _I said, “Is that sweat on your lip?”_
      _He said, “No, sir, it’s not.”_




_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”


Less than two short years ago the Whiz Bang was founded, upon my return
from the army, on the Whiz Bang Farm, hoping in so doing that the
veterans and their friends of Robbinsdale and vicinity would be supplied
with samples of the pep and ginger we had in the army and navy and marine
corps. In our opening number, we expressed a faint hope for “big time”
sometime, and that we could follow in the footsteps of the Cherry Sisters
of vaudeville.

Our hopes and aspirations have been more than fulfilled. In twenty
months, without the aid of advertising or circulation campaigns, and
without a single subscription agent in the field, we have grown from
3,500 circulation in October, 1919, to more than 300,000 guaranteed
paid circulation with this issue, May, 1921. America surely has given
us a grand reception, and we are grateful. Next month we are planning
on letting our Canadian neighbors get our bundle of farm filosophy, and
as quickly as newsdealers can be communicated with, we will open up new
territory.

Here’s thanks to you, folks, one and all. And we want you to consider
yourself as associate editors. If you have a story, or a joke, or a
question for Captain Billy to answer, or a verse, or prose, or a catchy
saying—send it in.

And as a grand finale, so to speak, the Whiz Bang will stay in the fight
for the rights of all mankind to enjoy that liberty—the full measure of
our personal and national liberty—for which we bucked the bean line in
khaki and blue in the recent war. We will stand firmly opposed to any
invasion of our inherent rights to the pursuit of happiness, health and
prosperity.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rôle of the drum is anything but hum-drum. The ear-drum recognizes
the sound of a drum whether the instrument is side, snare, brass or
kettle. In travel I have seen and heard drums big and little, round,
cylindrical, high and low, loud and soft, wild and weird; played by
head, hand and foot—played fast and slow in life and death, peace and
war—played by savage and by civilized man in the desert or orchestra hall.

Savages, whose natural argument was a blow on the head to beat out their
enemies’ brains, naturally fell into a percussion style of music and
invented the drum, often the sole as well as the chief musical instrument.

The drum figures in this world from religion to ragtime—from the
Salvation Army to the jazz band.

Deborah’s timbrel was a sort of drum. The old tom-tom at an Indian
snake-charming doubtless had its counterpart in Egypt in 1600 B. C., and
one listens to that same noise in modern Cairo. The dull sound that
waked my dreams in the Alhambra was from a drum the Moor had brought from
the East after a crusade.

Music is a universal language, and the despised, unmusical drum has a
polyglot tongue. All other musical instruments have their speech of
sentiment, love and emotion, but the voice of the drum knows the eloquent
language of liberty and can get more volunteers for God, home and native
land than all the orators. The roll of the drum, like that of the sea,
fills the soul’s shore-line and its every bay and gulf. Heine says that
the history of the storming of the Bastile cannot be correctly understood
until we know how the drumming was done.

The reveille of the drum means that it is time to get up, and there is a
fable of its resurrection meaning in the old legend of soldiers, fallen
in battle, who by night rose from the grave in the battlefield, and with
drummer at their head, marched back to their native home.

There is a pathetic story in French history of Napoleon’s nameless
drummer-boy being swept from the ranks, by the sudden dash of an
avalanche, into an Alpine valley. He was uninjured and the drum still
hung suspended from his neck. He waved his hands to the soldiers 200
feet above him and began to drum, playing the tattoo, the reveille, the
advance and the charge. But there was no time to rescue him, the soldiers
passed on, and the last thing they heard in the clear, cold air was the
beat of a funeral march. Then the little drummer boy lay on the snow
bank to die with the snow for his shroud and the falling night for his
pall. For years the veterans of the Italian campaign hushed their voices
at the campfire, as they told the story of Napoleon’s drummer-boy, whose
slender body lay frozen beside his drum in the silent solitudes of the
snowy Alps.

In patriotic art we have the spirit of ’76. Germany has used the drum as
a favorite means to raise recruits—we have done it against her, and by
God’s grace will give her a drum-head court martial before long, though
the world is waiting for the time Tennyson speaks of, “When the war-drum
throbs no longer.”

The drum is the heart-beat of a liberty-loving humanity. The Fourth of
July drum recalls the spirit of 1917, when Uncle Sam started to make the
world habitable and we prayed that the American eagle might beat out the
brains of Germany’s two-headed vulture; recalls the spirit of the Spanish
War to give Cuba and the Philippines human rights; recalls the War of the
Rebellion for the union of all creeds, colors and conditions; recalls the
war of Mexico for a square deal for Americans; recalls the war of 1812
for free commerce of our ships upon the high seas; recalls the war of
1776 for liberty by the noble colonists.

I believe in the drum. Can you beat it? Hurrah for Uncle Sam, the
drum-major of the world in the march for freedom of body, mind and soul,
always and everywhere!

       *       *       *       *       *

Several persons of our acquaintance have asked why we refer to marriage
in the same sentence with war. There is no difference.

A fellow meets a girl and decides that she is the woman he wants to
“battle” through life with.

You “present arms” and she “falls in.”

You talk it over and decide on an “engagement.” At the marriage license
bureau you “sign up.” A minister “swears you in.”

There are only a few “skirmishes” during the courtship. The real
“fighting” starts after marriage. That’s when a man thinks he’s a
“Colonel,” and he’s only a nut.

In the house, as well as on the “battlefield,” they use “hand-grenades,”
such as flatirons, pots, and rolling pins.

The wife is usually a good “rifler.” She rifles your pockets every night,
takes your large money, and “confines you to quarters.”

Whether you have done anything or not, she always has you on the “mess
detail.” She makes her “counter attacks” in the department stores, and
she knows how to “charge.”

She is your “Commanding Officer,” and you are her “Supply Officer.”

In the game the fiercest fight is always to come. Wait until the
“infantry” arrives. Instead of “shouldering arms,” you shoulder the baby.
On the battlefields, shells may screech and scream, but they have nothing
on the kid. You get your “walking papers” every night. This is the only
“hike” you take.

In war, you sign up for four years. There is no such clause as that in
your wedding certificate. You can get exemption from war on account of
marriage, but you can’t get exempt from marriage on account of war.

       *       *       *       *       *

One outraged pulpit orator states that when the average society girl
enters the ballroom in these depraved times she has on only four
garments, but we take it for granted he didn’t count shoes and stockings
in making up his estimate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now one of our most eminent medical scientists announces that hiccoughs
may be stopped immediately by placing one’s index finger on the patient’s
fifth curvicular nerve and pressing hard, but we must find out definitely
where the fifth curvicular nerve is before trying this simple remedy on
the next hiccoughing girl friend we happen to be with.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little fun occasionally is all right, but life is too short and too
serious to spend it all around the monkey cage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stop—Look—Listen

    “I do not fear a siren
      With a mass of midnight hair;
    With wicked, drooping eyelids,
      And a blase, worldly air;
    But, oh, I cross my fingers,
      And I breathe a little prayer,
    When I meet a blond-haired cutie,
      With a blue-eyed baby stare!”




_Smokehouse Poetry_


_Another red-blooded verse, dedicated to the great American rambler, will
appear in the Whiz Bang for June—“The Gila Monster Route,” being the tale
of a hobo on the Southern Pacific “Sunset” route. Excerpts from the poem
give the swing:_

    _“A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo,_
    _On a hostile pike without a show;_
    _’Neath a cactus tree, with sand piled deep,_
    _On the Gila route came his last long sleep.”_

_Recently the Whiz Bang received a letter from the cellhouse of Alcatraz
federal penitentiary, located on an island overlooking San Francisco—the
dread of the army—and in this letter was a pathetic poem from a prisoner,
who begs that we publish it for the benefit of the humans on the “great
outside.”_

    _“To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,_
      _Where the eyes of mankind are blind,_
    _To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,_
      _Eternally losing your mind.”_

_This appeal also will appear in the June Whiz Bang._

       *       *       *       *       *

_So many calls have been received at the Whiz Bang Farm for back copies
containing certain Smokehouse Poems that we’ve decided to put out a book
containing many of the gems of past issues, as well as new red-blooded
poems, to be ready for our readers early this fall. The book of
Smokehouse Poetry will be in addition to our new Winter Annual—Follies
of 1921-22, which will be ready for you in October with ALL NEW
STUFF—jokes, jingles, stories, prose, poetry, pot pourri, advice to
love-lorn and love-shorn, and, oh, we just hate to tell you of the many
bright surprises._

_We’ve also had many calls for the works of Robert W. Service, which
we must refer to the publishers, Barse & Hopkins, 21 Division Street,
Newark, N. J._

       *       *       *       *       *

Or Ever the Knightly Years Were Gone

By William Ernest Henley

    Or ever the knightly years were gone,
      With the old world to the grave,
    I was a king in Babylon,
      And you were a Christian slave.

    I saw, I took, I cast you by,
      I bent and broke your pride,
    You loved me well, or I heard them lie,
      But your longing was denied;
    Surely I knew that by and by
      You cursed your gods and died.

    And a myriad suns have set and shone,
      Since then upon the grave,
    Decreed by the king in Babylon,
      To her that had been his slave.

    The pride I trampled is now my scathe,
      For it tramples me again,
    The old resentment lasts like death,
      For you love, yet you refrain,
    I break my heart on your hard unfaith,
      And I break my heart in vain.

    Yet not for an hour do I wish undone,
      The dead beyond the grave,
    When I was a king in Babylon,
      And you were a Virgin slave.

       *       *       *       *       *

Toledo Slim

_The Whiz Bang has received so many requests for “Toledo Slim” that we
will herewith publish this virile poem of the underworld._

    We were seated in a pool room on a cold December day,
    Telling jokes and funny stories just to pass the time away;
    When the door was softly opened and a form walked slowly in;
    All the boys soon stopped their kidding when they saw Toledo Slim.
    But a different man was he and they hardly knew the guy;
    He no longer wore the glad rags he had worn in days gone by.
    He took a look around him as he crept into the place.
    And we saw a look of hunger on his dirty, grimy face.
    “Hello, Slim, old pal!” said Boston Red; “you’re lookin’ on the pork;
    Why, you used to be the swellest guy of any in New York.
    Come, tell us, Slim, what happened that you are on the bum?”
    The crowd then gathered ’round him and the story Slim begun.

    ’Tis true I’m on the bum, boys; I’m on the hog for fair.
    But in the past I led them all, my roll was always there.
    I never turned an old pal down, I spent my money free.
    And all the sports along the line were glad to stick with me.
    I was an all ’round hustler, I trimmed the birdies right.
    I never shied at any game when greenbacks were in sight,
    But one sad night I met my fate; I fell like many more,
    That’s how I’m on the bum, boys, played out and feeling sore;
    It happened just five years ago, if I remember right,
    I trimmed a sucker for a roll and felt most out of sight.

    I took a stroll along the line; “set up” for all the boys,
    And just to pass the time away I dropped in Kid McCoy’s.
    And while I sat there drinking, getting on a mighty stew,
    A dead swell dame came in the place and sat beside me, too.
    I asked her if she’d have a drink, she sweetly said she would,
    And as I gazed into her eyes, I thought I understood.
    Perhaps you’ll think me fickle, pals, but it isn’t any dream;
    For when it comes to peachy looks that “Tommy” was the queen.

    We “chewed the rag” for quite a while, I “shot the con” for fair,
    (And when it comes to spreading salve, you may gamble I was there.)
    I told her I would place her in a finely furnished flat,
    And when the joint closed up that night I had my girlie pat.
    Next day we saw the parson and paid a month’s rent down.
    And then she went a hustling for work around the town.
    She’d get up in the morning, go out and get the grub;
    While I lay in my downy bed so humble and so snug.
    But if the day proved gloomy, then in the house we’d stop.
    She’d gather ’round the lay-out while I cooked the fragrant hop.
    When winter drew around at last and things were going fine,
    We had the swellest flat of any couple on the line.

    One night I had a job to do, the richest home in town;
    I got my tools and started out with my pal, Jackie Brown.
    We never thought we’d get a blow, the thing looked like a pipe.
    With all the folks a-sleeping and not a soul in sight,
    We put the goods into a sheet and started down the block.
    And just as luck would have it we bumped into a cop.
    We dropped the swag quick as a flash and started on the run,
    With the copper close behind us, a-shooting off his gun.
    But we were fleet as greyhounds and were halfway down the street,
    When a bullet hit me in the leg and I knew that I was beat.
    The copper stopped to handcuff me while Jackie got away,
    And I never saw his face again for many and many a day.

    Well, boys, I know you’ll guess the rest; they made short work of me.
    They sent me up the river to do my little “V.”
    But still I did not worry; I thought my girl would stick
    And keep the flat a-going while I did my little trick;
    I never thought she’d turn me down in 40,000 years;
    But when I think of what came off it almost brings the tears.

    At last the long years passed away and one bright summer day
    I started back to old New York so happy and so gay,
    But when I reached my little flat I found my girl had flown—
    She had run away with Jackie and left me all alone.
    It was then I took to boozing and went from bad to worse;
    I tried to drown my sorrow and forget the bitter curse,
    But the memory of that pretty face was always on my mind,
    So I searched the city over, but no trace of her could find.
    I roamed the streets at leisure seeking vainly for my prey,
    Looking for the man that ruined me and stole my girl away.
    I swore that I’d have his life for the trick that he had done.

    So I searched the country everywhere, knowing well my time would come.
    One day I met a wise guy who knew my pal full well.
    He said he was in ’Frisco and living mighty swell.
    The girl had died in Denver of consumption, so he said,
    Where my former pal had left her to starve from want of bread.
    It happened at a time, boys, when I didn’t have a cent;
    So I beat my way to Frisco with my mind on vengeance bent.

    One foggy day on Market Street I met him sure as fate;
    He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late.
    I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,
    And then I made my getaway and “glommed” an eastbound train.
    That’s all there is to tell, boys; I’m like the rest of bums,
    I’ve lost all my ambition and don’t care what becomes—
    And as he finished talking, from his hip he drew a gun.
    In a moment came a sharp report—his grafting days were done.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Midnight Glide of Pauline Revere

    Listen, my children, and you shall hear,
    Of the famous wife of Paul Revere;
    While Paul flivvered out on his midnight ride,
    Do you think she camped at the old fireside?
    Emphatically no, but like the modern girl,
    She busted right out for a shimmie whirl,
    She parked where the lights were glowing bright,
    To do a few steps of the “Hold-Me-Tight;”
    She “copped” a partner, a boy from college,
    Who just returned from a hall of knowledge,
    With a bean chuck full of “mule” and school,
    This “rah-rah” boy was a dancing fool;
    They dangled a hoof and shook them all,
    From the “Frontporch-Swing” to the “Downstairs-Fall,”
    When the band started jazzing that song of repose
    Of “Just Kiss Me, Doc, and Burn All My Clothes,”
    They would clinch and grapple in vise-like embrace,
    And he’d plant his “map” up the side of her face.
    With his right “lunch-hook” her waist he’d entwine,
    You’d almost think he was massaging her spine.
    And thus clamped together they would trot and trip
    And shake all the movements of the “Slovenly-Slip,”
    The “Kitchen-Sink” and the “Box-Car-Bump,”
    The “Cellar-Step” and the “Public-Dump,”
    The “Old-Boardwalk” and the “Arctic-Shivver,”
    The “Back-Yard-Dash” and the “St. Vitus Quiver,”
    The “Old-Milk-Shake” and the “Slippery-Slide,”
    The “Wormy-Wiggle” and the “Peruvian-Glide.”
    The Moral is this, “When all’s done and said,
    Why go to a dance, when you got music at home?”

                                                  —W. K. Edwards.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Anxious Dead

_In the April issue, the Whiz Bang published the noted poem of Lt.
Col. John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.” Here is his other masterpiece,
“The Anxious Dead,” and also “America’s Answer,” by R. W. Lillard, and
“Poppies,” by J. Eugene Chrisman._

By Lt.-Col. John McCrae

    Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
      Above their heads the legions passing on;
    Those fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
      And died not knowing how the day had gone.

    Oh flashing muzzle, pause and let them see,
      The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
    Then let your mighty chorus witness be
      To them and Caesar, that we still make war.

    Tell them, oh guns, that we have heard their call,
      That we have sworn and will not turn aside,
    That we will onward till we win or fall,
      That we will keep the faith for which they died.

    Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
      They shall feel earth enrapt in silence deep,
    Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
      And in content may turn them to their sleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

America’s Answer

By R. W. Lillard

    Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
    The fight that ye so bravely led
    We’ve taken up. And we will keep
    True faith with you who lie asleep
    With each a cross to mark his bed,
    And poppies blowing overhead,
    Where once his own life blood ran red.
    So let your rest be sweet and deep
            In Flanders fields.
    Fear not that ye have died for naught.
    The torch ye threw to us we caught.
        Ten million hands will hold it high,
        And Freedom’s light will never die!
    We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
            In Flanders fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

Poppies

By J. Eugene Chrisman

    Poppies?
    Not for me, buddy!
    Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em,
    Plain red hell—they—
    They remind me——

    And folks plant ’em around
    Gardens—huh!
    Says one old dame to me,
    “Don’t they bring back,” says she,
    “The poppied fields of Flanders?”
    “Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva—
    But who wants ’em brung back—huh?
    Say, buddy,
    If she’d seen poppies
    Like I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres—
    Scattered through the wheat-fields,
    Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies—
    Yeah—mostly!

    Slim—my buddy—old scout
    Slept under the same handkerchief,
    Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go!
    I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I—
    Day we kicked off west o’ Château-Thierry
    Down the valley—
    Poppies—say,
    You couldn’t rest for poppies.
    Then the Jerries cut loose
    Machine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle.
    Poppy leaves—bits o’ red
    Flickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind,
    Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world!
    Got old Slim—got him right!
    Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’!
    Don’t talk poppies to me—
    Skunk cabbage first—=compree=?
    If you’d seen old Slim—
    Boy, he died =wallerin’= in poppies!
    Poppies—
                          Hell!

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Lonely Love-Sick Gob

_This poem was not written by Kipling, nor has it passed the scrutiny of
our village schoolmaster, but what it lacks in rhetoric is made up in
punch. “I made this up about a girl that turned me down over a shipmate
of mine, and will thank you to publish it for the benefit of other
love-sick gobs,” writes the author, a sailor at the Philadelphia naval
station._

    Now, listen shipmates, listen,
      And I shall tell to you,
    How once I met a girlie,
      Just like other fellows do.

    I loved her, yes, I loved her,
      And I know she knew it well,
    But I tipped her to a shipmate,
      And he held her in his spell.

    He enraptured her with stories,
      And he said I was not true,
    When next I met my loved one,
      She said, “I’m through with you.”

    I’ve told you all I know, boys,
      Or all I care to tell,
    So if you love a girlie, Gobs,
      Have your shipmates go tu’ell.

       *       *       *       *       *

Human Nature

    Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
    Peroxide makes the blonde grow blonder,
    Onions make the breath grow stronger,
    But Bunk makes the grass grow longer.

       *       *       *       *       *

    I love a lassie,
    She’s skinny, but she’s classy,
    She’s as neat as the paper on the wall;
    She’s got a face like a dragon,
    A shape like a horse and wagon,
    She’s my lassie of the Scotch mask ball.

       *       *       *       *       *

Soldier’s Prayer

    Now I lay me down to sleep,
    I pray Thee, please, my soul to keep,
    Grant no other soldier take
    My shoes and socks before I wake.

    Try and guard me in my sleep,
    And keep my bunk upon its feet,
    And in the morning let me wake
    Breathing whiffs of sirloin steak.

    Please protect me in my dreams,
    And make it better than it seems,
    Grant the time may swiftly fly
    When I myself may rest (or try)
    In a snowy feather bed,
    With a pillow ’neath my head.

    Far away from all these scenes,
    From the smell of hash and beans,
    Take me back into the land,
    Where they don’t scrub down with sand.

    And Thou knowest all my woes,
    Feed me in my dyin’ throes,
    Take me back and I promise Thee
    Never more to cross the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

My Sarah Jane

    She’s knockkneed; she’s lazy;
    She’s bow-legged; she’s crazy;
    She’s maul-eyed, she’s wall-eyed, she’s lame.
    Well, her teeth are all false, from indulging in salts,
    She’s my cockeyed, consumptive Plain Jane.

       *       *       *       *       *

My Girl

    My girl was the best of girls,
    Her curls were the prettiest of curls.
    No girl had lips so sweet,
    No girl had such dainty feet.
    My girl never told a lie,
    Not even to me.
    What a shame my girl must die
    At the age of three.




_Budd’s Bundle of Bunk_

BY BUDD L. McKILLIPS

_Author of “After the Raid”_


This talk of blue laws gets my goat; reformers make me sore. I’d like to
take them by the throat and kick them through the door. Time was I used
to drink some beer, and maybe sing a song—perhaps I got soused once a
year, and didn’t think it wrong.

But now if I desire a drink, some basement I must find, and if I get by
with a wink perhaps I may go blind. The beer I drank was harmless stuff,
’twas made of hops and grain; the hootch today is made of snuff, ground
glass and paint and rain.

Three weeks ago I took a drink—just one, I took no more; if I had two I
really think I’d whipped an army corps. The one I took was bad enough, it
stood me on my neck, and then I started to get rough and made the place
a wreck. Somebody called three policemen in, they sat upon my brow and
kicked me underneath the chin—I’ve got the marks there now. A riot call
brought out more troops who battered me with clubs, then locked me in the
city coops with ninety other dubs.

My friends chipped in and paid my fine of thirty thousand bucks, the
doctors patched my head and spine—that cost five hundred shucks. When
I got well my friends I told I’d never drink again, but soon I caught a
beastly cold that filled my soul with pain. In olden days I’d hit the hay
with half a pint of “Crow” and sure as fate in half a day the cold was
sure to go.

This time I hunted up a doc and told him of my ills. His heart was harder
than a rock—he gave me quinine pills. I took the pills to the lagoon and
fed them to the ducks, then bought a quart of fresh-made “moon” that cost
me seven bucks.

That night in bed I took a shot to drive the cold away; I woke up in a
vacant lot at 10 a. m. next day.

From now on henceforth I am through with booze that makes me fight with
elephants of vivid hue, and sleep in trees at night. No more I’ll sample
raisin “skee” that causes much turmoil. I’ll take a chance on T. N. T.,
bay rum or croton oil.

There’s not much fun in life because there’s naught but woe and pain
that’s come from passing foolish laws—I guess I’ll go to Spain.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, He’s Some Place

    Jenkins made some hootch of raisins,
      Yeast, potatoes, let it stand
    For three weeks, then tried to drink it,
      Now he’s with the angel band.

       *       *       *       *       *

Candy Kisses

I went to kiss my girl good-night and she had no teeth. Every time I
kissed her I saw a gum drop.




_Pasture Pot Pourri_


_I can’t place you, but your breath smells familiar._

       *       *       *       *       *

A Cold One

    It isn’t the cough that carries you off,
    It’s the coffin they carry you offin.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Never steal a watch, because a lawyer will eventually get the case and
you the works._

       *       *       *       *       *

I want a girl and I want her bad.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gus’s Favorite Song

    The old gray mare she sits on the whipple tree;
    Sits on the whipple tree; sits on the whipple tree;
    The old gray mare, she sits on the whipple tree,
    All the whole day long.

       *       *       *       *       *

Is your boss broadminded?

I should say so; he was out with two last night.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pat and Mike staggered weakly to the rail of the pitching liner.
“Begorra,” said Pat, “Oi don’t blame Christ for walking.”

       *       *       *       *       *

If ignorance is a blister, don’t be an abscess.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Girls, whatever you do—don’t get married. Bring your children up the
same way._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Women can do things manly,
      And do them without a frown,
    But when she starts to climb a tree,
      It’s time to call her down.

       *       *       *       *       *

Love is like hash—you must have confidence to enjoy it.

       *       *       *       *       *

_No, Geraldine, just because a cranky woman is sometimes called an old
cat is no reason you should refer to a voting woman as a poll cat._

       *       *       *       *       *

    Now Mary had a swarm of bees,
      She loved their buzzing lives;
    They also loved their Mary, ’cause
      Their Mary had the hives.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our motto for May: “You’re a million miles from nowhere when you hold her
dainty hand.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Since the Dutch Room Raid

    Here’s to San Diego—the best town all around;
    Here’s to dear old Boston—the city of the sound;
    Here’s to good Chicago that once was up-to-date;
    And here’s to Minneapolis—she’s been so dead of late.

       *       *       *       *       *

We lost our good spirit when they took away our booze.




_Classified Ads_


Waiting on the Corner

(From the Des Moines Register.)

Will the elderly gentleman, owner of the Cadillac sedan, who left young
widow on Sixth avenue, a week before Christmas, let me hear from him
through this paper? Strictly confidential.

       *       *       *       *       *

Convalescent

(From the Montezuma, Colo., Journal)

A. O. Lindquist, who was married three weeks ago, is able to be out
again and will likely be able to assume his duties as a carpenter and
contractor soon.

       *       *       *       *       *

Come One, Come All

(From the Marengo Republican-News)

Baptist Church, 7:30 p. m.—Popular evening service. Subject, “Fools and
Idiots.” A large number are expected.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Church Was Packed

(From the Miller, S. D., Press)

Next Sunday morning the minister is going to, in his sermon, reveal:
“How To Meet the Demand for Wine.” The superintendent of the Sunday
School announces that the supplies for the quarter are at hand and may be
secured by the teachers at the church.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh, Very Well!

(From the Kewanee Star-Courier)

Notice—I have been getting numerous calls for nursing. I wish not to be
called as my health does not permit me to overdo. Especially I have two
canaries and house flowers to care for. I may, when weather gets warmer
take a few cases. Mrs. Lizzie Hague, 638 Pine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Add Signs of Spring

(From the Omaha World-Herald.)

Female cinnamon color canary wants to mate. Walnut 1936.

       *       *       *       *       *

Accommodating

(From Seattle Times)

Mrs. Hausman can accommodate 2 or 3 young men. 721 9th Ave. Elliott 2161.

       *       *       *       *       *

Or Any Old Color

(From Pittsburg Press)

BLACK OR WHITE?—What about it? Margaret Livingston, Ince movie star,
says white stockings make the legs appear larger and more shapely. She’d
get our vote in red ones. Some negligee, Peggy has. No, dear, you’re
wrong—negligee is wearing apparel.

       *       *       *       *       *

And a Child Shall Lead Them

(From Memphis Commercial Appeal)

Housekeeper wanted at once; must have a child, by a widower 60 years of
age. Nice furnished home and farm. Will give an interest. Wood Lawn Farm,
Havana, Ark.

       *       *       *       *       *

West Side or Out Side

(From Grand Rapids Press)

WANTED—Breast milk; must be on west side.—66101.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Way It Was Done

(From East Peoria Post.)

New Years Day our young friends, Miss Hattie Cochran and Mr. Elias King
without any ceremony at all were united in the bonds of holy wedlock.

       *       *       *       *       *

They Make the Best Kind

(From the Oberlin, O., Tribune.)

WANTED—A husband; must be a sinner; none other need apply. P. O. Box 61,
Oberlin.




_Musings of a Bachelor_


There are three kinds of females—foolish girls, damphoolish girls and
married women.

Strong perfume has never yet become an excuse for not bathing.

When a man becomes so well acquainted with a girl that she tells him
“Now, stop,” he is fairly well acquainted.

Most men have quit wearing suspenders, but that’s about all some women
wear.

There are a number of ways to kiss a girl, but only one way to kiss a
married woman.

A girl with a quart of hootch is more popular these days than the girl
with a ton of good looks.

Telephone girls who say over the wire “Numbah, please,” are the same ones
who at home shout “Hey, pass them spuds.”

Long ago I was taught that “All is not gold that glitters,” and more
recently I have found out that all who flap are not flappers.

Girls who live in glass houses should always pull down the shades.

Girls with highly polished finger nails are generally the ones with runs
in silk hosiery.

When women get their heads together and whisper, they’re talking about
some other woman; when men do the same they’re discussing the latest
recipe for home-made hootch.

A woman who will faint at the sight of a mouse will tell you that the
prize fight she saw was very tame.

A friend of mine wanted to buy a vamp table. I didn’t know what a vamp
table was. He said it was a table with straight legs and without anything
on top.

There are some girls who, at a theater, insist upon whispering to their
escort that “the man on the other side is trying to flirt with me.”

Chewing tobacco seems to have passed out with booze and suspenders. A
real “man” nowadays wears a belt and a wrist watch and smokes pills.

Somebody has said recently that jazz music is the voice of the devil. But
who the devil cares?

When a woman threatens to scream you can be sure she won’t.

An optimist is a member of the bartenders’ union who is still paying dues.

There are some married women who would like to play football providing
there weren’t any goal posts.

A boxer who fights his battles in the ring instead of in the columns
of the newspapers is a sufficient attraction these days to merit
considerable attention.

A young woman tries to please man. When she gets old she tries to please
God.

It’s a long way from Los Angeles to Palm Beach but the styles in bathing
suits of the Mack Sennett queens and the dames of high society seem about
the same.

Electric lights were never made for courting. In the days of the gas jet
a fellow could turn down the light a little at a time. Now he has to snap
off the electricity all at once and take a chance.

There may be a good many arguments against the restoration of the good
old four per cent beer, but right now we can’t think of a single one.

There were more divorces, more murders, more burglaries in New York in
1920 than in 1919. Hooray for prohibition!

As we remember the arguments of the prohibitionists a dry country would
be nothing short of Utopia. There wasn’t going to be any crime nor any
marital difficulties nor were any young girls going to go wrong. It is a
merry world, my masters.

It costs so much nowadays to get a house to live in and enough booze for
the house warming that there isn’t anything left for furniture.

       *       *       *       *       *

    My love for you my pretty one
      Is like a beacon-light,
    It smoulders in the daytime
      But burneth bright at night.

       *       *       *       *       *

    She tends the locks upon the dam,
      He tries not to offend her,
    For fear she’ll fire him off the job;
      In fact he’s too, dam tender.




_Our Rural Mail Box_


=Belle=—We can’t use your story, but you win the diamond studded stomach
pump.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Sweet Marie=—The bridegroom should not see the bride on the day of
the wedding until he meets her in the church or in front of Court
Commissioner Bates. However, if you have any apprehensions, you might ask
your big brother to keep an eye on him. Men are so fickle, you know.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dolly=—It is not, generally speaking, correct to send invitations for
the wedding and christening simultaneously. Circumstances quite often
alter cases, however.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Will E. Crowder=—You should not doubt. Did you not say you met her
walking home after an automobile ride?

       *       *       *       *       *

=Grace=—Congratulations. A baby will make love stronger, days shorter,
nights longer, bankroll smaller, home happier, and clothes shabbier. I
know, for I’ve brought up five of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Deep Stuff

    A young man who hailed from Thief River,
    Made love to his girl in a fliver,
      The car hit a tree,
      She cried, “Oh, dear me,
    I fear I have fractured my liver.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Cannibalism

    A handsome young flyer named Slater
    Loved madly a girl in Decatur;
      One night in the rain,
      They eloped in his plane.
    They claim now that young aviator.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sing This Merrily

    Roses are red,
    Violets are blue,
    You chase me,
    And I’ll chase you.

       *       *       *       *       *

Treat ’em Rough

    She gazed into his angry eyes,
      And he gazed back at her,
    With brow as dark as stormy skies,
      He told her what she “were.”
    His fingers circled round her neck,
      He kicked her in the slats,
    Then as he searched for broom and mop,
      He cried, “Gol darn those cats!”




_Jest Jokes and Jingles_


In Memoriam

To a chemistry student who drank Sulphuric Acid thinking it was water.

    Here lies the remains of William Dough;
      Now he is no more,
    For what he thought was H₂O
      Was H₂SO₄.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Murphy was getting the supper for the children on Saturday night,
when a young woman came to her door.

“I’m a collector for the Drunkards’ Home,” she said, “Could you help us?”

“Come around tonight and I’ll give you Murphy,” she replied, as she went
on with her work.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Elsie had a little light,
    She had it trained no doubt,
    Cause every time that William called,
    That little light went out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just Like a Wife

Two more cases of talking sickness have been reported. It is needless to
say that both of them are women.

       *       *       *       *       *

Life

Chapter I.

“Glad to meet you.”

Chapter II.

“Isn’t the moon beautiful?”

Chapter III.

“Just one more, dear … please!”

Chapter IV.

“Do you…?”

“I do…”

Chapter V.

Da—da—da—da.

Chapter VI.

“Whereinell’s dinner?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Anatomy Students, Attention

(Terre Haute, Ind., Post)

Gertrude Hoffman, classic dancer, was considering the advisability of
muzzling her pet snake today. While she was dancing the “Princess of
Rajah” last night, the reptile bit her on the left leg, between the
overture and the climax.

       *       *       *       *       *

    “These stockings were all in this world,” she said,
        “That my poor mother left to me.”
    The lawyer said, as the will he read:
        “What a beautiful legacy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

My Gawd, Dearie!

We see by the public print where Richard G. Badger is the author of a new
book on “Nervous Children—Their Prevention and Management.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Wondairful Climax!

A French officer, a military attaché in Washington, was invited to a
golden wedding. Had a fine time and desired to thank his host upon
departing.

“Had ze gran’ evening,” quoth he. “Ze Americain is ver’ nice to ze
Frenchman. But I would ver’ much like to know what is zees Golden
Wedding?”

His host explained in detail that he and his better half had been living
together for fifty long years in perfect harmony and accord.

“Wondairful! Wondairful!” exclaimed the Frenchman, patting his hands
together excitedly. “And now after fifty years zis wondairful wedding.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Twice Told Tale

    A teddy bear sat on the ice
      As cold as cold could be.
    But soon he up and walked away,
      “My tale is told,” said he.

       *       *       *       *       *

There’s a Limit

    Said he, “Sweet maiden, ere we part,
        Believe me, I can see,
    That you possess a loving heart,
        A heart that beats for me.”
    “Great Scott,” the maiden murmured low,
        Beneath her wide-brimmed hat;
    “I didn’t realize I was so
        Decollette as that.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Prohibition agents rush in where bootleggers fear to tread.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some Bugler

Two soldiers in a negro regiment, says the Gold Chevron, were boasting
about their company buglers.

“G’long wit’ you boy,” said one; “you ain’t got no booglers. We is got
the boogler, and when that boy wraps his lips around that horn and blows
pay call, it sounds jest like a symphony band playin’.”

“Well, if you like music, that’s all right; but if you is yearnin’ fo’
food, you wants a boogler with a hypnotic note, like we is got. Boy, when
Ah hears ole Custard-Mouth Jones discharge his blast Ah looks at mah
beans and Ah says:

“Strawberries, behave yo’selves! You is crowdin’ all the whip cream out
of mah dish.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Ching Wong Long and Ching Fong Luey_
    _Started in to eat chop-suey._
    _They ate and ate until they died,_
    _Did they commit “chop sueycide”?_

       *       *       *       *       *

More Latin

    Boyabus kissabus girlabussorum,
    Girlabus likabus wanta somorum,
    Papabus hearabus kissabussorum,
    Kickabus boyabus outa the doorum,
    Darkabus nightabus no lightabossorum,
    Climbabus gatepost, breechibus torum.

       *       *       *       *       *

Remember, my son, that a giggling girl is apt to become a cackling woman.

       *       *       *       *       *

Those Dreadful Drummers

Four or five jolly drummers gathered in the smoking compartment of a
Pullman car, and soon their conversation drifted to the great problem of
the day—women. In the party also was a frock-coated pastor of serious
mien.

The salesmen winked at each other as the minister entered, and then, as
if to have some harmless pleasure, one after another started telling of
the wonderful virtues of the knights of the grip.

“I am often away from home for four weeks at a time,” one salesman
commenced, “and I never even look at another woman.”

“And I am so bound up in the charms of my wife that I’m ashamed to tip
the check girls,” declared the next one.

“Why, my wife is so good to me that I won’t allow a woman to wait on me
in a restaurant,” said another.

Their conversation sounded too much like unadulterated bunk for the good
minister to swallow, and he joined the party by offering a silk hat to
any salesman present who could truthfully say he had always been faithful
to his wife. The pastor won his point and the conversation soon drifted
to other subjects.

The next day one of the salesmen arrived home and soon told his wife of
the jolly party in the Pullman smoker.

“But, John,” she said, “why didn’t you take him up?” John’s active
salesman brain worked quickly.

“Why, Mable, you know I look like hell in a silk hat.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It Was Ocean Blood

A Whiz Bang gob writes to ye editor and asserts that our story in the
April issue about the Scotchman who was hurt while carrying hootch was
incorrect, in that the real hero was a sailor. This is the true history
of the case, he avers:

The gob was coming down the street with two bottles under his pea-coat,
when he saw a fellow shipmate in a fight with three men across the way.
He promptly sailed across and waded in. In fifteen minutes or so he
heaved to as he felt a warm liquid running down his side. Rolling his
eyes heavenward, he groaned, “Oh, Gawsch! I hope I’m stabbed!”

       *       *       *       *       *

    She was a sweet and pretty miss,
        So dainty and demure,
    She lived down by the race track
        And all the horsemen knew her.

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Don’t dress that hen inside the house,”
        The wife was heard to mutter.
    “All right,” said he, “I’ll stand outside
        Upon the curb and gutter.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Hope of the Fat

The incorrigible joker stood outside the Great Synagogue, as the Chosen
were pouring out, last Shobboz, and declaimed: “There is a divinity that
shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.”

And a fat, greasy-looking little man sidled up to him and wheezed:

“Do you vant to thsee the rabbi, misther?”

       *       *       *       *       *

You Can’t Fool ’em at Tall

He had been married about six months, during which time he had made the
most strenuous endeavors to abandon his former naughty ways and to give
up his intemperate bachelor friends and the numerous pretty ladies with
whom he had so long been associated. But it happened one day that he
fell in with a very dear friend, till in a somewhat dazed condition he
eventually fetched up at his “home sweet” ’round about five o’clock on
the following morning. Stealthily he crept upstairs to bed and wifie
being, as he imagined, asleep, equally stealthily did he start to undress
in the cold, gray light of dawn. For a time all went well; then suddenly
a voice rose above the stillness:

“Charles, where’s your vest?”

Charles pulled himself together rapidly and endeavored to review the
situation.

“My dear,” he replied confidentially, after much mental effort, “upon my
soul, I believe I must have left it—in the cab!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Unlucky months for getting married: Jan., Feb., Mar., Apr., May, June,
July, Aug., Sept., Oct., Nov., Dec.

       *       *       *       *       *

My girl brought me a basket of eggs. As she stepped up the steps, I said,
“What beautiful eggs.” And when she reached me she slapped my face.

       *       *       *       *       *

Only five months to wait for the second October Whiz Bang annual.

       *       *       *       *       *

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                                 +-------------------------------
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[Illustration]







*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPTAIN BILLY'S WHIZ BANG, VOL. 2, NO. 20, MAY, 1921 ***


    

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