Chapter I: Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 22, July, 1921

_It’s Coming!_

_A Laugh, a Sigh; a Smile, a Tear; a Giggle, a Sob, and the greatest collection of red-blooded gems._

THE WINTER ANNUAL
of
Captain Billy’s
WHIZ BANG
“_Pedigreed Follies of 1921-1922_”
On Sale in October

All new jokes, jests and jingles; Captain Billy’s Advice to the Lovelorn; and Smokehouse Poetry comprising a collection of the best red-blooded poems in the world. Republication of “The Blue Velvet Band,” “The Face on the Barroom Floor,” “Shooting of Dan McGrew,” “Toledo Slim,” “Lasca,” “Evolution,” and “Johnnie and Frankie.” Four times as large and four times as great. Only three months to wait.

* * * * *

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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_

July, 1921 Vol. II. No. 22

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

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and
dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States.

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

My friend Norton took me around Minneapolis recently on an evening’s jaunt to see the “sights.” After visiting two or three moonlit stores, Norton suggested that I be introduced to his sweetheart. Brother Norton, being fairly well varnished with fusel oil and white mule, called at the wrong house. A colored maid answered the door bell.

“Is (hic) Daisy at home?” he inquired.

“No, suh,” replied the maid.

“Then is Pansy here?” said Norton.

“No, suh.”

“Does Violet live here?”

“No, suh.”

“Then is (hic) Rose in?”

“No, suh, and look here, Mistuh, dis place ain’t no hot house.”

After which I led Brother Norton back to the flivver and we sojourned to Dutch’s stag cafe for the remainder of the evening.

* * * * *

I’ve found another use for my flivver: Deacon Miller’s suckling colt followed old Lizzie for half a mile the other day.

* * * * *

While at my Breezy Point cabin resort at Pequot I heard an interesting story regarding the manner in which young Indian men woo their sweethearts.

When the Indian feels a tug at his heart he will station himself with a tom-tom in front of the tepee of his beloved and beat frantically on the drum affair. If the girl loves him she comes out and the medicine man does the rest. If she scorns his love she places a snow-shoe at the wigwam entrance and the young chief goes back to his own tepee and keeps on beating his tom-tom until some squaw girl takes pity and marries him.

* * * * *

Maggie, our new harvest cookhouse chef, lost her brooch the other night, so she has prepared the following advertisement for the Whiz Bang: “LOST—A cameo brooch representing Venus and Adonis on the Robbinsdale road about ten o’clock on Wednesday evening.”

* * * * *

We’ve had a good laugh on our neighbor, Deacon Callahan, since the episode several of us witnessed in front of the Palace Shoe Store in Robbinsdale the other evening. The Deacon saw his wife coming down the street, so he hid in the doorway of the Palace. When she passed him, he jumped out suddenly and kissed her. Instead of the scream he expected, she hoarsely whispered: “Don’t be so bold, mister. Folks ’round here know me.”

* * * * *

Johnnie Beaton, of Ranier, Minn., tells about a period in his life when old John Law grabbed out and placed him in the Ranier calaboose. He had been inside but a short time when one of the local civic improvement “birds” handed him the usual circular asking a donation for the improvement of the local jail. Johnnie replied: “The present jail is good enough to suit me.” Half an hour later, he organized a stud poker game. As usual, the sucker squawked. His reply to the saphead was pert and to the point: “Sh! keep still. Do you want to get thrown out of here?”

* * * * *

The “no booze” edict for soldiers during the recent friction with Germany raised havoc with some of us rum-soaked sinners, but it also had its comical side at times. I remember a system I put into effect in Camp Lee. The first sergeant was informed that no passes would be granted to visit Pennsylvania points (Pennsy was wet) unless the fortunate man returned with proper credentials, said credentials to be deposited upon arrival in the top drawer of the skipper’s desk in the orderly room. It was my duty to check properly the pass“port.”

In our organization was a lieutenant whom we will call Evans for short. Once upon a time Evans was in a mess (he often was, as far as that goes, but this time I mean a mess where we eat), and in that mess there also was a colonel—a man of meanness and incidentally a strict teetotaller. This colonel saw, or thought he saw, in Evans a gentleman after his own heart—a steady, yea, even puritanical, officer.

One early morning, Evans returned from a pass to Altoona, Pa., and flopped his weary way to the mess hall. Collapsing in a seat, he played with his fork and tried to look sober for a few minutes, and then giving it up he concentrated on grub—or rather on waiters.

Near the mantelpiece in the mess stood what appeared to Evans to be the waiter on duty, and he addressed this person—the only other person in the mess—rather gruffly, I’m afraid.

“Heah—hic—orderly!” he exploded. “D’yuh think I’m—hic—sitting here—hic—merely to provide you—hic—with a spectacle? I want some food....”

“I’m afraid, lieutenant,” came the acid reply, “that you are providing me with a spectacle.”

“Good Gawsch!” spluttered Evans. “I thought you were an orderly. I beg pardon, major; I didn’t shee you were the—hic—colonel.”

* * * * *

Speaking of abbreviated dress brings to mind a recent occurrence in the St. Paul ball park, whence I had flivvered to watch Minneapolis lose to the Saints. Coming out, after the game, I bumped into a small boy who had become lost in the crowd. Upon inquiring why he was crying, he howled: “I lost my mama.” “Why didn’t you hold to her skirts?” I asked. “I tried to,” wept the kid, “but I couldn’t reach them.”

_Our Movie Gossips_

_California society whisperers frown on Edna Purviance’s
rumored engagement to scion of Los Angeles wealth? Can it be
Larry Semon “beat up” his leading lady, Lucille Carlisle? And
Katherine McDonald has something to worship! The male sissy of
the screen! Natalie Talmadge may find a snag in Buster Keaton’s
backyard? Join our monthly movie gossip club! These dainty
morsels are gathered by the Hollywood correspondent of this
great family journal._

By RICHMOND.

Of all girls in the movies, Edna Purviance has the softest snap. In the last year and a half, almost two years, Charlie Chaplin has only made one picture, “The Kid,” which barely occupied more than a few weeks of Edna’s time. It’s true Edna doesn’t earn much compared to the other stars or leading women of the screen—they say her contract with Charlie gives her only $100 a week—but she has time—loads of it—and Edna plays the social game in that spare time and doesn’t appear to worry her pretty head about her career or future fame. She has an attractive but modest apartment, a not too expensive car and maid and puts everything on her clothes, which are of the smartest.

About two years ago Carleton Burke of Los Angeles began to “rush” Edna. Carleton is considered the catch of the Pacific coast. He is wealthy—his family is A-1 socially, Carleton is handsome, traveled and well educated and has made a name as a polo player. He is also a member of all the exclusive men’s clubs in San Francisco and Los Angeles.

Well, of course, when Carleton first took up Edna there was much whispering concerning a Venice bungalow, after Charlie “discovered” the fair manicurist in a small town near Frisco Bay. Could she be received? If Carleton Burke meant to marry her, of course, she’d be taken up eventually anyhow, and the Burkes are not the sort of people you can snub. So Carleton’s sister, Louise, entertained Edna. The Claus Spreckels at Coronada did the same and a few other of the selects followed the lead. Edna accepted these favors with a very calm and ladylike demeanor quite as if she had a perfect right to the best of social life, and she created a favorable impression. Edna has sense enough not to carry vulgar studio movie talk into the drawing rooms of people who wouldn’t understand. She is never forward or bold and, with her undeniable beauty, is surely an asset to any function.

However, Carleton has continued to take Edna about—to the Midwick and other exclusive country clubs, but marriage has never “come off.” Through Burke, Edna became acquainted with Mrs. Sallie Polk Merritt of Pasadena—an attractive brunette of social standing but whose name has been mentioned in a few sensational divorce mix-ups. Sallie and Edna are bosom friends and go everywhere together.

It is now whispered about Los Angeles that the Burke family has decided against the marriage.

Rather hard on Edna if she loves him, isn’t it? We don’t really know whether she cares particularly or not.

* * * * *

Can it be that Larry Semon spanks his leading lady love, Lucille Carlisle, when she doesn’t do as he likes? There was such a violent spanking in the environs of the Vitagraph lot recently, that Lucille retired to a hospital for a rest, and a new leading lady replaced her.

* * * * *

It is said the beautiful Katherine Macdonald, picture star, earns a mere $40,000 per picture now. Despite the fact that Katherine looks eternally sad in her pictures and shows not a glimmer of cheer or sense of humor, people like to gaze on the American beauty and her clothes. Anyhow her backers must make a profit or they wouldn’t come through with the “40 thou.” Now, it is said Katherine saves nearly every cent. She is reported quite the most saving woman on the screen.

The social set like Katherine because she doesn’t get spiflicated and run around with promiscuous ordinary movie folk, and because she holds herself “cold and high.” The studio folk on her own lot say she is “hard,” and that she won’t let them hire blondes for her pictures because the sunlight has a way of making light hair stand out conspicuously, and thus detracts from her own person.

Every week or so a San Francisco man named Morrell comes south, and they say he visits Katherine. The couple are engaged, it is said, and when her two-year contract is up, intend to marry and quit business for good. Friends say they are both saving carefully toward that day.

The arithmetical problem is this: If Morrell earns “X” salary and Katherine $40,000 per picture or about $240,000 a year, how much salt and pepper will Morrell’s savings buy two years from now? How many steaks and cream puffs can Katherine buy?

* * * * *

In a recent issue we dealt somewhat with the male sissy whose devastating inroads have made themselves particularly felt in this Egyptianesque hotbed of art, near art and the no end of things for which poor art is blamed—Hollywood.

Our readers will recall that some months ago a very noted “heavy” of the films, a man nearing the fifties and with a wealth of apparent masculine comeliness, was arrested in company with another male person after a perfectly inquisitive detective had watched them through a keyhole of the film star’s home.

Broken in the prime of life, an object of scorn and with others fearing to be seen in his company, even for business purposes, his plight is a sorry one. More seldom as the months pass does his white head and Romanesque profile appear upon the screen.

There is grim humor in the plight of this man. The name of an immensely rich woman was mentioned in connection with his arrest. It was intimated that he had grown cold in his attentions to her and that the detective who trapped the two men was well paid with feminine gold. She must have suspected something.

* * * * *

Wedding bells and hopeful love of man and woman seems to have broken out afresh in the picture world. Wasn’t it in an issue four months back that we confidentially confided to our readers that Charlie Chaplin was openly adoring a sweet young thing of seventeen? Just about four months after we cheered you with this item, the daily papers declaimed that all signs and portents were to the effect that May Collins was to become the second bride of the comedian.

Needless to say, Miss Collins by this time has been “interviewed.” With the awe-striking wisdom of seventeen—some say she is younger—the girl sets forth, or so she is quoted, a panacea for marriage ills. She did not admit she was going to marry Charlie but she wasted no space in praising anyone but him. It appears that if May marries Charlie that the path of true art will not be tampered with and if Charles wishes to remain out on business, or otherwise further his picture activities, that May will not offer hindrance.

Mildred Harris, too, was seventeen when she married Charlie and complained that the boy stayed away too much. Should May and Charlie hook up we may be able to watch the theories of two seventeen-year-old misses work out, as regards their ideas of what the lord and master should do.

* * * * *

When Buster Keaton goes out in the evening he takes his whole family. There are so many of them we’ve lost count. Anyhow, when he goes down to Sunset Inn at Santa Monica the waiters have to move three tables and put them together so that all Buster’s family can be seated. There are several sisters and as many younger brothers and a “Pa” and lots of aunts and uncles. And Buster cheerfully pays the bill.

A little incident has been reported to the correspondent of this great family journal. It appears Buster had been out with some lady of whom his father objected, or had done something which his “Pa” didn’t like and there was an argument over at the Metro studio. “Pa” perhaps hasn’t forgotten his ancient and pleasant right of parental authority. However, Buster is resourceful. It is said he put “Pa” in his dressing-room and locked him up for the night, going on about his own business thereafter.

We wonder, if, when Natalie Talmadge marries Buster this spring, she will have to lock his family in the closets occasionally in order to prevent little rows!

* * * * *

The Tale of a Shirt

Comfort, the farmers’ journal, says this: Is there any way for a girl to tell her sweetheart his shirt-tail is out? The same way she would tell her brother or cousin or any friend. A sweetheart’s shirt-tail is no more sacred or worthy of respect than any other shirt-tail. A tail belongs to a shirt as much as cuffs or a collar and isn’t any more indecent. I’d tell anyone to tuck his shirt in—just like that.

* * * * *

My girl is so fat she wears inner tubes for garters.

* * * * *

All Aboard for Arkansaw

Mama’s got eczema,
Papa’s got the gout,
I’ve got something itchy coo;
It’s just breakin’ out.

* * * * *

No Caveman Stuff Here

“Oh Jane, how have you been getting on with Ed?”

“Not very well, Dolly; I’ve had to buy only two hair nets for my last five dates with him.”

* * * * *

In the Garden of Eden

“I’ll peel off,” said the apple.

“If you do, I’ll leave,” said the tree.

* * * * *

Especially When the North Wind Blows

She was a silly little, gushing thing, and habitually talked without thinking, and in the exaggerated fashion which the female of the species at present affects. Lately married, she was able to induce her adoring hubby to go with her on shopping expeditions. Even when the tour included a visit to an establishment where the most intimate of feminine garments were on sale, he did not flinch.

In one such shop, the discreet manageress inquired as to whether a certain set of silken unmentionables, recently purchased, had given full satisfaction.

The little bride’s eyes grew round.

“Oh, they were beautiful!” she burst out, in her usual fashion. “Everybody admired them—everybody!”

Turning pale, the unfortunate bridegroom didn’t know for a moment whether to file for congress or go out and get a stiff drink of moonshine.

* * * * *

She had a sore throat, and was unable to sing, so the manager buzzed her off to the theater’s medical man the tooter the sweeter. The doc. produced his laryngoscope, and as he was adjusting it he pleasantly remarked, “You’d be surprised how far we can see with this little instrument.”

“Oh, is that so, doctor?” she faltered. “Well, it can’t be helped, but I ought to tell you that I really had no time to change my things before I came out.”

_Whiz Bang Etiquette_

Is your etiquation on etiquette inetiquate? Do you pull the faux pas, gaucherie, vulgarian, and other boners too humorous to mention?

Read these questions thoughtlessly, study the answers carelessly and add both to your misinformation on this subject:

What do you know about introductions?

If Green and Brown met at your home brewery for the first time, would you say, “Green, meet Brown. Boys, have a drink,” or vice versa? Suppose the Siamese Twins dropped in about that time to borrow your recipe for double brew. Would you present them plurally or en mash?

Don’t introduce them; familiarity breeds a thirst.

The ballroom should always be a center of (physical) culture and grace.

What is the correct position for the gentleman in dancing?

Cheek to cheek.

For the lady?

Vice versa.

Is it correct to wander away from the ballroom with a dancing partner?

If you become delirious, you may wander.

Is the “shimmy” done in the best society?

Yes.

How?

Like a bowl of jello in an earthquake.

Should one try to dance if they do not know the steps?

No, that would brand you as a hopeless vulgarian.

Should one crack jokes about the ladies’ gowns?

No, your conversation should not be confined to trivialities.

If a girl asks you in when you escort her home from the ball at 3 a. m., should you accept her invitation?

Politely decline, and give me her address.

Every dinner should begin with a little soup and less noise.

Should the lady of the house help the soup?

Yes, if it needs it.

What would you do if you made a wine stain on a lady’s dress?

Help her to remove it, the stain.

Should you decline wine by clapping your hand on top of your glass?

I wouldn’t.

Should water be taken directly from a finger bowl?

No, a soup ladle is placed at each plate for this purpose.

Etiquette is used in many other ways, but these few simple-minded rules will get you out of some of the worst places.

_A Dilemna De Luxe_

By MARGARET MANNERS

It was embarrassing, to say the least! The young man strove vainly to retain his equilibrium, also his hold upon the inert form in his arms. But the color mounted in a vivid flush of red to his very blonde hair.

Then the nearby group of watchers laughed. He was still more confused. The auburn locks of the fair figure in his arms became loosened and fell in a cascade almost to the floor. The man was visibly disconcerted, and letting go with one hand, he clutched at his collar and gazed wildly down at the cold, upturned face.

With a renewed effort to escape the taunting eyes of the curious, snickering crowd, he gathered the slim figure to him once more, when a shout went up and, looking back, he saw that the gown he had hastily loosened at the neck of the fair vision when he had first come upon the scene, had slipped off and lay in a soft silken heap at his feet. He was painfully aware that all that remained to view was the daintiest of filmy lingerie, and sheer, silken hosiery. One tiny pump had fallen off.

The young man thought he would faint if he did not escape the crowd that had rapidly grown to a curious mob. The sight of a very flushed youth, holding the limp female figure in his awkward arms, scantily clad, beautiful face impassive, instead of exciting sympathy, brought forth only mirth at his clumsy attempts to withdraw. Evidently such an experience had never occurred to the embarrassed youth before, but he rallied and finally reached the door.

As he started through, carefully, almost tenderly holding the lovely form, the delicate crepe de chine underslip caught on the little glass doorknob; to his utter chagrin, he let go altogether, leaning against the framework of the door; this was too much!

Wildly he thought of abandoning his duty, when the stern voice of a very dapper, wax-mustached, and excited gentleman who forced his way through the door, brought him up with a jerk.

“What ees the matter with you?” almost shrieked the head floorwalker of “The Elite Modes” shop. “Look, look!” he cried, gesticulating wildly, “worse than ze bull in ze china-closet! Go back to where you belong, and stay there!”

The new window dresser of “The Elite Modes” gave one look at the broken nose of the wax window-model which he had dropped, and fled—back to his old love, the gingham department!

* * * * *

“It is forty years since my husband even kissed me,” complained a woman in Hennepin county divorce court.

There is much pathos in that “even.”

* * * * *

The Sinai Joke

A bishop who had been widely advertised for a speech at Westminster Abbey, was greeted by a record-breaking audience. The famous Abbey was crowded to the doors.

As the bishop stepped to the rostrum and opened the good book he said, “I will take for my text today, ‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai, What did he say?’” And, looking at those assembled in the balcony, he said again, in a louder voice, “‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai, What did he say?’” And once again, looking upward to the gallery, he shouted (as if waiting for an answer), “‘And when the Lord ascended Mt. Sinai, What did he say?’”

A little Australian buddy, unable to contain himself any longer, rose from his place in the rear and, standing on his seat, raised his hand: “I’ll bite, bishop, wot did ’e say?”

* * * * *

Nice Burglar

“Oh, Myrtle! Weren’t you frightened to death when that burglar broke into your room?”

“Frightened is no name for it; I was dressing.”

“Mercy, how embarrassing! Whatever did you do?”

“Oh, he was very considerate, he covered me with his revolver.”

* * * * *

She may be deaf but she’ll get her hearing the morning.

* * * * *

Out of the Past

A rookie, all dolled up in his new uniform and ready for first liberty, strutted down the steps of the barracks and met the colonel coming up. The silver eagles of the colonel’s shoulder straps meant nothing in this rookie’s young life, and he was about to pass with only a casual glance. The colonel, feeling somewhat different, addressed the lad in an impressive voice: “Young man, how long have you been here?” The rookie’s face radiated surprise and gladness at having thus been noticed by an apparent old timer, and he eagerly replied: “Why, I been here three days, how long you been here?”

* * * * *

A New Label

OLD CORNO
100 Poof
Bottled In Barn
Aged In Woods
MADE OUT OF SPRING 1919
BOTTLED ALL OF 1920
Guaranteed to Conform with All Pure Fool and Drunk Acts

* * * * *

“It says in this paper that Lloyd George castigated the German delegates,” growled Panhandle Pete, glancing up from a paper all stained with near-beer.

“And that’s just what they had a-comin’,” vigorously assented his pal.

* * * * *

It is easy to be generous to another man’s wife.

_Limber Kicks_

Oh, I Beg Your Pardon!

I stepped inside and closed the door,
Thinking the office was Brady’s,
But turned when I saw the white tiled floor,
And found that the sign read SEIDAL

* * * * *

Winding Stares

She went up the winding stairs,
And close behind I followed;
She stooped down to tie her shoe,
My chewing gum I swallowed.

* * * * *

Page Billy Misque

A girl who is young, cute and frisque,
Can always get plenty of home-made whisque;
Any guy she may asque
Will slip her a flasque,
If she’ll only slip him a kissque.

* * * * *

In a parlor were three,
My girl, a lamp and me.
Three’s a crowd without a doubt,
Wasn’t it nice when the lamp went out?

* * * * *

At the Sign of the Zodiac

The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins;
Near the Crab the Lion shines;
The Virgin and the Scales;
The Scorpion, Archer and the Goat;
The Man who holds the Watering Pot,
And Fishes with their glittering tails.

* * * * *

Shoo Fly, Oil Man!

A horse-fly lit on the old cow’s skin,
Hung his tools and spudded in.
Bowed his back and jiggered his pole
And all the time he was making a hole.
The cow browsed on, in her usual way,
Till the horse-fly’s bit struck regular “pay,”
Then she swung her tail with a vicious dig
And deftly skidded the horse-fly’s rig.

* * * * *

Fastidious

A handsome young fellow named Bertie,
Was out with a flapper named Gertie;
“Come, kiss me,” he said,
But she nodded her head
And cried, “I think kissing’s too unsanitary.”

* * * * *

Bawl of a Brute Bachelor

Here’s to the woman of days gone by;
(May we meet her kind above!)
The woman for whom a man would die,
The woman who ruled by love;
Who didn’t harangue and who didn’t parade,
In whose home it was sweet to dwell;
Who believed in raising children,
And not in raising hell!

* * * * *

“Why so thin, my pretty maid?”
“I’m on a fast, kind sir,” she said.
“And how fast are you now?” he said,
“That’s none of your affair,” she said.

* * * * *

Lady of the House—You may go to your room now and change your dress. John, the butler, will show you the way.

Maid (fussed)—Oh, I know how myself, missus.

_California Beach Nuts_

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

California’s coast is a big bathing beach. The state is not only famous for its walnuts, but for its beach nuts one sees every day, especially Sunday.

The ocean strand is covered with half-dressed women, boys and girls sprawled out like goats and satyrs hugging the shore and each other. It is the playground of the sexes.

At many bathing resorts Sunday is anything but religious. The cross gives way to Cupid’s bow and arrow. The Bible is the book of nature done in calf. Brown lads lie with their heads in the laps of half-naked brunettes, forgetting that to do so and not mean harm is “hypocrisy to the devil” who tempts their virtue. They make no attempt to hide under beach umbrellas. One may question their propriety, but neither their nerve nor shape. Their speech is low, but if actions speak louder than words, their conduct is often vulgar if not vicious. We saw a place advertised as the “safest beach,” but without falling into the deep water we fear the devil’s undertow is carrying many out beyond their moral depth. “Love one another” is the favorite text, and the “laying on of hands” is not omitted. All the flesh-pots were not in Egypt. Cleopatra had a good time on the Nile and “Clara” has the same time here. We saw many couples and decided that more marriages were made on the beach than in heaven. Position in society is everything. Here there was everything in position. Heads in laps, arms around waists, boys in girls’ laps, girls in boys’, legs linked, or arms and legs tied up in lover’s bow-knots. All were taking “Sea”estas in their “surge” suits. The sight was very “surf”eiting. In this Cupid school we saw girls with pearly teeth, but with no pearls of wisdom; many who could paint their face, but not paint a Madonna; girls who could play with the boys, but not the piano; the only apparent study was that of anatomy.

Breakers on the beaches are divided into three classes: ocean-breakers, law-breakers and heart-breakers. California is a fruit state and we looked everywhere to see the “peaches” on the beaches—but most of them were dried, and there were more old Iowa valetudinarians and bearded bipeds than anyone else. Timon of Athens was a misanthrope who went to the seashore to get away from mankind. Had he come to this beach, the day we were there, he would have prayed for a tidal wave to wipe it off the map.

Scripture says of the beautiful lilies, “they toil not, neither do they spin.” Of these painted, half-dressed, lounging, walking, posturing beach-combers with their dry feet, we say, “They toil not, neither do they swim.” We came away from the beach that Sunday with a composite picture of pop-eyed, pot-bellied promenaders in the sand, vulgar Venuses, wobbly wenches, living links, heavy-hipped hags, sinuous, shrunken men, tattered tights, tousled head nymphs, and vain cock of the walks admiring their own shape and gazing on their feet and fingernails.

We wish we could forget the bather’s singularity and angularity, the plethoric paunch, the blinking, bawling, calling, sprawling, mawling, drawling, squalling figures that defaced the beauty of the sky, the sea and the sand. Oh, the water cataracts running and dripping from shaking sides, heavy hips and swinging busts! If Ulysses and his crew sailed by this shore with its sweating sirens and howling hurdy-gurdies, they would stop their ears—but not for fear of being enticed ashore.

The poet sings of the “smile” of the sea—we do not wonder at laughing waves when they see some of the freak styles. What are the wild waves saying? Some things we think we better omit. To watch this beach of bathers is like having a front seat at the Winter Garden Follies. The visitor may study the contour of beach and bathers. Here he meets the living skeleton of angles and the bag of bones, as well as her heavy-set sister with all her capricious curves, crests, elevations and depressions. How unlike the pictures in the Sunday supplements, and how like the caricatures in the comic supplement. When first they appear all nice and dry they are passable, but look at them if you dare and can, when they take a dip or flop and come out with their homely lines all emphasized. No Greek statues, no things of beauty and joy forever, but shattered, disenchanting dreams, or nightmares rather.

Farewell to this flotsam and jetsam, foam and scum, these sand-flies. If you want to have a “good time,” go to the beach where the volume of nature and human nature is “wide open.” The text books you should bring and study on the seashore are Shelley, Burns, Sand, Crabbe and Bacon.

* * * * *

Dickory, dickory, docking,
The mouse ran up her stocking,
But I’m afraid
Up there it stayed
Which makes it twice as shocking!

* * * * *

A marriage certificate is a mere scrappy paper. One divorce leads to another, but the marriage vow will always be taken ad-in-fun-item.

* * * * *

Nice day for swimmin’!

What swimmin’?

Loo swimmin’.

* * * * *

“Your new stenog, I hear, is a beauty. Can she spell?”

“What does that matter?”

_Questions and Answers_

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is meant by “A third rail girl?”—=Inoa Recipe.=

It probably means one dangerous to touch.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is your idea of the height of indifference?—=Goofey Gander.=

Spilling coffee in your lap and not caring which leg it runs down.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the difference between kissing a horse and an ugly girl?—=Paul Bearer.=

No difference whatever. In either case it’s a horse on you.

* * * * *

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—I am a great lover of literature, but find that friends borrow my books to read. Did you ever hear of anything like it?—=Oliver Mudd.=

We know an old fogy who married a flapper.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—My sweetheart got angry at me last night and said I had feet like a camel. What did he mean?—=Rebeccah.=

He probably inferred that your feet had gone too long without water.

* * * * *

=Dear Capt. Whiz Bang=—A friend informs me his wife ran away with a “bank walker.” I have heard of bank tellers and bank cashiers, but never heard of a “bank walker.” Please tell me what he meant?—=Bob Sledd.=

Your query has been referred to the swimming editor.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Will you please tell me the origin of the expression: “Mother, who is this silly ass?”—=S. O. Elly.=

It originated in France after the close of the war when a poilu returned and, finding his home disrupted, left again to vow further vengeance on the German.

* * * * *

=Dear Cap=—Please tell me how to grow fat.—=Slim Jim.=

Breed hogs.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—What is a cure for a horse that slobbers?—=Artie Fishel.=

Teach him to spit.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—What is the difference between a sewing machine and a kiss?—=B. Qrious.=

One sews seams nice and the other seams sew nice.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Whiskers=—What is a crazy bone?—=Howe D. Dew.=

A dollar spent on a girl.

* * * * *

=Dear Kapten Billy=—An electriek trolly goes through my corn feild. Would it be against the law to uze it to shock my corn with?—=O. G. Kroakim.=

No, but be careful and not let the juice wet the kernels.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—What is meant by “self respect”?—=Dottie Dimple.=

Self respect, Dottie, is a comfortable feeling one has in having escaped detection.

* * * * *

=Dear “Skipper”=—Who was the Duke of Peruna?—=C. C. Pill.=

Lydia Pinkham’s husband.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Please give me a definition of a cannibal.—=Student.=

Sure. One who loves his fellow man.

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Kindly furnish me with an illustration of “Poetry of Motion.”—=Awsthetic Awlice.=

How would this be: A picnic girl with a bug down her back?

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—Do leaves of trees turn red in the fall from blushing because they are showing naked limbs?—=Bon Jurrows.=

No, it’s because they realize how green they were all summer.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—I had a tussle with my beau last night. How may I recover myself?—=Petite Fifi.=

Go to a tailor.

* * * * *

=Dear Capt. Billy=—I am ambitious for a career on the stage. Can you suggest an act that will be entirely new and up-to-date?—=Art Gumm.=

Why not try kicking a giraffe in the mouth?

* * * * *

=Dear Cap=—I am a member of a newly formed organization known as the “Woman Hater’s Union.” Could you suggest a motto for our association?—=Fat Chance.=

“Oh, kill me now and call it the end of a perfect day.”

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—When is a good girl not a good girl?—=McNotty.=

About half the time, we’d say.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is the difference between a rehearsal and a show?—=Plain Jane.=

A rehearsal is the same as a show, only nobody comes around to see it.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Bullybeef=—My fiance says I have a peachy complexion. What does he mean?—=Kitty Furr.=

He probably infers, Kitty, that you have a yellow and orange shade with fuzz on your face.

* * * * *

=Dear Doctor Bill=—Why, oh why, did the police inspect her?—=The Duke o’ Dubuque.=

Possibly to help the “deek” detect her.

* * * * *

A convalescent requiring whisky and beer for rapid recovery is convalescent all over except his thirst, and that’s in the acute stages.

* * * * *

Another Jellyfish

“Boys,” asked the school master, “what do you consider the most beautiful thing in the world?”

“Sunshine,” hazarded one boy.

“Flowers,” ventured another.

Both answers were received with favor, and the turn went to a hefty youth.

“A woman,” announced he gruffly.

“Come out here,” commanded the master, sternly.

A good flogging was administered; and then the offender was bidden to go home and tell his father that he had been flogged, and why.

Next morning the floggee was again hauled up.

“Did you tell your father that you had been flogged?” asked the master.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him why?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he say?”

“Please, sir, dad and I talked it all over between us, and we’ve come to the conclusion that there’s something funny about you.”

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”

Press dispatches recently carried an item to the effect that although slightly mentally affected, the mother of Charlie Chaplin, upon her son’s earnest persuasion, had been allowed to enter this country from England.

Mrs. Chaplin, upon reaching New York, stood a chance, it was stated, of having to return had it not been for quick and effective energies of her sons and their friends in political power.

Those who know Chaplin well declare that the intense melancholy for which he is noted is due more than anything else to the affection and concern for his mother. Such things as domestic troubles, it is said, bear little weight with the man who daily makes millions laugh. ’Tis the mother.

What have we here! Consider this monumental fun-maker of the screen. Death is bad enough but when the mind of one very dear becomes clouded, then indeed does tragedy and sadness smite with a heavy hand.

We read of the circus clown whose wife and children burned to death, and yet, to keep a date with the world of fun lovers, he went ahead that night and clowned as never he had clowned before. Have we in Chaplin a great tragedy also? It will be recalled that when he was a small boy in London he and his mother and brother lived in a workhouse in order that the streets might not be their home.

Now his mother is coming home to him, to live amid all the luxury that great wealth may bring; wealth that came after a sad little fellow with merry feet, living in a workhouse with his mother, learned to be the greatest of all fun-makers. Life’s a funny proposition, folks, isn’t it?

* * * * *

Half a century ago the nude in art was strange enough in America to uplift Puritanic hands in holy horror. Today, among all cultivated people, the female nude is most matter-of-fact. Our notions of art the country over have been steadily clarifying, until at last the great distinction has been recognized and conceded even by pious folk that, while the human male figure is impossible, the female form is purely beautiful.

Those rabid for realism and resolutely uncompromising, will have the assurance to claim innocuousness for the undraped male; but the opinion today among those who are not extremists is still definitely against the frank exposition of the male form in plastic or painting.

At worst the mind receives merely a filip of interest; and complete nudity, to the male fancy, repeated again and again in art, speedily sates curiosity, and with that, incipient desire. As for the minds of women, no one would insult them with the suspicion that they find anything provocative in the portrayal of figures of their own sex.

In every landscape the eye notices at once and unavoidably the hills; it finds the plains and valleys only by an effort of the will. This fact has ever been admitted by the modern stage, which is, so far as the ethics of objective morality go, more conservative than modern art in its advanced attitude.

* * * * *

Be a Booster

If you can’t be a pine on the top of the hill,
Be a scrub in the valley, but be
The best little scrub by the side of the hill,
Be a bush if you can’t be a tree;
If you can’t be the sun be a star,
But the best little booster wherever you are.

* * * * *

Teach me that 60 minutes make an hour, 16 ounces one pound and 100 cents one dollar. Help me so to live that I can lie down at night with a clear conscience, without a gun under my pillow and unhaunted by the faces of those to whom I have brought pain. Grant that I may earn my meal-ticket on the square, and that in earning it I may do unto others as I would have them do unto me. Deafen me to the jingle of tainted money and to the rustle of unholy skirts. Blind me to the faults of the other fellow but reveal to me my own. Guide me so that each night when I look across the dinner table at my wife who has been a blessing to me, I will have nothing to conceal. Keep me young enough to laugh with little children, and sympathetic enough to be considerate of old age. And when comes the day of darkened shades and the smell of flowers, the tread of soft footsteps and the crunching of wheels in the yard—make the ceremony short and the epitaph simply ‘=Here Lies a Man.=’

* * * * *

He that does not know,
And knows he does not know;
Can be taught.
TEACH HIM!

He that does not know,
But thinks he knows;
Is a dangerous man.
BEWARE OF HIM!

He that does know.
And knows he knows;
Is a wise man—
FOLLOW HIM!

* * * * *

It’s a stiff neck that has no turning when a short skirt goes by.

* * * * *

I hope that when I die they’ll pour me back in the bottle. So do other soaks.

* * * * *

London Stuff

He had been married about a year and had taken to spending his evenings out West with the boys. One night his conscience worried him, and he thought he would phone his wife to have dinner with him.

“Hello, kiddo,” he began. “Slip on some old clothes and run down and meet me on the quiet. We’ll have a good dinner and then smear a little red paint around. How about it?”

“I’ll be delighted to join you,” was the reply. “But why not come up to the house, Jack, and get me? There’s nobody home.”

Today the young husband spends every evening at home. His name is Philip.

* * * * *

Oh! Gawsch!

A stripping bee took place at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bohumil Albrecht Thursday evening. Those present Were the Mesdames Katherine Mach, John Marek, John Jelimek, Kenzel Pokorny, Mr. and Mrs. John Novotny, Mr. and Mrs. John Hanna and Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Wessely, Sr.—(From Kewauness (Wis.) Press.)

* * * * *

The High Cost of Company

Sign in European hotel, Manitowoc, Wis.: “If you have company over night an extra charge of 50c will be made.”

* * * * *

A fatted calf maketh a full stocking.

* * * * *

Then His Nerve Failed

One of the loveliest of girls went into a gents’ furnishing store to buy a necktie. She hesitated a moment, and then asked in a nice, straightforward way: “I want to put it on, please. Would you tie it for me?”

The clerk felt a little nervous, especially as the other fellows were watching him, but she had already pulled off the necktie that she wore. He said, “Certainly,” and, putting the new one around her neck as she ducked her head. She wore a dainty white silk shirt. When the tie was tied, the ends seemed a bit long, and he suggested: “Do you wear the ends tucked in?” “Yes,” she returned with unembarrassed absentmindedness. At this point his courage failed him.

* * * * *

She Knew the Truth

“Both of dese here gents,” said the witness, Mandy Thomas, rather impressed with the importance of being in court, “was standing at the corner conversin’ with each other pretty hot an’ pointed like.”

“Relate the conversation,” said the prosecutor.

“Ah don’t jest remember, sah,” said Mandy, “’cept dat dey was callin’ each other what dey is.”

* * * * *

Women used to carry money in their stocking, but it’s not safe to put money in public places now.

* * * * *

A rash marriage is only skin deep.

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Whiz Bang has a double-winner for Smokehouse fans next issue! “The Lure of the Tropics” and “The Far East.”_

_“O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps_
_I hunted him many a moon,_
_Then found my man in a long pit pan_
_At the edge of a blue lagoon._

_“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;_
_It ended a two-year quest,_
_And I left him there with an empty stare_
_And a knife stuck in his chest.”_

_That’s the swing of the most noted poem of the tropics, “The Far East,” an excerpt from which follows, is familiar to Philippine war veterans_:

_“By the mud hole down in Subic_
_Looking lazy at the bay,_
_There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,_
_And I think I hear her say:_
_‘Come you back you malo soldier_
_Come you back from o’er the sea,_
_Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,_
_Por-a-que! You jaw-bone me?’”_

* * * * *

The Hoboes’ Convention

By George Liebst

You have heard of big conventions,
And there’s some you can’t forget,
But get this straight, there’s none so great
As when the hoboes met.

To Portland, Oregon, last year
They came from near and far;
On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,
They rode on every car.

Three hundred came from New York state,
Some came from Eagle Pass;
That afternoon, the third of June,
They gathered there en masse.

From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”
And “Jack the Katydid”;
With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazoo
Came “San Diego Kid.”

And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”
Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”
“Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,
“Big Mac” from Mackinack.

I saw some boys I’d never met;
A bo called “New York Spike,”
“Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,
And “Mississippi Ike.”

Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,
Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;
And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico
Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”
Fixed up a jungle stew,
While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”
Croaked gumps for our menu.

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song
Along with “Desp’rate Sam”;
And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park
Clog-danced with “Alabam.”

We gathered ’round the jungle fire,
The night was passing fast;
We’d all done time for every crime,
And talk was of the past.

All night we flopped around the fire
Until the morning sun;
Then from the town the cops came down—
We beat it on the run.

We scattered to the railroad yards,
And left the “bulls” behind;
Some hit the freights for other states,
And many rode the “blind.”

Well, here I am in Denver town,
A hungry, tired-out bo;
The flier’s due, when she pulls through,
I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—
I’ll make her on the fly;
It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,
I’m off again—Good Bye!

* * * * *

Mushy Stuff, Eh?

He blushed a fiery red,
Her heart went pittypat;
She gently hung her head,
And looked down, at the mat.

* * * * *

Mary Jane

_Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium ditty_:

Oh, she promised to meet me
When the clock struck seventeen,
At the stockyards, just three miles out of town,
Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the
Tough old Texas steers
Sell for sirloin steak at
Eighteen cents a pound.

CHORUS:

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,
She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,
She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.
Although her lower teeth are phoney
From eating Swift’s bologna,
She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

* * * * *

Casey’s Revenge

_Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?” Here’s a baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition. He replies to the old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own Mudville nine. Heave ho to this “Curve”_—

—By James Wilson.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;
There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.
“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,
And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.”
All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,”
They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.
And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,
While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,
And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.
And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;
The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.
All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come
To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;
And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,
He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;
But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan
Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun
Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”
The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;
But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.
The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard
When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,
A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;
But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night
When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at
right,”
A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—
When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;
His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate
He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;
There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.
They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”
But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.
The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;
Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.
Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—
“Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.