Chapter II: Part 2

Your dole of scanty words had been
One more pang to bear,
For who kissed until the last
Your tresses of golden hair?
I did not put it where he said
For when the angels come,
I would not let them find the sign
Of falsehood in the tomb.

I see you better, and I know
The wiles that you have wrought,
To win that noble heart of his,
And gained it—cruel thought.
What lavish wealth some men sometimes give
For what is worthless all,
What manly bosoms beat for them
Is follies falsest thrall.

You shall not pity him, for now
His sorrows have an end,
Yet, would that you could stand with me
Beside your fallen friend.
And I forgive you for his sake,
As he—if it be given—
May be even pleading grace for you
Before the Court of Heaven.

Tonight the cold winds whistle by,
As I my vigil keep,
Within the death house of the prison,
Where few mourners come to weep;
A rude plank coffin hold his form,
Yet death exalts his face,
And I would rather see him thus,
Than clasped in your embrace.

Tonight your home may shine with lights
And ring with merry songs,
And you be smiling as though your soul
Ha done no deathly wrong.
Your hands so fair, none would think
Had penned these words of pain,
Your skin so white, would God, your heart
Were half so free from stain.

I’d rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For you’re the sinner’s walking dread
And in the Martyr’s dreams.
Whom serve we in this, we serve
In that which is to come,
He chose his way, you yours, let God
Pronounce the fighting done.

* * * * *

Bein’ Human

By Bill Stinger.

God made us human bein’s, but, often, we will find
That few are bein’ human if we scrutinize mankind—
There’s a lot of folks pretendin’ till their lives are out of joint,
With the things that bust the heartstrings, burn the soul, and
disappoint.
And, instead of bein’ natural, jist the way God meant ’em to,
They are losing all life’s rapture apin’ what the others do.

Bein’ human is a practice that jist everlastin’ pays,
In peace, and love, and fellowship through all the livelong days.
Makes folks trust you for they sense it that your inner self is true,
So you’ll find ’em all a-feelin’ like confidin’ lots in you—
While it pays another’s virtues fur to try to emulate.
You’ll have to be your honest self if ever you are great.

There’s no folly like the folly of the fool who tries to be,
Like some other feller’s pattern, in exact conformity—
Be yourself, there’s no way tellin’, mebbe it was in the plan,
Fur yourself to be the makin’ of superior kind of man.
Anyway there’s joy and laughter put in every feller’s lot,
If he’ll only quit pretendin’ he is sumpin he is not.

* * * * *

God’s Richest Blessing

Backward, turn backward, Oh, time in your flight,
Give us a maiden with skirts not so tight
Give us a girl whose charms many or few,
Are not exposed by so much peek-a-boo.
Give us a maiden no matter what age,
Who won’t use the street for a vaudeville stage.
Give us a girl not so sharply in view,
Dress her in skirts that the sun won’t shine through.
Then give us the dances of days long gone by,
With plenty of clothes and steps not so high.
Take away turkey-trot, capers, and butter-milk glide
The hurdy-gurdy twist, and wiggle-tail slide.
Then let us feast our tired optics once more
On a genuine woman as sweet as of yore.
Yes time, please turn back and grant our request,
For God’s richest blessing, but not one undressed.

* * * * *

What Every Girl Thinks

There’s a little bit of Devil in the swagger of your walk,
There’s a little bit of Devil in your sigh.
There’s a little bit of Devil in your senseless loving talk,
There’s a Devil in your laughing, teasing eye.

There’s a little bit of angel in the way you love a girl,
With a reverence that Woman claims her due.
There’s a little bit of Angel in the way you would protect,
Love, and keep her and be tender, kind and true.

Now this Being, Imp and Angel, is a puzzle, I’ll admit,
Guess the answer, Gentle Reader, if you can.
How this queer old combination makes you thrill with admiration,
When you find this Angel-Devil is a Man.

* * * * *

If

If she didn’t have her hair bobbed,
If she didn’t daub with paint,
If she had her dresses made to reach
To where the dresses ain’t,
If she didn’t have that baby voice,
And spoke just as she should;
Don’t you think she’d be as popular?
I hardly think she would.

Naughty New York

Doug and Mary and Charley almost made Broadway forget to curse the landlords.

The wildest crowd I have seen in New York since Armistice Day was the gang that jammed into Forty-second Street the day that Fairbanks’ movie, “The Musketeers,” opened. Taxi cabs had to stop a block away and let the passengers fight their way into the theatre if they could.

I saw two girls shove Jack Dempsey out of the way to get a look at Doug and his wife. They just dug their little elbows into the illustrious ribs of the Champ, and rough housed him to one side out of their line of vision. I guess the Fairbanks family can consider this to be about the summit of human fame. I once saw a big crowd run away from a reception to the President of the United States, leaving that august personage talking to the empty air in order to see a heavy weight champion; but I never imagined that anything could take a crowd away from a champ. Compared to Doug and Mary as rival attractions, Dempsey was nothing but a broad back that was difficult to see around.

I’m telling you the truth, children. The day that Doug and Mary went to Boston, the crowds lined the railroad track at every station as though it were the Royal Mogul passing by.

Charley Chaplin didn’t register very heavily—except in the newspapers. The truth is painful, but must be told. Charles was lost in the shuffle. It wasn’t “his stuff” as the newspaper men say.

The night the show opened, Douglas, finding it hard to make a way through the crowd, picked Mary Pickford up on his shoulder and bucked his way through like a football half back. Charley couldn’t very well pick up Jack Dempsey on his shoulder so he played second fiddle.

I don’t know what’s the matter with Charley. His divorce suit must have been a shattering experience. His hair is growing gray around the edges, and his nerves seem on the raw edge. One day he was being interviewed by a gang of reporters in his suite at his New York hotel, and nearly chewed off the head of one of the newspaper men who asked him with what American he compared Lenin, the Bolshevist.

Without warning, Charles tore into the reporter and handed him a cutting rebuke for his stupidity. He talked scornfully about “you Americans”—which is poor stuff for Charley.

To tell the truth, I thought he was going to cry. And I guess he wasn’t far from it. Charley told me afterward that his nerves are in such a condition that he weeps at the slightest excuse.

He should have taken a lesson from his former bride, Mildred Harris.

One of the actors told me about the weeps of the former Mrs. Chaplin. Not long ago she was working in a picture under one of the De Milles. Finding her exasperating, the director lost his temper and fairly lashed her with his tongue. Through the tirade, Miss Harris calmly kept on “making up.” While he was generally going over her sins of omission and commission, she was carefully penciling her eyebrows, looking sidewise into the mirror, the way they do. When he got down to purple-faced bellows of rage, she was going over her lips with the lip stick. When he was generally giving an explosive review of the ground he had already covered, the lady was giving a final dab just over her eye lids. Having given herself a final and critical survey in her pocket mirror and finding the job was worthy of her O.K., she proceeded softly to cry at the director’s remarks. She believes in taking up things in their systematic and proper rotation.

Chaplin speaks bitterly of his married life and at the same time glares with melancholy rage and dismay at his first gray hairs. The first time the newspaper photographers took his picture on his arrival in New York, he asked them with alarmed solicitude to retouch the plates so his gray hairs would not show.

The movie people in New York feel somewhat dismayed because of Charley’s interview with a British newspaper man regarding Fatty Arbuckle and the killing of Virginia Rappe in San Francisco.

The disposition of the movie actors on Broadway is to pile the guilt of every movie scandal that has occurred since the beginning of time upon Fatty’s robust shoulders and let him sink.

I was amused, however, when “Pathe” Lehrmann rushed into the New York papers after the killing and raved for a couple of columns upon the deplorable condition of Fatty’s morals in relation to women. It seems that “Pathe” was engaged to the deceased young lady. He is now Owen Moore’s director at a studio in this city.

Among the several things, that “Pathe” says about Fatty Arbuckle is that Fatty used to clean spittoons in Arizona. “This,” remarks “Pathe” witheringly, “Is what happens when we take people out of the gutter and make them millionaires.”

Well, maybe so; maybe so. But I have a distinct recollection of “Pathe” Lehrmann before he got into the Rolls-Royce class.

In an east side lodging house, Lehrmann is not so very convincing as the one to stare coldly at Fatty across the cold chasm of class inferiority.

As far as Fatty Arbuckle goes—Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well! He is neither the frightful monster painted by the agitated Herr Lehrmann, nor yet the “clear white inside” person described by the emotional ex-husband of Miss Harris.

Fatty is an ignorant fat boy with a natural impulse to be funny. As a clown, he is there a million. As a millionaire, he is about as convincing as a louse on the shoulders of a decollette heiress. He just doesn’t belong there.

As to the spittoons of the Arizona saloon, well, somebody had to clean ’em. I hope he cleaned them well.

It was Fatty’s misfortune that he was not able to hush up his scandal as the scandal of Zelda Crosby was hushed up recently in New York.

Zelda Crosby was a young scenario writer. When she was about fifteen years old she happened to be invited to a jazz party given by a well known movie star in New York. One of the guests at the party was a “fillum” magnate known over the world for his campaign for purity, etc., in the films.

He took the little girl under the protection of his influence. She developed a flare for writing and he gave her an important job as a scenario writer.

* * * * *

This row of stars means the usual thing that they mean in romances.

Well, after a while, the girl, who was now in her twenties, realized that he was slipping away from her. She accused him of having met another girl for whom he cared more than for her. Incidentally, he was a married man, but that didn’t count.

The film magnate renewed his protestations to her; but began to find fault with the quality of her scenario work. Then one day the little girl went into the bath room and tipped up a bottle of poison and that was the end.

Well, not quite the end. A girl friend of hers began to talk at a party. She began to tell some very dangerous things she knew of. It happened that this girl’s name is the same as that of a great screen star.

In a panic the film magnate heard what was said at the party. He hurried off to the astonished star a telegram threatening openly to ruin her entire screen career if she ever opened her mouth again about this scandal. Her indignant reply disclosed to the magnate that he had sent a telegram to the wrong girl by mistake.

Then, brethren, there was truly a fine howdydo, and it all came out in the papers—at least some of it did.

One young man—a journalist hanging on the ragged edge of decency, stated that he had some inside facts and intended to bring the whole thing out in a grand jury investigation. But he never got to the grand jury and the whole thing was suddenly hushed up. I leave it to you to imagine what happened.

It looks like a rotten year for the theatre business—and perhaps for other business.

At this writing there is not one legitimate show in New York doing any business. “Six Cylinder Love,” a comedy about a family which buys an automobile before they can really afford to do so, is supposed to be the one big hit of New York and it has already been forced to take blocks of its tickets over to the reduced rate ticket office to be sold at a discount.

Already, with the season hardly started, the beach is strewn with wrecks. One month, after the opening of the season, some nineteen shows had gone broke and had been taken off.

To be honest about it, I think most of the nineteen richly deserved it. For some unaccountable reason, nearly all the shows are infernally talky this year. The curtain goes up on a pair of people who gabble at you over the footlights until you have the blind staggers. When they—and you—are groggy, another pair take up the talk fest. Nothing ever happens but chatter. This is supposed to be the new “literal” and “realistic” school.

The high brow authors contend that their characters gabble over nothing for hours in real life; therefore, they should gabble by the hour about nothing in mimic life. By the same token I dare say they will show them putting hair lotion on their bald spots and trimming their corns and performing the other manifest, but not thrilling or interesting, duties of life.

If we are going to be realistic, b’gosh let’s be really so.

One of the few real successes of the theatre season is a coy and refined young comedy for the pure and young; it is called “Finding Gertie’s Garter.”

Al Woods, the promoter thereof, cheerfully admits all the rough things the papers and the preachers say about it. Al says that last year he listened to the critics who spurred him on to do his duty toward art and refinement. Result, he lost $75,000 on two high-brow plays. Hereafter, he is for bedroom farces “first, last and alla time” as politicians say.

Which brings us to Irving Berlin, the song writer who is just about to blossom out as a producer with a beautiful theatre of his own.

Irving began where Fatty Arbuckle did—or nearly there. He was a waiter and song shouter in a tough cafe on the East Side.

In Berlin’s case, however, he went steadfastly to work and began writing songs. At first he sang his own songs in the cafe; then he got them published. Now he is a millionaire and has the additional distinction of being one of the men who were engaged to Constance Talmadge before she was carried off by a fascinating Greek millionaire.

In fact, Irving was the last of the jilted ones. He got his dismissal from Connie down in Florida. When he came back nursing bruised and broken love hopes some one asked him about the climate in Florida.

“Fine air I hear, Irving?” said the friend.

“Yes” said Irving, “And I got the air.”

* * * * *

Oh, Cholly!

Gwendolyn—“This is my beau’s birthday, but I don’t know what present to give him.”

Susie—“Give him a book.”

“But he already has a book.”

“Give him a box of cigars.”

“But he doesn’t smoke.”

“Give him a case of Near Beer.”

“But he doesn’t drink.”

“Well, if that’s the sort of guy he is, you’d better send him a kimona.”

* * * * *

An Irishman’s Toast

Whisky, you are me darlint’,
I love you both early and late,
You above all other liquors
I pledge me whole estate.
If I were as low as a beggar,
You’d make me as high as a king,
And whisky, when you’re in me tummy,
I rattle, I roar, and I sing.

* * * * *

Brigham Young would rejoice in present day styles. A bolt of gingham would go almost around the family.

* * * * *

Embolusing the Thrombosis

Question (to doctor on witness stand in murder case)—“Just tell the jury what, in your opinion, caused the death of the late Mr. Scrapple.”

Answer—“Well, when deceased laid down his full house with buoyancy of spirit and was about to reach for the pot, the accused, Mr. Jopkins, cried out, ‘Hold on! What’s the matter with them four treys?’ This sudden cessation of undue elation on the part of the late Mr. Scrapple created an anti-climax and caused the blood of the myocardium to go galloping round and round the heart, thus supercharging the pulmonary arteries until the renal, splenic and cerebral vessels went to pieces and left the embolus lodging crosswise against the primary thrombosis. Thus it is self-evident that the booze he had obviously been imbibing became partially coagulated, forming an aneurism which brought about a spiflication of the sine quo non. This would, I think, be sufficient to cause death.”

His Honor—“I think so, too.”

* * * * *

Good Evening, Bartender!

Boyce—I was arrested last night for impersonating an officer.

Royce—What did you do?

Boyce—I knocked at a side door and drank the slug of hootch they handed out.

Pasture Pot Pourri

Sniff, Sniff

_The following poem was written originally on tissue paper with a wire nail._

I was born about ten thousand years ago.
There isn’t a doggone thing that I don’t know.
I played “ring around the roses,”
With Peter, Paul, and Moses,
And I’ll choke the guy that says it isn’t so.

I once saw Satan as he looked the garden o’er.
I saw Adam and Eve kicked out of the garden door.
Through the bushes I was peeking
At the apple they were eating,
And I’ll swear I was the guy who ate the core.

Queen Elizabeth she fell in love with me.
We were married in Milwaukee secretly.
I tired of her and shook her
And went with General Hooker
To fight mosquitoes down in Tennessee.

* * * * *

Whuzzat?

The Patagonian Pee Wee is now described as a small bird of the Andes which stands on its head during severe storms and huddles under its feet.

* * * * *

_We are still looking for a mate to the gink who quit drinking coffee because the spoon handle hit his eye._

* * * * *

Such a busyness!
Such a blondeness!
Such a dizzyness!
Such a fondness!
Such a kissyness!
Wife’s on t’us!
Such a pretty mess!

* * * * *

In the Day’s News

“The other day my mother sent me to the grocery store for a pound of sugar. The grocer did not have any on hand, so I went out. When I got on the icy sidewalk I slipped and fell, but I went home with some lumps anyway.”

* * * * *

“_Waiter, bring me a cup of coffee the color of my girl’s neck._”

* * * * *

His Pathos Burning

“You know, folks, what makes me so late in arriving at this party is that my mother lost a lid off the kitchen range, and I had to sit on the stove to keep the smoke in until she found the lid.”

* * * * *

Now, after the outburst of applause has subsided, we will sing a song entitled, “Why the Corkscrew Has Lost Its Pull,” written by William Jennings Bryan.

* * * * *

_Let us now sing another little song entitled, “Mother, Hang Out the Service Flag; Father Has Gone to Work Again.”_

* * * * *

“How long,” she blushingly inquired, “Must one beat a cow before she will give whipped cream?”

* * * * *

Up to Date

He—Where is your husband?

She—He went back to his wife.

* * * * *

Height of Piety

Out in San Francisco is a Scotch woman who is so religious that she will not give the children medicine on Saturday night for fear it will work on Sunday.

* * * * *

_Our idea of tough luck is to work for your board and then lose your appetite._

* * * * *

I asked her why she wore socks and she said they were not socks; that they were stockings, and she had water on the knee which caused her stockings to shrink.

I suppose her bobbed hair was caused by water on the brain.

* * * * *

_Every young man believes in the advice “Begin at the Bottom” when looking over the feminine parade down the street._

* * * * *

My father was killed in a feud.

I never would ride in one of those cheap cars.

* * * * *

Another suitor won her Hand, but I am trying to win her Back.

* * * * *

Lead Me to It!

Advertisement on cover of movie magazine: Picture of Billie Burke Inside. Who said beauty is only skin deep?

* * * * *

We Printed This Before

_I want a good girl and I want her bad._

* * * * *

Cut ’er Out, Dang!!

The man in the restaurant next to me made so much noise drinking his coffee that a deaf man in the front of the restaurant shouted “Run for your lives, the dam has broken!”

* * * * *

_A dog can bury a bone and go to sleep knowing his “wife” won’t find it._

_But a man can’t get away with it, with a wife who goes through his pockets._

* * * * *

An Accommodating Judge

(From the Creston Gazette.)

The trial jurors called for the August term of the district court in this county appeared this afternoon at 1:30 when court convened and were dismissed by District Judge Evans until 9:00 A. M. tomorrow.

Immediately after the dismissal of the jurors for the day the equity case of Reid vs. Ternihan was taken up and at the time of this paper going to press, was on trial before Judge Evans.

A number of jurors called for service this term asked to be excused from duty and some were excused.

One juror, a man, asked to be excused.

“What are your reasons for wishing to be excused?” asked Judge Evans.

“I am needed at home,” the juror answered.

“Who did you leave at home?” the judge asked.

“My wife and—and—the hired man,” timidly replied the juror.

He was excused until Thursday morning.

_Classified Ads_

Let Us Sing “Mother O’ Mine”

(From Honolulu Advertiser.)

Four sows with babies and 25 half-bredded Toggenberg goats. M. Fernandez, Tenth Avenue, Palolo.

* * * * *

Joys of Waiters

(From Honolulu Advertiser.)

A working housekeeper is wanted to take charge of a small hotel and two first-class waiters. Apply The Roselawn, 1366 S. King street.

* * * * *

Frisco’s Sanitary Corps

(From the San Francisco Examiner.)

Would like to communicate with a lady that wants to make money on a sanitary article for women, ranging from 14 years to 45. I can not handle, but will co-operate. For further particulars, write box 68898, Examiner.

* * * * *

A Classified Special

(From the Daily University Californian.)

FOR RENT—One woman. Furnished room with sleeping porch; beautiful view. Three blocks north of campus. 4695W.

* * * * *

Pedigreed Bull

(From Denver News and Times.)

Well marked pedigreed Boston terrier puppies, sired by Dinty Moore. 1364 York St.

* * * * *

Going Out

(An Advertisement.)

WANTED: Man to run a soft drink parlor out of town.

* * * * *

How’re Everythings?

A Boston youth is the hero of this account in the “Globe”:

His parents were what is known as “high-brow,” but they also were good sports. So, when he suggested taking them to a restaurant in the market district of Boston, they agreed.

The mother’s exquisite clothes stamped her as a society woman, but democracy reigns supreme at the market restaurant.

They sat down at the table. The waiter handed the mother a menu and then leaned confidentially forward over the back of the chair and said:

“Well, sister, what’s the good news?”

* * * * *

The Height of Sociability

Virgil W. Church found a case containing 79 half pints of bonded whisky on his farm near here. He notified the police.—Michigan City (Ind.) Dispatch.

* * * * *

Tough Guys

A couple of darkies argued on the street—

“If yo go with dat gal, I’ll cut yo up in pieces so small a ant kin swaller yo.”

“If yo do I’ll hit yo so ha’d it will make a bump on yo haid so big that when dey call the ambulance dey will put the bump inside and yo’all will have to walk.”

* * * * *

Overheard in a Hospital

A negress rolled her eyes heavenward and exclaimed: “Oh, Lawd if dis am a sample ob married life, I’se glad I’se only engaged.”

* * * * *

Homeopathic Dose

Jazzbo—Please, Mistah Bahbah, I’d like a nickel’s worth o’ hair tonic.

Barber—What in the world do you want with a nickel’s worth for when it’s selling for a dollar a pint? Want to restore the eyebrows on a flea?

Jazzbo—Nossuh nossuh. Wanta fix mah watch. It’s got a speck o’ dandruff in the hair spring.

* * * * *

Fleas Be Fleas

If flies are flies,
Because they fly,
And fleas are fleas
Because they flee,
Then bees are bees
Because they be.

* * * * *

Quick, Doctor!

An inquisitive maiden lady, touring Yellowstone Park came to the boiling lake.

“Say, Mr. Guide, does this lake ever freeze?”

“Oh, yes, it froze a thin coat of ice last winter and a young lady went skating on it. She broke through the ice and scalded her foot.”

* * * * *

The Life of the Party

_When Roscoe Arbuckle was star in “The Life of the Party,” the film adapted from Irving Cobb’s Saturday Evening Post yarn, little did he realize that he would play a similar role in real life. Poet Gordon tells about it in these verses._

By R. C. Gordon.

A certain film comedian, who gave the world much fun,
Whose actual weight in flesh and bones is somewhere near a ton,
Thought he, too, should laugh a bit, and have a little play;
His chosen date, so I am told, was on last Labor Day.

He sent out invitations to his numerous actor friends,
And said if thou wouldst have some fun, wilst thou then attend?
Attend they did, and fun they had, and everything went well
Until one girl, from a nearby room, from pains began to yell.

“Roscoe hurt me badly, I can hardly get my breath,”
But the drunks paid no attention—they had no thought of death.
She asked them for a doctor and still they paid no mind,
Fun was on the rampage, the late pajama kind.

“They’re drinking up my liquor,” is the only thing he said,
And tried hard not to flicker when he found out she was dead.
Now in his cell he sits and moans and possibly might pray,
For he was “The Life of the Party” in his orgy Labor Day.

* * * * *

A London Report

Complaining at Tottenham of assault, a woman said this was the second time the same man had assaulted her.

“I took no notice when he kicked me the first time,” she said, “because it was dark, and I took it to be my husband.”

“Then I saw it was a stranger, and I screamed.”

* * * * *

“I hate to be a kicker, and generally stand for peace; but the wheel that does the squeaking is the wheel that gets the grease.”—Kipling.

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=_I. Scream_=—You ask me to publish the story entitled “Heaven’s Above” and I am herewith complying, poetical style:

_I kissed the dimple in her chin,_
_Her cheeks suffused with red;_
_Reprovingly she looked at me,_
_“Heaven’s above!” she said._

Maybe you don’t think that this is the true version, but it is the only one we can think of at present.

* * * * *

=_Yucan Haver_=—Your friend, when he said you had eyes like a certain star, probably referred to Ben Turpin’s.

* * * * *

=_Al A. Baster_=—Yes, it is very embarrassing for the young man who tries to stop a lady’s nose-bleed by putting a bunch of cold keys down her back, especially if it is at a fancy dress ball.

* * * * *

=_George_=—Good looks, money, a car, help along the male flirt—but the only indispensable requisite is a chilled steel nerve.

* * * * *

Philosophy of the Modern Flapper

By Jane Gaites.

Tonight when you shall gather me in your strong loving arms and marvel at the radiance of my eyes, the golden glamour of my hair, the velvety softness of my pink cheeks, while you tell me you love me, I shall smile.

And you will be content thinking that I smile because of love for you. You will wonder at my naivete, at my simplicity, and innocence. You do not know of my rows and rows of expensive jars that make me beautiful. You do not guess that untold experience has made me “simple.”

And when you draw me even closer to you and kiss me again, more passionately, while you smile at my sweet demureness and simplicity, I too will smile, because with all your vast knowledge of women—dear boy, you are so simple!

* * * * *

_“This falls just a little below my expectations,” said the blushing young thing to her dressmaker as she surveyed herself in the mirror. As to what the blushing young thing meant by expectations, you can use your own judgment._

* * * * *

No, gentle reader, the bull durham outfit is not responsible for the practice: “Roll Your Own.”

* * * * *

“The man I marry must have common sense,” she said. But the party broke up when I remarked, “He won’t have.”

* * * * *

Oh Sprinkle Me With Dew!

“I thank you for the Flowers you sent,”
She said.
I’m sorry for the words I spoke
Last Night.
Your sending me those flowers made all
Things right.
Will you forgive me? He forgave her.

And as they kissed again beneath
The bowers,
He wondered who the deuce sent her
Those flowers.

* * * * *

The Modern Girl

She told him: “There’s no fun in a graveyard; give me my flowers now.”

* * * * *

Printer’s Note

Just as Ye Printer (get that Ye stuff) was finishing up slapping this crazy stuff in the form we received the following telegram from the boss, sent from Los Onglaze: “HAVE LEARNED THAT WHIZ BANG HAS THE LARGEST CIRCULATION HERE OF ANY TWENTY-FIVE CENT MAGAZINE PUBLISHED ANYWHERE. I AM LEAVING TOMORROW FOR TIAJUANA AND WILL VISIT MORE MOVIE STUDIOS HERE NEXT WEEK. THEN I GO TO HONOLULU.”

Well, by the time this reaches the readers, the boss will be running around loose in the Paradise of hulas, volcanoes, beaches, painted fish and sensuous climates.

_The Annual Is Out!_

Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter Annual Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22—hot off the press. Orders are now being mailed. There will be no delay as long as the supply lasts. If your news stand’s quota is sold out—

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 contains a large variety of brand new jokes, jests, jingles, pot pourri, stories and smokehouse poetry. This book, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22, contains four times as much reading matter as the regular issue of the Whiz Bang and sells for one dollar per copy. It is a book which will be cherished by the readers for years to come, and holds the greatest collection of red-blooded poetry yet put in print. Included in the list are:

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.

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.

One dollar for the WINTER ANNUAL.