Chapter II: Part 2

If thou, God, omnipotent being,
Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;
And growest not sick of the seeing,
This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?

If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,
To smite this damn den of despair,
Whose evil is rampant, and languor
Is lord of the poisonous lair.

Then God, take Ye back your creation,
And plunge it in infinite fire,
Your wrath is eternal damnation,
But man’s is more lasting dire.

* * * * *

The Sunflower Kid

By Koffdrop DeHaven.

A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand,
I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand;
But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell,
I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like
everything;
I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each
night,
’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight.
I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ;
I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training
camp.
For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and
strength,
Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its
length.

The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club;
Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub.
We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause,
They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s
flaws.
For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me,
And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z.
The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled,
We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings
went wild;
No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks,
I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.

The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the
while,
I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile,
Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the
jaw,
And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on
the straw.
The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit,
I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit.
A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head,
A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead.
From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to fail
In health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.

And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray,
And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.

* * * * *

Not Me

When a pretty Fairy gets on a car,
And her dress comes kinder high,
The goodly man will steal a glance,
Even as you and I.

But when he’s with a real nice girl,
To look, he will not try,
He is a regular “model man”
Even as you and I.

* * * * *

Evolution

_Jazzed a trifle—Apologies to Langdon Smith_

By Neil McConlogue.

When you were part of an elephant’s tusk
In the Palezoic time,
And I rode round in a walrus mouth
’Mid the piscatorial slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Thru the depths of a salmon fen—
Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,
But—I wasn’t with you then.

That was before the colored man
Invented the game called Crap;
Before they cubed and spotted our sides,
And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.
But the world turned on in the lathe of time;
The hot sands heaved amain;
And our faces were polished with emery wheel—
Then between us they made a game.

At first they called us a “game of dice.”
We were drab as a dead man’s hand:
We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,
Or trailed thru the mud and sand.
Sextette-sided, with corners round,
Writing a language dumb;
While fingers snapped and cash exchanged
On bets that we wouldn’t “come.”

Later they labeled us “African Golf.”
And they gave us a spin once more.
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of the Terra Firma shore.
The aeons came, and the aeons fled,
But the hand that held us fast,
Was sure to hold us a bit too long,
We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”

Then light and swift thru the jungle trees
Swung the white men in their flights;
And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!
In the hush of policeless nights.
And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!
For us there were no bounds!
We were riven away by a newer day,
And no longer rolled on the ground.

Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”
Onward thru cycles strange,
We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”
And followed the chain of change;
’Till there came a time in Gambledom
’Midst many a weal and woe—
They changed the name of this plucky game
To “Bounding Domino.”

Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.
When the game would once begin;
Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”
When “hard-luck” came trooping in.
O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,
They’d fight, and claw, and tear;
And cheek by jowl—with words quite foul
They’d soil the clothes they’d wear.

We were discovered so long ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,
Near the race-track at Pamlico,
Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stones
That shine like the Devon Springs;
And cute Flappers display us in public
Quite as proudly as diamond rings.

It makes no difference if we are rolled
For a dollar, five, or ten.
Our love is cold, our game is old,
And the “sucker” our kith and kin.
Tho cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-boned-men made war,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Found the hardest point was “Four.”

Moral:

REMEMBER, He who operates a barber-shop is not barbaric; He that studies the lunar system is not a lunatic; He who exists on a stew is not always a student; He who thinks that One Broadway makes New York has “muchly” to learn; And—He that caresseth the Uneasy Ivories is hastily disconnected from his dough.

Never Shoot Crap!

Never! Remember That!

TOTAL MORAL: Play Poker Instead!

* * * * *

Is it you I love dear?
I can scarcely tell.
When you smile your eyes, dear,
Make me think of Nell.
When you’re sad, your mouth, dear,
Makes me think of Sue,
But, dear, when I kiss you,
I am sure it’s you.

* * * * *

Oh! You City Slickers

By Gordon Campbell.

’Twas down in the Lehigh Valley
That me and my pal, Lou,
Was workin’ in a hash house,
An’ a pretty good one too.

It was there that I met Gonzola;
She was the village belle,
Now I was only a waiter,
But I loved that gal like everything.

Then along come a city feller,
A slick haired son of the idle,
An’ stole my darling little Lou
To slip on the marriage bridle.

So fill up the glasses, stranger,
An’ I’ll be on my way;
I’ll get the guy that stole my gal,
If it takes till the judgment day.

* * * * *

Our Paris Letter

A Jack Johnson burst over the shell hole into which Pat and Mike had crawled. “Oi’ve been shot in the foot,” said Pat. Mike immediately placed Pat on his shoulder and started for the hospital. On his way there another shell took off Pat’s head. Arriving at the first aid station, the sentry hailed Mike.

“No use bringing any dead men in here,” he said. “That fellow’s head has been shot off.”

“Why, the son-of-a-gun,” exclaimed Mike, “he told me it was his foot.”

* * * * *

Oh, Pickle My Bones

Pat—“Well, Mike, I just saw a doctor about my loss of memory.”

Mike—“What did he do?”

Pat—“He made me pay in advance.”

_Questions and Answers_

=_Dear Breezy Bill_=—“What’s the tallest tree you ever have seen?”—=_Ella Mental._=

Up at Pequot we have a tree that is so big it takes two men to look at it; one man looks up at it as far as he can and the other man begins where the first left off.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I often have heard that there are lots of cows that do not give milk during the summer. Is this true?—=_O. Shoot._=

Yes, in a way, but the next time anyone says such things you just tell them it’s “bull.”

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a girl fourteen years old and have a dog named Toddles. Should I let a boy of fifteen hug me?—=_Dot._=

No, go in the house, and take the dog in, too.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I met a guy at a dance, he kissed me during the moonlight waltz. What shall I do?—=_Helen._=

Lay off the moonlight waltzes.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Could you tell me when Cuba was discovered?—=_Hi Drant._=

July 1, 1919.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a young man only seventeen years old. My mother says I shouldn’t play with any rough girls. What shall I do?—=_Percy._=

Do as your mother tells you, you little rascal.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a boy eighteen years old and am in love with a bootlegger’s daughter. How can I tell her that I love her—=_Al. Hambra._=

Send me her address.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What are the secrets of success?—=_Harold Lloydette._=

“Push,” said the button; “Take Pains,” said the window; “Never be led,” said the pencil; “Be up to date,” said the calendar; “Always keep cool,” said the ice; “Never lose your head,” said the hammer; “Make light of everything,” said the fire; “Find a good thing and stick to it,” said the glue.

* * * * *

=_Dear Old Skip_=—What are goofus feathers?—=_U. N. Omeal._=

The fuzz on a peach.

* * * * *

=_Dear Admiral_=—What is the easiest way to catch a whiffempoof?—=_A. Fisher._=

Throw a plug of tobacco in the water and hit him on the head with a club when he comes up to spit.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Bill_=—Why is it that flies can’t see in the winter time?—=_I. C. Fairlywell._=

I suppose it is because they leave their specs behind in the summer time.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—Can you dig me up a girl if I come to Robbinsdale to visit you?—=_Geehell._=

Sure, but what’s the matter with me getting you a live one?

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—What is funnier than a one-arm man trying to wind his wrist watch?—=_Horace._=

A glass eye at a keyhole.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skip_=—How is hash made?—=_Hi Water Shuz._=

It isn’t made. It accumulates.

* * * * *

=_Dear Breezy Bill_=—What’s your idea of the height of optimism?—=_Peter Outt._=

Changing your socks from one foot to the other so that the toes will not fit the holes.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Do you think that if I hired a pretty stenographer I would take more interest in my business?—=_J. G. P._=

I don’t know whether you would take more interest in your business, but I know your wife will.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—Who was the first original profiteer?—=_C. Serpent._=

The whale that swallowed Jonah; he grabbed all the Prophet in sight.

* * * * *

In case your Ford misses, look in the exhaust pipe.

_Pasture Pot Pourri_

Come, Kiss the Heroine!

Dear Editor: While coming over to America on a steamer, the mate rushed up to me and threatened to blow up the ship if I didn’t give him a kiss.

What did I do?

I saved the lives of four hundred people.

* * * * *

Lives of ’skeeters all remind us,
While short skirts are all the go,
That to them existence must be
Just one great big burlesque show!

* * * * *

=_Yes, Gus, ’tis sad but only too true that in Georgia the peaches grow on the limbs while at the beaches—but why break the monotony?_=

* * * * *

The hired hand, Gus, went to town the other night to a dance. When he got back he said that “nothing stands between certain dancers and pneumonia but a sense of loyalty to their employers.”

* * * * *

_Oh, Myrt, do you know Aurora Borealis? They say she was all lit up last night._

* * * * *

No, Geraldine, Sandy Hook is not a Scotchman.

* * * * *

I was walking down the street the other day and on the far side was a fellow who looked familiar. “Hello, Bill,” I says. “Hello, Tom,” says he. “My name ain’t Tom,” I says. “Well, my name ain’t Bill, either,” says he. With that, I looks at him an’ he looks at me an’ sure enough, it was neither of us.

* * * * *

Height of Speed

_Our idea of a fast guy is one who can turn out the light and get in bed before the room gets dark._

* * * * *

Why don’t girls figure that it costs money to press trousers?

* * * * *

Our Book Review

When a girl reading a novel begins to wet her lips, the hero and heroine are about to meet.

* * * * *

_Girls will play fast and loose with men,_
_We know; so what’s the use?_
_So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,_
_We’ll turn the fast ones loose._

* * * * *

The angels that fear to tread where fools rush in must miss a lot of fun.

* * * * *

=_A woman is not a heroine, Geraldine, just because she is dying for a man._=

* * * * *

Ain’t It Awful, Mabel!

Our friend Hooper writes us that last fall he was in Alaska; went out to spend the evening with his best girl and didn’t come back for six months. Some night, we’d say.

* * * * *

Height of Laziness

A fellow who gets up at five o’clock in the morning so that he’ll have more time to loaf.

* * * * *

Har, Har, Ha!

Heard a good joke this morning.

Is it really a good one?

Must be. My stenographer laughed until she almost fell off my lap when I told it to her.

* * * * *

A fast night makes a slow day. How well do I know it this morning.

* * * * *

Plug it Up

He—My love for you is like a rushing brook.

She—Dam it!

* * * * *

Oh, for a world of equal balance. Here we find some women with no husbands atall, atall, while others have husbands and assistant husbands.

* * * * *

_Women are like automobiles. Some are chummy roadsters and some are merely runabouts._

* * * * *

A New Melody

One of the latest song hits in Southern California is “And we will get a little bungalow in Hollywood and live our own sweet way.”

* * * * *

_Indeed, Aloysius, you’re right—socks are the most frugal things in the world. They wouldn’t think of dropping a scent until they’re washed. Hoping you are the same, I am,_

_Antiseptically speaking,_

_Yours for safety first,_

_Bilious Billy._

* * * * *

Do you need any typewriter supplies? Yes, send me two pounds of candy and a box of chewing gum.

* * * * *

About the only amusement women appear to have nowadays is smoking cigarettes, shaking the shimmy, and shooting their husbands.

* * * * *

=_We wonder where the pictures that used to hang in the bar rooms are now?_=

* * * * *

Here It Is Again

Don’t bother bringing in the firewood, Mother. Father will be home with a load.

* * * * *

Me friend Mulligan says wan time whin two heads are not better than wan is whin you wake up the morning after the night before.

* * * * *

=_Said our pet pole cat to his pretty pal: “Now, dearie, do not be so high toned that you can’t use common sense.”_=

* * * * *

Talk about your nice dispositions—we have a man in our town who retires early rather than keep the bedbugs waiting for supper.

* * * * *

_Has anyone heard that little ballad entitled “Who shot Nellie in the freckle?”_

* * * * *

What could be sweeter than the rib music of choir-practors.

* * * * *

Fair Dancer—Say, walk over your own feet!

He—What do you think I am, a cross-country runner?

* * * * *

Button up your mouth, boys, you’ve ingrown heels.

* * * * *

Today in History

They were married and lived snappily ever after.

* * * * *

_It takes a tough bird to eat currents off a live wire._

* * * * *

A North Pole Ad

(From Charlotte, N. C., Paper)

To Sublet—Heated apartment for July and August.

* * * * *

“So you’ve been to Paris? How did you like the Eifel Tower?”

“Eifel Tower? Huh, I didn’t have my eyes more than two feet off the ground all the time I was there.”

* * * * *

In Our Barn Yard

In she came;
Down she sot;
Laid a little egg,
And up she got.

* * * * *

“The MISERY of a CHILD—is interesting to a MOTHER!

“The MISERY of a YOUNG MAN—is interesting to a YOUNG WOMAN!

“The MISERY of an OLD MAN—is interesting to NOBODY!”

* * * * *

Roses are rare,
Violets are few,
I sure picked a lemon,
When I got you.

* * * * *

Joe’s a Gentleman

“Yes,” remarked the stout lady in the private bar of the Helping Hand, “my Joe give me a ruddy good leatherin’ larst night. You oughter see my shoulders! They’re black and blue. But,” she added proudly,“’e never ’its me on the face, where it’ll show. My Joe’s too much of a gentleman for that.”

* * * * *

Reverting to the subject of colored babies, George Washington Jackson, informs us that his wife presented him with one last week that weighed only two pounds. Now he wants to know if this isn’t the first time a colored baby was born so light.

* * * * *

Yes, Alfred, the ambitious girl is ambitious to make a name for herself, but she usually ends by accepting some man’s.

* * * * *

Lost, Almost

A pacifist orator in Hyde Park, London, was declaiming against war. Seeing a returned soldier listening on the edge of the crowd, he roared out: “See that man! He is garbed in the uniform of war. But I belong to the army of heaven.” The “Tommy,” leisurely removing his pipe from his mouth, dryly replied: “You’re a ’ell of a way from your barracks, then.”

* * * * *

The height of Sir Walter Raleighism was observed at a bathing beach last month, when a young man carried a bathing suit clad girl from boat to shore through six inches of water so the poor dear would not get her feet wet.

* * * * *

Blessed are the orphan children, for they have no mothers to spank them.

Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed.

* * * * *

All we have to do in Robbinsdale to feel the spirit of the good old days is to eat an ear of corn and drink a pint of water.

* * * * *

Since the country is dry why manufacture umbrellas with crooked handles to hang over bars?

* * * * *

If a woman can’t break some man’s heart she gets reckless and breaks her own.

* * * * *

Wise men never borrow trouble when they can borrow money instead.

* * * * *

One swallow doesn’t make a summer,
But one frog can make a spring.

* * * * *

The other day I was riding in the street car. I had my eye on a seat, but a woman sat on it.

* * * * *

A chilly reception doesn’t cool one off on a hot day.

* * * * *

Men fight with their fists, women with their tears.

* * * * *

When spinsterhood is bliss, ’tis folly to be wives.

* * * * *

We will now sing that touching little ballad, entitled, “Girls, don’t put make-up on your eyes, I’ll blacken ’em for you,” by the writers of “Naughty Nellie.”

* * * * *

First I gave her peaches,
Then I gave her pears
Then I gave her fifty cents
And kissed her on the stairs.

* * * * *

What we would like to know is what part of a woman’s anatomy are the stairs. The author evidently received his training from the late Quenton, who reported that a South St. Paul woman was shot in the boiler room. Well, well, I must pull another cork now. Reminds me of the time I was half shot in the Islands.

* * * * *

Her’s

Bachelor—“Do you suffer from cold feet?”

Newlywed—“Yes, but they aren’t mine.”

_Arthur Neale’s Page_

Boarding our Interborough subway car at Columbus Circle the other day en route for our office—or, to be more exact, the office in which we have desk room—we espied one of the loveliest young feminine creatures it had ever yet been our good fortune to gaze on. She would have inspired artists to undreamed of masterpieces—she would have thrilled even a sign-painter. Bathed in her beauty we rode on, oblivious of all else—even our getting off stop. How we wished that we knew her! At Times Square she arose to alight. Poor girl—she was lame.

Still reflecting on this, we reached the office and started to put the final—not finishing—touches to the musical composition we were then at work on, a snappy little one-step entitled “When My Baby Smiles at Me, I Wish She’d See a Dentist.” We had no sooner put pen to paper when one of these wandering salesmen entered the office and planked down his bag of wares on the desk. “Would you be interested in anything in ladies’ silk stockings?” he said. “We used to be,” we replied. “But now we know it’s best to be careful.”

During that day we had to make a trip further downtown, and so used the subway again. Seated opposite to us was a very nice girl with her mother, and her legs were crossed—that is, the girl’s legs were. As Gus may remember, or rather, as Gus will never forget, there is a subway breeze wafting through these cars, and it was wafting just then. The mother noticed it, and although she spoke sotto voice—whatever that is—we heard her say to the girl: “Put your leg down, Rosie, der vind ist blowin’ der dress up.” “That’s all right, ma,” said the girl, “I ain’t deformed.” And seated directly opposite, we knew that the lady was quite correct.

While waiting with a friend the other evening for a Times Square traffic jam to disentangle itself, the friend drew our attention to a taxicab stalled at the curb just where we were standing. Or, to be precise, he drew our attention to the contents of the cab. She was a queen if there ever was one. Said our friend: “Shouldn’t mind being in there with that one.” “We should,” we replied. “Already the clock says $9.60.”

* * * * *

All Was Not Well

“Don’t yo’ all know it’s wrong to shoot craps?” piped the preacher as he discovered a portion of his congregation pursuing the Goddess of Chance.

“Yas, suh,” admitted one parishioner, languidly, “an’ bulieve me, Ah’s payin’ fo’ mah sins.”

* * * * *

_A Tiresome Job_

(From Minneapolis Journal)

LOOK—I must sell my shoe hospital, as I am getting tired of sitting. 6383, Journal.

* * * * *

“You’re a stingy old tight wad, Bill.”

“How do you make that out, Joe?”

“Why I heard your wife say that if you owned the Atlantic Ocean you wouldn’t even give a clam a gargle.”

* * * * *

Old Time Facts

A certain young man named McGirth,
Was born on the day of his birth,
He was married they say
On his wife’s wedding day,
And he died on his last day on earth.

* * * * *

Pat was passing a graveyard one day and read on a tombstone, “I still live.”

“Be jabbers,” said Pat, “if I was dead sure I’d own up to it.”

* * * * *

Photographer’s Sign

I enlarge your babies and frame them for only $5.00.

* * * * *

A man I know kicked up a row
That stirred the neighbors wrath
He walked up to a lady cow
And slyly pinched her calf.

* * * * *

Lost or Stolen

(From Chattanooga Times.)

$10 REWARD. Black mare stolen. Return to W. W. Bell, Tyner, Tenn. Small wart in ear, tail chewed off at hocks; mane lays on both sides of neck; slightly reel-footed in two feet, one front, one hind; $25 if thief is with horse.

* * * * *

Mother (to battered son)—George, how many times have I told you to stop and count to a hundred before fighting?

George—That’s what I did, Ma, but the other kid’s mother told him to count only ten.

* * * * *

Quick, Officer, He’s Bleedin’!

Why is a woman like an umbrella?

Because she is made of ribs and attached to a stick.

No, have another guess.

Because nobody ever gets the right one.

Wrong, swing at it again.

Because she fades with age.

Almost, pull another.

Because she is a good thing to have about the house.

Rotten. Here’s the answer: A woman is like an umbrella because she is used to “reign.”

* * * * *

The Human Race

_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.”_

* * * * *

One reason there is so much sadness in the world is that somewhere it is always time to get up in the morning.

* * * * *

What is a monologue?

A conversation between husband and wife.

* * * * *

The Most Regular Letter

The most popular letter is the letter “E” for it was the beginning and last of Eve, the beginning of Eternity, the end of Time and Space, the beginning of every end, and the end of every Race, and will always stick to Loraine, Marie and Florence to a finish.

It is also the most unpopular letter for it is never in Cash, always in Debt, everlastingly in Misery, never out of Danger, and always in RENT, HELL, and NEAR-BEER!

* * * * *

They called the baby Ivy because she crawled all around the house.

* * * * *

Our War Drama

While in New York City recently, a member of the Wild Cat Division, now employed in the McAlpin Hotel, related an anecdote on Paddy O’Loughlin, one of the division headquarter shuffers. It was after the armistice had been signed that Paddy made a flying trip to Paris, via his trusty flivver. Upon his return he made the following report to his buddies:

“The war ain’t finished yet, be gorra, by a hekuva sight. The battle in Paris, which is going on right now, is a darn sight worse than we had with the Boche. It’s a whole lot different kind of war, but a fellow isn’t any safer on the Grand Boulevard than he was in front of a German machine gun nest.

“The attack started no more than I hit Paris and it got worse every minute until I left. You bet I was lucky to come out alive. The enemy approached me as soon as I stepped out of my truck and opened fire. She swooped down on me like a thirsty Irishman pounces on a glass of suds, grabbed hold of me by the arm just like we used to nab the German prisoners and tried to carry me off. I broke away from her, but I hadn’t gone more than fifty feet before I met another detachment of the enemy. There were two of them this time. Say, talk about your camouflage! The Germans or French neither never had nothing on them. Their lips were made up like strawberries, and their eyes—oh, la! la!

“They tried the same game on me and tried to carry me away, but I got away from them. When I hit the Boulevard, it was just like trying to run through a heavy barrage. They were all over, little cute one pounders and big heavy seventy-fives. They used the old German mass formation on me and when I tried to push through, it was worse than climbing over barb wire entanglements in No Man’s Land. The rate of fire got hotter every minute. I didn’t want to do it but there were too many of them and I had to holler ‘Kamerad.’”

We tried to get “Paddy” to tell what happened after that, but he blushed and said that was all.

* * * * *

The Horse That Wins the Race

If you ever go to races I think you’ll agree,
In the following philosophy which oft occurred to me;
Some horses start off slowly and others make the pace,
But the first horse at the wire is the horse that wins the race.
It doesn’t always matter which jockey has your mount,
When they rally down the homestretch, one thing alone will count,
Luck often passes merit, and for better or for worse,
The rear horse gets his lashing and the front horse takes the purse,
When dealing cards in poker you are liable to find
That two pair seldom rank as high as three cards of a kind.
The King card is high card but it doesn’t beat the ace:
The first horse at the wire is the one that wins the race.
Just look the records over, and you’ll stay with me, I guess,
That really, for succeeding, there’s nothing like success;
The world will surely judge you by the things that you have done!
You will only get its pity for your battles nearly won.
Reputation isn’t always what it’s lauded up to be,
The shallow brooks are noisiest, down flowing to the sea,
Great genius sometimes hides itself within the common face;
Dark horses beat the favorites to many a gallant race.
Endeavor may be noble, but the world doesn’t care a pin,
For an ocean of endeavors unless they chance to win.
Finish what you’ve undertaken if you want to make a name
Success has filled the niches in the temple walls of Fame.
The most successful doctor is the one that most is paid,
The merchant who most prospers is the one who gets the trade,
The most successful lawyer is the one who wins the case,
And the first horse at the wire is the horse that wins the race,
I often think it’s pretty hard that things should be just so,
But you have to buy your ticket if you want to see the show.
It’s the front of the procession where you always hear the band,
And the boy who gets hot peanuts is the first one at the stand.
So make your tablets ready and jot these maxims down;
It’s the peasant does the hustling and the king that wears the crown.
The man who gets the fox’s brush is the foremost in the chase,
And the first horse at the wire is the horse that wins the race.

* * * * *

Dead Earnest

I asked a young lady if she would wed,
With a smile in her bright roguish eyes, she said:
“Go ask father.”
Now she knew that I knew
That her father was dead.
And she knew that I knew
Of the life he had led.
So she knew that I knew,
What she meant when she said,
“Go ask father.”

* * * * *

There was a young gent from Tex
Who made a trip over to Mex,
And when he got back
Forty pints in a sack;
He sold each pint for an X.

* * * * *

Scented talcum is all right, but hardly a substitute for a bath.

* * * * *

_Ancient But True_

Here’s that we may swear, steal, and lie;
When we swear may it be by the hand of justice;
When we steal may it be away from bad company;
When we lie may it be in the arms of the one we love best.

* * * * *

U’re Right, Professorette

A wise woman once said there are three follies of men. The first is climbing trees to shake down the fruit, when if they would wait long enough the fruit would fall of its own weight; the second is going to war to kill each other, when, if they only waited, they would die naturally, and the third, that they run after women when, if they would not do so, women would be sure to run after them.

* * * * *

Before Prohibition: “See your own country first.”

After: “Visit foreign lands and see your own country’s thirst.”

* * * * *

Customer—“Bring me a Typographical Error.”

Waiter (returning from kitchen)—“Sorry, we have none.”

Customer—“Well, here it is on the menu.”

* * * * *

A Sad Story

Ikey and Pat were wounded in an engagement in the Argonne. A priest making the rounds found them. After giving the Irishman the last rites he then went over to Ikey and asked, “Do you believe in the Father, Son and Holy Ghost?”

Ikey groaned and rolled over.

“Oi, Oi! Here I am dying and you ask me riddles.”

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=_C. U. Later_=—Sunday is the strongest day. All of the rest are weak days.

* * * * *

=_Sin O. Nimm_=—Sorry, I can’t place you, but your breath smells familiar.

* * * * *

=_Unicorn_=—No, Uni, wrinkles do not denote the age of a prune.

* * * * *

=_I. C. S. Student_=—You ask me what is the most advisable course in the mining study to take up. Would suggest that you take up Kalso Mining.

* * * * *

=_Reggie_=—Yes, Reginald, ’tis true, only too true, that if the man in the moon had a baby he’d have the sky rocket.

* * * * *

=_Doc. Brady_=—As an instant relief for sore feet would suggest that you walk on your hands.

* * * * *

=_Run-Down Ikey_=—A sure way to acquire more initiative and pep is to wave a red shirt in front of Pedro.

* * * * *

Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.

* * * * *

Our Exchange Story

In the days when Lord Kitchener, the invincible bachelor, was remaking the British Indian forces, a youthful officer asked for a furlough to go home and be married. Kitchener listened patiently, and then spoke kindly. “Kenilworth, you’re not yet twenty-five. You’re in the midst of a piece of work I value and which you’re doing excellently. Wait a year. By that time you’ll have cleaned the slate and tried out your own mind. If then you still desire to do this thing, speak to me again, and you shall have leave; and I’ll take you back on the staff afterwards.” The year passed, and the officer once more proffered his request. “And you really tell me,” asked Kitchener, “that after thinking it over for twelve months you still wish to marry?” “Yes, sir, very much indeed.” “Adjutant,” commanded Kitchener, “Kenilworth is to have furlough to go to his own wedding. And frankly, my boy, I scarcely thought there was so much constancy in the masculine world.” Kenilworth about faced and marched to the door, but there turned and said, “Thank you, sir. Only it’s not the same woman.”

* * * * *

It Can’t Be Done

“Dress up,” roared the Topper, “y’ grinnin’ baboon;”
“Dress up,” bawled the Topper, “y’ half-witted loon.”
“How can I?” asked Riley, adjusting his spur.
“How can I dress up on thirty beans per?”

* * * * *

On the Rocks

_Lament of the Gold Striper_

“God bless you, dearie, I’ll always be waiting,”
Before I got back she’d done other mating.
With a goop that stayed home without any rating,
’Twas while I was gone that he did all his bating.

_Sad Refrain_:

Nothing to think about, nothing to do,
Nothing to talk about, none to talk to,
Nothing to look at, nothing is new,
Nobody to love, no one loves you.
Nothing to drink except in the sea,
No one to say, “Have one on me,”
Bootleg it? Yes, if you have the fee,
The label is there, but it’s only weak tea.
The sun never shines, nothing but rain,
Feel sore all over, nothing but pain,
No steps forward, not any gain.
Left on the rocks, and lost in the game.

* * * * *

“You’ve got to admit one thing,” said the man who believes prohibition has gone into effect, “and that is since the country went dry you don’t see so many smashed up automobiles on the country roads.”

“Yes,” answered his friend, as he adjusted his glasses, “a fellow who takes more than one shot of the hootch sold nowadays never gets as far as the city limits.”

* * * * *

Their jests, their quips, insipid jokes,
I’ve heard till I am full;
Why can’t the men fling bullion,
Instead of flinging bull.

* * * * *

I’ve been swimming a lot lately and as a result am tanned a dark brown—so dark that my wife won’t let me out of her sight for a minute around the lakes—she’s afraid some women follower of the Stillman divorce case will mistake me for an Indian guide.

_The Annual Is Out!_

Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter Annual Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22—hot off the press. Mailing will begin in a few days. To those thousands of Captain Billy’s friends who already have sent in their one dollar bills, checks or stamps, we extend congratulations. Yours will go out first, in the order in which your orders were and are being received.

PIN A DOLLAR BILL

Or your check, money order or stamps
To the coupon on the opposite page.

And receive our 256-page bound volume of jokes, jests, jingles, stories, pot pourri mail bag and Smokehouse poetry. The best collection ever put in print.

REMEMBER, FOLK

Last year our Annual (which was only one-fourth as large as the 1921-22 book) was sold out on the Pacific Coast within three or four days, and not a copy could be bought =anywhere= in the United States within ten days.

So hurry up! First Come will be First Served!

Pin your dollar bill to the coupon and mail to the Whiz Bang Farm, Robbinsdale, Minn.

Don’t write for early back copies of our regular issues.

We haven’t any left.

_Our Winter Annual_

In addition to republication of gems of earlier issues of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, the first complete Winter Annual of this great family journal will contain a large variety of brand new jokes, jests, jingles, pot pourri, stories, and smokehouse poetry. This book, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22, will contain four times as much reading matter as the regular issue of the Whiz Bang and will sell for one dollar per copy. It will be a book which will be cherished by the readers for years to come, and will contain the greatest collection of red-blooded poetry yet put in print. Included in the list will be:

Johnnie and Frankie, The Face on the Barroom Floor, The
Shooting of Dan McGrew, The Harpy, Lasca (in full), The Girl
in the Blue Velvet Band, Langdon Smith’s “Evolution,” Advice
to Men, Advice to Women, Our Own Fairy Queen, Stunning Percy
LaDue, Parody on Kipling’s “The Ladies,” Toledo Slim.

Advance orders are now being received and will be mailed in the order in which they are received. Tear off the attached blank and mail to us today with your check, money order or stamps.

* * * * *

Whiz Bang,
Robbinsdale, Minnesota.

Gentlemen:

Enclosed is dollar bill, check, money order or stamps for $1.00
for which please send me the Winter Annual of Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.”

Name..............................................

Address...........................................

_Everywhere!_

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