Chapter I: Part 1

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 30, February, 1922

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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_

_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy_

FEBRUARY, 1922 Vol. III. No. 30

Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the postoffice
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

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 1922
By W. H. Fawcett

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions
may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct
mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we
give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

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

_Drippings From the Fawcett_

_Gentle readers, wet your lips, for whilst with dry tongues
thou art yearning, your obedient servant, Bilious Billy, is in
the land of liberty—personal and otherwise—basking in Cuba’s
sunny clime, in Havana, sucking soda through a straw! Soda!
Sure, soda with a dash in it. When we grow tired of fast horses
and saintly senoritas, it will be back again to the big pines
of northern Minnesota for the fishing season at Breezy Point
Lodge. You know, folk, in the winter we Minnesotans can’t fish,
as our Norwegian friends would say._

Well, boys and girls, here I am on the road again—just like a wandering Jew. In making my present departure from Robbinsdale, I didn’t know whether I was coming to Montreal or going to Cuba.

The high cost of coal in Robbinsdale made me long for summer at Miami Beach, where there is no charge for hot rolls in the sand and a little chicken nearby. Then again I was reminded of having seen Willie and Mollie playing in the sand, indulging in youthful folly. The sand was terribly hot on Willie’s back and the sun was hot tamale.

Woke up in Chicago with an ice-pack attached to my fevered brow, and appreciating that the United States is the land of personal liberty I hied forth towards Miami to see if I might not be able to obtain a “wee snifter.” Miami is now the legal home of William Jennings Bryan and I did not have much luck in satisfying an unquenchable thirst. Anyway, if I did, it wouldn’t be nice to tell about. Mr. Bryan may have something to do with keeping Miami and the State of Florida bone-dry—which it isn’t—so more power to him. Florida may be dry, but in the unmortal words of our snuff-chewing hired man, I am pleased to report that there are a lot of “damp rascals” here.

Understand the Floridians are seriously considering Bryan for United States Senator. Had the pleasure today of driving through the backyard of the Commoner’s palatial home, but all I could see was the rear door and his smokehouse. Mr. Bryan was too busy addressing a Baptist convention to even invite me to lunch. Tomorrow he is slated for a Bible talk in the city park and if I get up in time, and feel all right, shall listen to his discourse. (Later, didn’t get up in time.)

* * * * *

After leaving Chicago I stopped at Atlanta for a few days’ sojourn. Here we struck nice warm sunshine. The Atlanta ladies are a genial lot, but their costuming somewhat crashes with the constitutional scheme of affairs as laid down by the eighteenth amendment. Their hats are full of cocktails—and sometimes also their heads, I am told. In fact, a bird of paradise plume is quite in vogue in Atlanta.

The information is also vouchsafed that some Atlanta girls are born foolish, while others marry.

Overheard a rather humorous remark of a local celebrity, Clayt Robson by name, one evening in the lobby of the Kimball house. Robson is a well-known Georgian lobbyist and political boss, who is considered a power in the present state administration. Clayt jokingly spluttered to a group of friends that “I was twenty-one years old and grown-up before I knew that ‘damned Yankee’ was two words.”

My visit to Atlanta brought to memory a conversation I had with Cole S. Blease, former governor of South Carolina, about four years ago. The governor very kindly invited me to his suite in the Selwyn hotel at Charlotte, N. C., to partake of his private twenty-year-old stock. While “killing” the quart of medicine, the subject of Atlanta came to the front. Here is the Bleasian description of the South’s largest city, as nearly as I can remember:

“_Atlanta is a hell-hole of perdition. It is no place for a
virtuous woman or an honest man._”

I cannot quite agree with Mr. Blease, for Atlanta treated me royally. The girlies here I found to be of true Southern stock—very shy and rather demure. I once heard the late “Pitchfork” Ben Tillman remark that the only family tree he could boast was that the women were virtuous and the men reasonably brave. From my cursory observations this description fairly fits Atlanta.

From Atlanta our next stop was Jacksonville. Went for a joyride here, which ended in a thrilling though harmless smashup. Upon picking myself from out the wreckage, I thanked the kindly doctor for a safe delivery. Which calls to mind these lines by Lincoln, or some other noted personage:

_Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?_
_As he rides in his swift-flying car like a cloud,_
_A break in the axle, a bust in the tire,_
_He passeth from life to the heavenly choir._

* * * * *

As a deer hunter, I’m a good farmer. Spent ten days tramping the windfalls in the neighborhood of Breezy Point Lodge without even seeing a deer. Saw plenty of polecats, bobcats and house cats, and nearly captured a “porky.” I learned lots about the habits and habitations of the northern pine animals and finally managed to knock down a “spike buck” (whatever that means) on the last day of the hunting season. Must admit the buck almost shook hands with me before I was able to knock him over. However, I had a very good guide, Arthur Foote by name, but better known as “Panther Pete.” Pete has earned a regular living for twenty-five years as a trapper and deer hunter, and I am sure that the small buck never would have fallen for me had he not enticed the animal to leave his forest retreat.

* * * * *

While touring the San Francisco underworld as the guest of the police vice squad on my recent tour of the Pacific coast, we encountered what the police considered a suspicious party.

He was one of those dapper young men with a red necktie that frequent this section of Famous Frisco.

“What’s your occupation?” asked one of the policemen of the young man.

“I’m a business man,” was the answer as the young man started to trip blithely away.

“Wait a minute,” said the cop. “I never saw a business man walk like that.”

“Oh,” replied the dapper youth, “but you don’t know what kind of business I’m in!”

Thirty days for him.

* * * * *

During my recent rampage about the American continent it was my pleasure to appreciate the service of Tiajuana, and I could not resist the temptation to contrast this Mexican village with the Canadian metropolis, Montreal. In Montreal I enjoyed a bottle of Pol Roger champagne without being a law breaker, even though it cost me ten cents for a two by four sandwich. From Montreal I hustled to the deer hunting regions of northern Minnesota and found no champagne or other imported wines, but plenty of “mountain dew.” With all due respect to Mr. Andrew J. Volstead, our Minnesota congressman, there is today in this grand and glorious land of the free and home of the brave more rotten booze than it was ever my lot to drink in the pre-prohibition days.

But to get back to my deer hunting expedition, I must admit that the deer were scarce but—

_But there were polecats and goosehawks,_
_And a four-legged cow;_
_Wild pigs and wild boars,_
_And a thing like a sow._
_There were thousands of screech owls,_
_Turkey buzzards and quail,_
_And a little black jack-ass_
_With a damnable tail,_
_With their fol de dol dol_
_And fol de dol day._

* * * * *

While flivvering out near Golden Valley, Minnesota, I dropped in at the farm of my old friend, John Foss, to pass the time of day. I noticed a drove of hogs on his timber lot acting peculiar. They would run up to a tree and squeal like mad, then leave that tree and go to another and do the same thing, continuing in their mad scamper around the timber lot.

“What makes them act that way?” I asked John.

“Well,” replied old man Foss, “last winter I had a throat infection and lost the power of speech for a month or more and couldn’t call them to their feed, so I taught them to come by rapping on a post or a tree, and now the darn woodpeckers are setting them crazy.”

* * * * *

At Breezy Point Lodge I have an old gray mare and I love to sing this melody of my boyhood days:

_The old gray mare_
_She sits on the single tree,_
_Sits on the whipple tree,_
_Sits on the single tree._

And, believe me, her greatest indoor and outdoor sport is sitting on the single tree.

* * * * *

Up in the deer hunting grounds of northern Minnesota the jack-pine savages are still singing that old familiar ditty about the much maligned, bird—the woodpecker. These heart throbbing words peal gently through the evening air:

_“I stuck my finger in a woodpecker’s hole,_
_And the woodpecker said: ‘Gosh darn your soul,’_
_‘Take it out; take it out; take it out; take it out.’”_

* * * * *

The other day I was riding on a street car in Minneapolis. Sitting opposite me was a very pretty young lady who had a poodle dog in her lap. Bluenose lady sitting next to the girl addressed her thusly: “My, what a nasty little dog. Don’t you think, my young lady, it would look much nicer if you had a little baby in your lap?”

“No,” the pretty one replied in calm even tones, “it wouldn’t. You see I’m not married.”

* * * * *

Chief Bloberger surveyed a party of hoboes coming down the Great Northern tracks.

“Here they come, hog fat and crummy, short pipes and red noses. Won’t work, ain’t allowed to shoot ’em, and if you don’t feed ’em they’ll burn your barn daown.”

* * * * *

Extra! Extra!

Ladies and gentlemen: Don’t fail to be in Robbinsdale next Tuesday at four o’clock A. M. to witness the daring feat of Peter, our hired man. This brave snoose-grinding son of toil will endeavor to dive off the top of the highest building in Robbinsdale into a six-foot tank of solid concrete, playing the ukelele, eating raw liver and keeping perfect time. The spectacular dive by Pete will be for a worthy cause. All proceeds from the entertainment will be donated to the starving plumbers of Chicago. Admission free.

* * * * *

Took my wife into a store to assist her in buying a new hat. Like all women, she tried on nearly every hat in the store. In desperation the salesman appealed to me with this remark: “How would you like me to try a sailor for your wife?” Having been in the army for many years, I felt like suggesting a soldier, for this insulting salesman. Needless to say, the sale was not made.

* * * * *

On my recent visit to New York I had the pleasure of the company of Mr. H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor,” which we misnamed in past issues “The Face Upon the Barroom Floor.” This masterpiece undoubtedly stands first among popular present day poems, judging from the many requests we received from Whiz Bang readers for its republication. To Ye Editor Mr. D’Arcy told the history of how “The Face Upon the Floor” was inspired:

“Away back in the early 80’s Union Square in New York was
called ‘The Rialto’ agreeable to the fact that it was the
theatrical center of America. On the corner of Fourth avenue
and Fourteenth street, a very excellent saloon was run by Joe
Schmidt and it was kept fairly full from noon to midnight with
respectable members of the sock and buskin, and amusement
promoters. One Saturday evening in August, 1887, a table in
front of the bar was occupied by a bunch of managers. We were
combining business with pleasure, booking time and enjoying the
very excellent beer and spirits available in those happy days.
It was probably about 11 o’clock when a mendicant shambled in
and approached our table. With a sad, husky voice, he said,
‘Gentlemen, I want a drink.’ All eyes were turned to the
derelict and someone at the table offered one of the untasted
glasses of whisky which was quickly swallowed. Joe behind the
bar yelled, ‘Get out.’

“The waiter in front quickly seized the beggar and threw him
out of the swinging door; to make the situation more dramatic,
a rough haired terrier dog named ‘Toby’ and pet of the saloon
jumped at the poor devil and fastened on his pants. ‘Toby’
always thought it his duty to chase poor people, and had an
innate antipathy to jumpers or pants not duly pressed.

“Well, several of the party got up from the table and went out
to see what had happened to the poor wretch. He was lying on
the sidewalk with his face halfway in the gutter. We gathered
him up, brushed him off a little, wiped his face and someone
went into the saloon and brought out another drink of whisky.
Several coins were carefully dropped into the inside pocket of
his coat. This was done surreptitiously so that he would not
know the money was there until the tomorrow. As we left him on
a door step next door I asked what his trade was and he managed
to tell me he was an artist. I held that this man was not a
professional beggar, a derelict true, but probably had once
been a talented man. The argument was taken up by several other
gentlemen in the room and waxed warm until I got angry and with
a curt “good night” bolted out of the saloon. On my way home,
I determined to write up the story in such a way as would make
my argument good and satisfy Joe Schmidt that I was not wholly
chicken-hearted. I also was pretty sure of winning the fair
hostess to my way of thinking. As I walked along I composed in
my mind the first two lines:

_“’Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,_
_That well-nigh filled Joe’s bar-room on the corner of the
Square.”_

“The measure was a happy iambic tetrameter and fitted the
story, and before going to bed, I jotted down the first two
lines which I have always found the hardest to compose, next
day I finished the story. When Joe read it, I saw tears in his
eyes. It was published in the New York Dispatch. Joe bought a
hundred copies of the paper and sent 25 to the Buffalo Bill
Co. who were playing in London and among whom both he and I
had many friends. Cody and Major Burke circulated the copies
among their theatrical friends and before many months three
vaudevillians were reciting the poem at the big music halls,
then Sam Bernard set America crazy with it and yet after over
thirty years, it is still a popular ‘act’ and wins excellent
booking.

“I have been often told that my story set the pace for
prohibition. I sincerely hope not. If I thought that I had
helped that unfortunate law, I would walk down to the dock and
kick myself into the river. ‘The Face Upon the Floor’ is not
a temperance story, but an admonition to the world, not to
despise the unfortunate derelict.”

In this issue we are pleased to publish another poem by Mr. D’Arcy and have his promise of more to follow. And let me add, I found Mr. D’Arcy a regular fellow, well met, an excellent conversationalist and a fine reminder of the good old days.

* * * * *

Gus, our ex-hired man, escorted a petite young lady to her apartment.

“Just as I was putting my arm around her,” Gus reports, “a man walked in.”

“My gawsch, my husband!” exclaimed the girl.

“Oh, busy honey?” the intruder remarked, as he walked out.

* * * * *

Our new hired man, Ikey, from the cities, is so absentminded that when he went in the stable to saddle a horse, he was surprised to find, after a half hour’s work, that he had the saddle on himself and he spent another half hour in vain trying to climb on his own back.

* * * * *

The Wa-hoo-wa Bird

Ladies and Gentlemen, I take great pleasure in presenting to you the Wa-hoo-wa Bird. The only bird of its kind in captivity today. This strange bird comes from the far off shores of the Isle of Borneo where it rears its young among the crannies and crags of the mountainous coastline. Now the particular strange thing about this bird is that it only mates once every one hundred years, and after having mated, it crawls, half drags, half flies, until it gets itself to the topmost pinnacle of the long, tall, lofty rubber tree. Casting its eyes to the heavens it cries in tones of ecstacy “Wa-hoo-wa,” which, translated in the language of the natives, means “My Gawsch, Mamma, ain’t love grand!”

* * * * *

Deciding the Race

Pat and Mike were to run a race to a tree by different routes.

Pat—“If oi get there first oi’ll make a mark on the tree with this chalk, Mike, and if you get there first you rub it off.”

* * * * *

The Old Boy’s Chatter

The fellow who marries a bow-legged girl these days has no excuse that he can’t see what he’s getting.

* * * * *

He doesn’t dress so neat on work days, but he wears his new hat on his week end.

* * * * *

This Bends in the Middle

Santa Claus played a dirty trick on the bow-legged girls, didn’t he?

Why?

See what he put in their stockings!

* * * * *

Another Version of It

No matter how pretty a bow-legged girl may be; she is always in bad shape.

* * * * *

Did you ever go to the postoffice to attend the graduation exercises of a correspondence school class?

* * * * *

The Charity Bazaar

“How much am I offered for this pie?” sang out the auctioneer.

“Six bits,” one youth bid.

“Who will make it eighty? Just imagine, you get the girl and all!”

“Say, mister,” ejaculated the youth, “what kind of pie is it you’re selling?”

* * * * *

Shed Tears, Brothers

Yep, I’ve quit th’ holdup game,
I’ll hang ’round joints no more.
So with a sigh
And a faint little cry
The garter stretched out on the floor!

* * * * *

Our Monthly Maxim

A bell’s a bell even though it is on a cow.

* * * * *

Our Monthly Toast

For fill up your glasses,
And fill ’em up full,
And drink to the health
Of the Pedigreed Bull.

* * * * *

Indoor Sports

(From “The Blue Lagoon,” a novel.)

Her ears were small and like little white shells. He would take one between finger and thumb and play with it as if it were a toy, pulling at the lobe of it or trying to flatten out the curved part. Her breasts, her shoulders, her knees, her little feet, every bit of her, he would examine and play with and kiss. She would lie and let him, seeming absorbed in some far-away thought, of which he was the object; then all at once her arms would go round him. All this used to go on in the broad light of day, under the shadow of the artu leaves, with no one to watch except the bright-eyed birds in the leaves above.

* * * * *

Not In Robbinsdale

Hello, is this the chief of the Fire Department?

Yes, this is the chief.

Well, my house is on fire.

How long has it been burnin’?

Half hour.

Did you try puttin’ water on it?

Yes, but it won’t go out.

Then ’taint no use in us comin’ over, because that’s all we could do. G’Bye!

* * * * *

Women are the greatest edition in the world and no man should be without a copy.

* * * * *

Parlor Story

A southern restaurant serves eggs with all meat orders. A patron ordered pork chops.

“Boss, how do yo’ all want yo’ eggs,” inquired the waiter.

“Oh, you can eliminate the eggs.”

The waiter repeated the order to the colored chef and added “liminate dem eggs.”

The chef scratched his head. “Sambo, yo tell dat customer ah ain’t got no time this mawning to liminate dem eggs and that he all will have to have dem cooked some oder way.”

* * * * *

Speaking About Atrocities

The occupants of the parlor car of the limited were startled by the abrupt entrance of two masked bandits. “T’row up yer hands,” commanded the bigger of the two. “We’re gonna rob all the gents and kiss all the gals.”

“No, pardner,” responded the smaller one gallantly, “We’ll rob all the gents but we’ll leave the ladies alone.”

“Mind your own business, young fellow,” snapped a female passenger of uncertain age, “The big man’s robbing this train.”

* * * * *

Pat’s Practical Piety

The ice in the river was thin as Pat started to “feel” his way across. Every time Pat put down his right foot he muttered reverently “Praise the Lord,” and as the left foot hit the thin ice, “The devil ain’t such a bad man.”

At the other side of the river, Pat, with a sigh of relief, turned back and said “Tuhel with both of yez.”

* * * * *

Useless Effort

Paddy Ryan in Ireland inherited a pile of money and decided to tour France. He hired a guide who steered him up a mountain. After a full day’s climb they reached the summit.

“See ze beautiful valley,” said the guide to Paddy, pointing below.

“Sure,” stormed the Irishman, “if it’s so dom beautiful in the valley what the divil for did you bring me ’way up here?”

* * * * *

And He Got It

“You are working too hard,” said a policeman to a man who was drilling a hole in a safe at 2:00 o’clock in the morning.

“What do you mean?” asked the burglar in a disconcerted tone.

“I mean you need arrest,” answered the policeman.

* * * * *

It Rained Keys, Bo!

I met a wonderful girl yesterday afternoon, and she invited me up to her apartment. That night she told me to stand in front of the door and whistle three times and she would throw down the key.

Boys, I never saw so many keys in all my life.

* * * * *

I could print a lot of real funny stories, but what’s the use, you would only laugh at them.

_Questions and Answers_

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is the first thing that turns green in the spring?—=_Uppan Attim_=.

Christmas jewelry.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captun_=: My kid brother’s a great chicken chaser. He came home late last night all dizzy; d’you think he was drinkin’ or what’s the matter?—=_Ida Sinkey_=.

‘Swimmin’ in the head.

* * * * *

=_Dear Whiz Bang Bill_=—Is there much food values in dates?—=_Ona Dyett_=.

It all depends on who you make them with.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain_=—What is a Sly Oodle?—=_Nat. U. List_=.

’Tis a small weasel that sleeps in the crotch of a tree, and swallows its nose to keep it from freezing.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—A fellow asked me a funny question the other day. Why is a crow? Seems sort of silly. Do you know the answer?—=_M. T. Kann_=.

That’s easy. Caws.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What is a Nabisco?—=_Ray Vaughan_=.

It consists of two pieces of tissue paper with a little honey between.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Would it hurt me to sleep between two windows?—=_I. Foozle_=.

You would have a “pane” on the chest and back, and a “catch” on your side.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is a good name for a new college sorority?—=_Al E. Wrat_=.

I. Phelta Thi.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is a sculptor?—=_Cant E. Lope_=.

A man that makes faces and busts.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is dust?—=_Hose Ette_=.

Mud with the juice squeezed out.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—Is hair tonic a good drink?—=_J. Fewbrains_=.

Would advise you not to drink hair tonic as it will raise a mustache on your appendix and if you should laugh you would tickle yourself to death.

* * * * *

=_Dear Farmer Bill_=—Please inform me where milk comes from.—=_A City Girl_=.

From cow faucets.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—If my father was a duke and my mother was a duchess, what would that make me?—=_Watts D. Yoos_=.

Why, I guess you would be Duke’s Mixture.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain_=—Tell me something interesting about auction bridge.—=_Adeline Moore_=.

All we know about is Brooklyn Bridge, and that is just one long suspense.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capn._=—What did my beau mean when he told me he would meet me in the future?—=_Sarah Desert_=.

Probably he meant in the pasture.

* * * * *

=_Dear Capt. Billy_=—What is a drydock?—=_Torchy_=.

A physician who won’t give us prescriptions.

* * * * *

The Farm That Bull Built

Oh! over the hill to Robbinsdale,
For a slap on the back and a hearty hail.
Where the cows do tricks in the new mown hay,
And the Bull is thrown in a very quaint way.

Where Gus is tired from morn till night,
And the old silo is always tight.
Where the chickens sing and the roosters crow,
And the corn does a hoe-down row on row.

So up the road to the Whiz Bang farm
Where the onions grow but do no harm.
It’s a merry crowd that slings the hoe
On Billy’s farm. Come gang let’s go.

* * * * *

_They tell me people are so tough in South St. Paul they play Tiddly-Winks with the sewer covers. Zatright?_

* * * * *

Fable of a Poodle

Once there was a guy who wished that he was a rich woman’s lap-dog, when suddenly a Great Genii appeared before him and granted his wish, telling him that any time he wished to be changed back to a man, he should slip out of the rich lady’s house and come to the home of the Genii, in a distant part of the city.

Being only a dog, he soon grew tired of his pampered life, and since he was really a dog, the kisses and petting of his pretty mistress failed to produce the “kick” that he had anticipated.

So, he slipped out of the house, and found himself on a broad and spacious avenue, lined with trees, telegraph poles and iron fence posts.

Now, that was many moons ago, but up to the present writing, the little doggie has not reached the Genii’s house to be changed back to a man.

MORAL: It’s a poor wish that won’t work two ways.

* * * * *

French Proverbs

(Selected by Rev. G. L. Morrill.)

_Women give themselves to God when the Devil wants nothing more to do with them._

_Since Cupid is represented with a torch in his hand, why did they place virtue on a barrel of gunpowder?_

_A woman forgives everything but the fact that you do not covet her._

_Fools never understand people of wit._

* * * * *

Outside the Show

“Hello, Bill, how did you enjoy the show last night?”

“Fine, Joe. Wasn’t that some pippin in the bathing suit?”

“Yep, Bill!”

“Well, I saw her without the suit on today.”

!!!!!——————(street clothes?)

* * * * *

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

John Philip Sousa traveled six thousand miles to hear the celebrated chimes of an English church. As he was drawing near the place the wonderful chimes rang out, and enraptured, Sousa exclaimed to the driver of the vehicle, “You folk are indeed fortunate to live within sound of those heavenly chimes.”

“I can’t hear a word you say,” shouted the driver irritably, “them d—— bells deafen me.”

* * * * *

As You Were

Sexton—“Dogs are not allowed here, sir.”

Visitor—“That’s not my dog.”

Sexton—“Not your dog? Why, he’s following you.”

Visitor—“Well, so are you.”

* * * * *

We Pull Lots of These

A cross-eyed man at a dance hall said “May I have the next dance, please?” Two girls answered as with one voice, “With pleasure.”

* * * * *

That Reminds Me

Algernon—Dearest, I could sit here forever gazing into your charming eyes and listening to the wash of the ocean.

The Girl—That reminds me, Honey. I have a laundry bill and I’m dead broke.

* * * * *

There’s one thing I can’t eat for breakfast and that is supper.

* * * * *

While a darky was being led to the gallows a crowd of people ran past him.

“What yo all running fo?” yelled Sambo after them, “Dey ain’t nothin’ gwine to happen till ah gets dere.”

* * * * *

He is so stingy he goes to the postoffice to fill his fountain pen.

* * * * *

April Fool

Johnny (running into the room of his mother on April 1st)—“Mama, there’s a strange man kissing our maid.”

Mother—“What, a strange man?”

Johnny—“April fool, it’s only papa.”

* * * * *

Curbstone Comedy

He stopped the balky car.

“Honey, I must get out and spank the engine over the ears.”

“Oh, engine-ears!”

* * * * *

We Pass

The nurse at the front regarded the wounded soldier with a puzzled look.

“Your face is familiar to me, but I can’t place you,” she said.

“Let bygones be bygones, baby,” replied the soldier, “I used to be a policeman.”

* * * * *

Riddle-de-doot!

Where did you get that rose?

That isn’t a rose, that’s a geranium.

No, it isn’t. It’s a rose.

I said it’s a geranium.

How do you spell it?

It’s a rose all right.

* * * * *

_My girl has Pullman teeth._

_One upper and one lower._

* * * * *

Colorado Springs is sure some town. Had to go up to the city hall to get a permit from the mayor to play a game of dominoes.

* * * * *

This wash board is a hundred years old.

Yes, it surely is wrinkled.

* * * * *

Punctuation

“Men are naturally grammatical.”

“Yes?”

“When they see an abbreviated skirt they always look after it for a period.”

* * * * *

Chalk Up One Error

Chicago.—Mrs. R. Kelly sat watching a thrilling movie. Without taking her eyes off the film, she landed an uppercut on the jaw of the man sitting next to her. “I must have made a mistake,” Jake Cohen told the judge. “I didn’t know I put my hand on her knee!”

* * * * *

Remember This One?

The first scene is that of a gambler,
Who has lost all his money at play;
Takes his dead mother’s ring from her finger
Which she wore on her wedding day,
His last earthly treasure he stakes it
Bows his head the shame he may hide.
When they raised up his head,
They found he was dead
’Tis a picture from life’s other side.

* * * * *

“Say, Mr. Jones, what do you want to get married for?”

“Because I don’t want my name to die out.”

* * * * *

“You don’t love me any more,”
She sobbed and bowed her head.
“What tuhel’s the difference,”
The villainous rascal said.

* * * * *

A cat, mistaking a ball of wool for a meat ball, swallowed it, and sure enough when she had kittens they had on sweaters.

* * * * *

Child’s is a great place to eat. Went in there yesterday and amongst the dirty dishes on the table I found thirty cents.

_Movie Hot Stuff_

These be dull days in the movie and even the stage world. The dark clouds of the Arbuckle case still hang over the two “arts,” thanks to the obdurate lady juror who caused a disagreement in the San Francisco trial. The pleasantly informal old days, when Wallie Reid could run up to ’Frisco and pelt eggs upon pedestrians from the fourteenth floor of the St. Francis Hotel, are long past. One simply =_has_= to be circumspect these days.

After Whiz Bang’s comments upon the way the New York stage was getting away with salaciousness came a police investigation of “The Demi-Virgin,” the gentle whimsy with the strip poker game. The farce was severely condemned by the police commissioner—but it is still running and to crowded houses. The risque plays have had one or two additions since we wrote last.

For instance, there’s David Belasco’s adaptation of the French farce, “Kiki,” with a little gutter gamin of the French music hall as its heroine. Mr. Belasco has substituted the word marriage for liaison throughout but the intent is there—and the lines, oh, boy! Once Kiki remarks “The men are like cats—they follows us as though our veins were full of catnip!” Then there is a whole act in which Kiki—posing as a rigid somnambulist—is carried and tossed about by the various members of the cast, all the time dressed only in a simple pair of open work pajamas.

We aren’t intimating that “Kiki” isn’t entertaining. It is. But, the latitude they get away with! Meanwhile the censors go on cutting out bathing girls from our films and making sure there is no indication ever shown that babies are born.

* * * * *

Charlie Ray, spats, cane, trick overcoat with its fur collar, et al., has been making his first visit to New York and not creating a ripple of interest. Of course, friend wife was along. We saw Ray strolling up Fifth Avenue the other day—and nobody knew the ornate pedestrian as the simple country boy of the films. They tell me that Ray takes himself very seriously and left the cynical New York reporters dizzy with his confessions about his “mission in life.”

* * * * *

Jack Pickford continues to loiter about New York. There are all sorts of rumors linking Jack up with pretty Marilyn Miller o’ the Follies. Marilyn lost her husband, Frank Carter, in an auto accident some time ago and is as pleasant a little widow as the White Lights possess. Maybe Marilyn has an eye towards the screen. By the way, those reports of an impending family event in the Fairbanks family still persists. What could be nicer?

* * * * *

Poor Eric von Stroheim! We sympathize with him despite his Junker physiognomy. He is telling sad tales of his treatment at the hands of Universal. After finishing “Foolish Wives,” they took the negative away from him, hired somebody or other to cut it—and Eric came on to New York to find out where he stood.

At last reports he is still trying to find out. Overheard him in a hotel recently telling his troubles. Now and then a tear splashed in the soup. You see, they have taken his brain child—his masterpiece—away and are letting some cruel inartistic outsider cut it any old way. It seems that Carl Laemmle, prexy of Universal, became irate over the way “Foolish Wives” cost money and never seemed to finish. Eric says they put all sorts of obstructions in his way. They locked cutting room doors, held up his pet plans, and all that, according to Eric. Finally—whisper, for it may only be a pipe dream—Eric organized and armed his army of extras after the fashion of Mr. William Hohenzollern and presented an ultimatum. He got what he wanted. Pause to consider the news story that nearly came out of Universal. Suppose Eric had cut the communication wires, tried military gas on the officials and made the studio into an armed camp. It sounds fishy, of course, but have you ever met the tense Mr. Von Stroheim?

At that we feel awfully sorry for him. He =_has_= unusual directorial ability and he is—or was—the one able person at Universal. And now, after making “Foolish Wives,” which, if it doesn’t get barred by the censors, ought to be a whirlwind, he seems to be getting the gate.

* * * * *

Aren’t those morality clauses the high minded movie producers are inserting into their actor contracts the bunk? Imagine the nerve. Will Rogers gave the best summary when he declared, “Say, if any one hands me a contract with one of them clauses, I’ll say, you sign it first.” He is in New York doing a turn on the Ziegfeld roof. The best line of his act is: “I’m the only guy who ever went to California and came back with the same wife.”

* * * * *

One of the funniest kick backs from the Arbuckle case occurred at Vitagraph, where they had Maclyn Arbuckle (no relation to Fatty), under contract to be co-starred in “The Prodigal Judge,” which he had played for years on the stage. Just as the picture was completed, a little San Francisco scandal broke. Vitagraph decided that it couldn’t afford to feature Mr. Maclyn =_Arbuckle_= at this time. This despite the fact that Mr. Maclyn was a well known star before Fatty was ever heard of. But luckily he had a sense of humor. So he said, “Oh, well (maybe it wasn’t exactly that), you can’t buck such reasoning,” and let his name go into tiny type.

* * * * *

Very Well

I said she’d made with me a hit—
Very well.
Perhaps I was a trifle lit—
Very well.
I told her that she was divine,
She let me hold her hand in mine,
In short—I handed out my line
Very well.

I whispered softly in her ear,
Very well.
’Twas, how appropriately! dear—
Very well.
I drew her snugly to my breast,
While she, not daring to protest
Cleaned out the pockets of my vest.
Very well.

* * * * *

A Tough Steak

Cannibal No. 1—What makes the chief such a bunk spreader?

Cannibal No. 2—He just ate the editor of Whiz Bang.

* * * * *

Nah, Nah!

“Is my wife forward?” asked the passenger on the Limited.

“She wasn’t to me sir,” answered the conductor politely.

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet._”

Hats off to a real man of the cloth. The Rev. D. H. Jones has resigned the pulpit of Huntington Park, California, Baptist Church, because of the fanatical attempts of his flock to enforce Sunday closing.

“I prefer to dwell with the worldling and be true to my inner
self than to live with the saint and betray it,” Reverend Jones
says.

“There is a way to make the church the super-attraction; but
it will never be done by coercing the consciences of men. The
Cross of Christ is proving to be the greatest magnet in the
world, but use it as a club, and it will become a colossal
failure.”

“Killed professionally, yes. But, frankly, I would rather be a
man than a minister. Character is greater than profession.”

“I would just as soon believe that the perfume of the rose
comes from the polecat as to believe that the spirit of the
blue laws comes from God.”

“Christ whipped men out of the church, but never into it.
‘Professional reformers’ and ‘Christian lobbyists’ at
Washington may mean well, but most of them are misguided
swivel-chair heroes of the Cross.”

“‘Close every door except the church’s,’ cries the reformer,
forgetting that open hearts are greater inducements than closed
doors.”

“The doctrine behind the blue laws is this: ‘I am in the right
and you are in the wrong. When you are stronger than I, you
ought to tolerate; for it is your duty to tolerate truth. But
when I am the stronger, I shall persecute you; for it is my
duty to persecute error.’”

“All the proposed Sunday legislation is simply a human attempt
to whitewash what God designed to wash white. To condemn movies
because some things may be objectionable is like refusing to
eat fish because it contains bones.”

“When human passion is subdued, when the turbulent tide ebbs,
we see that the big thing that lies at the bottom of the
opposition of theatre opening on Sunday, is simply bigotry.”

“It is a wonder to me how many bad things good people see in
the movies; fortunately, if you are so disposed, you need never
be disappointed. The product of a legal religion has ever been
and ever will be either hypocrisy or persecution.”

* * * * *

A little white coffin rested on a small table, covered with flowers white as the waxen face and fair hair of the baby child whose short life of thirteen months’ suffering was ended.

A small company of kind neighbors was present. The clergyman repeated the Saviour’s words, “Suffer the children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven,” and told how the little life had not paid in dollars and cents, but that judged by an immortal existence begun here, and to last forever, Death was gain. After the father, sisters and brothers said “Good-bye,” the mother took the last farewell kiss of her baby and baptized it anew with her hot falling tears. So small was the casket that the undertaker lifted it in his arms, just as the mother had the sick child, and carried it to the carriage and placed it on the seat.

We entered the beautiful green cemetery, and lowered the little flower-decked coffin in the grave to rest until God’s “Good morning” in the graveless, griefless home of heaven. As I looked back, the mound seemed so small that a child could step over it in his play, but I knew it was higher than a mountain top to the mother because in it was buried all her love and hope.

So we left the little casket and the little body in the little grave, feeling that this bud of promise would be transplanted to the Eternal Garden where the full flower would blossom and bloom without decay.

* * * * *

The Detroit Free-Press calls it the “Snoopers’ Brigade,” and we are inclined to think that is a well-fitting title for the aggregation of people who are urging the formation of a society that would compel all men to be spies upon neighbors and reporters upon their actions.

Sometime ago a federal prohibition commissioner announced plans for such an association, but he immediately discovered that the people of the United States are not ready to become investigators of their neighbors’ conduct, in any particular, and the project was squelched by higher authority.

The courts of the country are, very generally, excluding testimony obtained by men who lead others into the commission of crime, and properly; they regard such actions as a conspiracy to break the law, which makes the tempter a partner in the crime.

In a Mississippi case, where it appeared that a peace officer induced a man to purchase liquor for him and then arrested the man who succumbed to his blandishments, the judge ordered the accused discharged and the officer held. The official was subsequently convicted of his part in the crime, and the supreme court sustained the verdict against him.

There is a very general misapprehension on this subject and acts of the officials have been winked at because the public really did not know what was going on and did not realize the extent of the practice indulged in by what are very generally called stool pigeons.

The laws of this or any other state may be enforced without making all the people detectives, as the Snoopers’ League would have them, or without permitting the practice of certain classes of officials, who sometimes literally hire men to commit a crime, in order that that very crime may be suppressed.

* * * * *

_Where did I get my education? Why, me dad used to take me over his knee. He made me smart._

* * * * *

Bully for the Chicago Tribune. That journal slips the prong into Bluenose Crafts in a recent issue:

It is beginning to appear that the movement led by Mr. Crafts
is as bigoted and as savage in its purpose as those which we
thought were buried in the semi-barbarous past. It must be held
that no human uplift but maniacal desire to inflict physical
punishment is the motive. Mr. Crafts and his followers wish to
put as many of their fellow countrymen as possible in jail, and
they are trying to wreck this republic in order to do so.

* * * * *

Farmyard Notes

Chickens get tough when they run around too much.

* * * * *

Be it ever so humble, there’s no flower like the cauli.

* * * * *

A bird in the oven is worth two in the bush and a berry in the bush is not worth two in the hand.

* * * * *

_I wish I was cross-eyed, then I could stand on a windy day and gaze at a lady wearing a short skirt, right in the eye and still have a guilty conscience._

* * * * *

Cellar Ancestry

The potatoes eyes were full of tears,
And the cabbage hung its head,
For there was grief in the cellar that nite,
For the vinegar’s mother was dead.

* * * * *

_You can lead a cow to water but the Bull—he must be herd._

* * * * *

As It Is In New York

“On East Houston Street is the lasagne or ravioli belt where the gay boys from out of town take the leading ladies of the jobber plants out for a wild evening,” writes O. O. McIntyre. “You know the gay out-of-town man. He carries a patent cigar lighter and has a sterling silver monogrammed belt buckle and, oh, yes, a handkerchief with a purple border. His eyes are blue and he wrinkles them in a merry twinkle, at least he thinks it is a merry twinkle, but it’s just the sap oozing out. The Leading Lady knows Broadway because she reads Broadway Brevities and her theory of life in the abstract is that Ladies Must Live. After the first quart of red ink, he whispers a story the boys told him in front of the Bon Ton Store before he left for the east. She pulls the two gun, hair-trigger Bill Hart stuff and says ‘Naughty Man.’ To complete the evening and display the ultimate in savoir faire he calls loudly to the waiter: ‘L’addition, s’il vous plait garcon.’ They ride to one of the Oranges in a quick-firing metered taxi and he returns to the McAlpin to write the wife and kiddies of his lonesomeness.”

* * * * *

New York

_This is the old famous New York poem, credited to a former collector of the port as author, but denied. However, you’ll note that every word carries a wallop and so we herewith, with your kind permission, republish it_:

Vulgar of manner, overfed,
Over dressed, and underbred,
Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,
Rude by day, lewd by night,
Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute,
Ruled by Jew and prostitute
Purple robed and pauper clad
Raving, rioting, money mad—
A squirming herd of Mammon’s mesh,
A wilderness of human flesh.
Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—
New York! Thy name’s “Delirium.”

* * * * *

Farm Life

“I see you are keeping your hired man all right now, Ezra.”

“Yep, keeping him all right.”

“He seems satisfied, too. How’d you do it?”

“Did everything he asked me to. Let him work only four hours and eat with the family. He got to complaining of dull evenings, so every night I give him the use of a car of his own, and the money to spend, to go to the movies in town.”

“That ought to satisfy him.”

“It didn’t, though. He complained of his room, and so I coaxed my son to trade rooms with him. Then he seemed more settled like.”

“I notice you’ve cut off your whiskers, Ezra.”

“Yeah. Some more of that hired man’s notions.”

“How’s that?”

“He complained they tickled him every time I kissed him good-night.”

* * * * *

Wah, Wah!

“Golly, Moses! Dey got strawberries and cherries and all kinds o’ fruit covered wit candy. What kind shall ah git?”

“Git a choc’lat covered watermillion.”

* * * * *

Sic ’em, Tige!

“What you need is a tonic to sharpen your appetite,” said the Doctor. “By the way, what is your occupation?”

“I am a sword swallower in a circus side-show,” replied the caller.

* * * * *

_Little Joe says, “They am jest as many sebbens on de dice as anything else, ony dey is bashfull.”_

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_The greatest poem of the squared circle ever brought to light is in store for March Whiz Bang readers, “The Kid’s Last Fight.” That noted recitation of years ago has been obtained by the Whiz Bang, reset to verse, and will hold the boards in the March issue._

_The way he staggered made me sick,_
_I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”_
_The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”_
_They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take._

* * * * *

“Chi Slim” Twangs ’is Bloomin’ Lyre

By J. Eugene Chrisman.

_Author of “Poppies,” written exclusively for Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang._

By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her knee
There’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;
When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say
“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”

Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,
And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!
When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stew
And she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.
Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’d
Wasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.

When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,
Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.
With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,
She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!
How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bull
For the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!