Chapter II: Part 2

_“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.

* * * * *

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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Filosophy and Foolishness, / R.R.2, Robbinsdale, Minn.
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* * * * *

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_WHIZ BANG is on sale at all leading hotels, news stands, on trains, 25 cents single copies, or may be ordered direct from the publisher at 30 cents single copies; two-fifty a year._