Chapter II: Part 2

Did you ever sit and ponder
Sit and wonder
Sit and think
Why we’re here and what this life is all about?
It’s a problem that has driven many brainy men to drink,
It’s the weirdest thing they’ve tried to figure out,
About a thousand theories all the scientists can show
But never yet have proved a reason why
With all we’ve thought and all we’re taught
Why, all we seem to know is we’re born
And live a little while
And then we die.
Life’s a very funny proposition after all.
Three meals a day
A whole lot to say,
When you haven’t got the coin
You’re always in the way.
Everybody’s fighting as we wend our way along,
Every fellow claims the other fellow’s in the wrong.
Hurried and worried until we’re buried
And there’s no curtain call,
Life’s a funny proposition, after all.
When all things are coming easy and when luck is with a man,
Why, then life to him is sunshine everywhere;
Then the Fates blow rather breezy and they quite upset a plan,
Then he’ll cry that life’s a burden hard to bear.
Though today may be a day of smiles,
Tomorrow’s still in doubt
And what brings me joy may bring you care and woe.
We’re born to die
But we don’t know why
Or what it’s all about,
And the more we try to learn the less we know
And no one’s ever solved the problem properly as yet.
Young for a day, then old and gray,
Like the rose that buds and blooms
And fades—and falls away.
Losing health to gain our wealth
As through this dream we tour,
Everything’s a guess and nothing’s absolutely sure.
Battles exciting and fates we’re fighting
Until the curtains fall,
Life’s a funny proposition, after all.

* * * * *

The Hell-bound Train

Tom drank until he could drink no more,
Then went to sleep on the barroom floor;
Where he slumbered with a troubled brain,
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

Wilder and wilder the country grew,
Faster and faster the engine flew,
Louder and louder the thunder crashed,
Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed.

And out in the distance there rose a yell,
“Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.”
Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in pain
And begged of the devil to stop the train.

“You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor,
The starving brother you turned from your door,
You have laid up gold where canker rusts,
And given free use of your fleshly lusts.

“So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire,
Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.”
Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry,
His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high.

And he prayed as he never prayed before,
To be saved from drink and the devil’s power,
And his vow and prayers were not in vain,
For he never more rode on the hell-bound train.

* * * * *

Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer.
Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser.

* * * * *

After the Raid

_A raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amid a crashing of hip-pocket glassware, inspired Mr. McKillips to write this poetic story._

By BUDD L. McKILLIPS

Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’
’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell;
Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’;
Oh, I know it’s simply hell.

Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer,
Won’t make him unlock the door;
Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler;
I’ve been in these raids before.

Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me
When they used to have a line;
Ward boss always came and bailed me—
Sometimes even paid my fine.

Never mind that “Press” sob-sister,
Dry your eyes and play the game—
Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister;
Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.

Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey;
Hush now, dear, I know your tale;
Just like me you needed money
And stepped out to grab the kale.

Lost your job, maybe slack season;
Didn’t have the price to eat—
Maybe not, but that’s the reason
Most girls start to hit the street.

Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’,
Soon you found the business paid,
And there wasn’t no slack season
Or no lay-offs in our trade.

Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers
Said as how you’d go to hell?
Dear, the sons of those same teachers
Came to buy the thing you sell.

Just forget those sal’ried prayers
When they tell you all those things,
Tell them that the low-wage payers
Don’t help grow no angel wings.

Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er,
Cut the weeps and be a sport,
Fix your hair, here comes a copper
For to take us into court.

See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’
Out all night—he’s got the jerks;
We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’?
Holy Gee, we got the works!

* * * * *

When Wifie’s Away

Of all the insidious temptations invidious
Contrived by the Devil to put a man down,
There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive,
Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town.

He feels such delightfulness,
Stay-out-all-nightfulness,
Be sure to get tightfulness,
’Tis one without pain.
A bachelor’s rakishness,
What won’t you takishness,
None can explain.

His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful,
’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight,
But the grand opportunity,
The baleful immunity,
Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.

* * * * *

There was a young man named Whiteside,
He always slept on his rightside.
When the “cooties” would crawl,
You could hear the boob bawl,
As he made a quick dash for the outside.

* * * * *

The Blue Raven

By C. P. CIPIUS

Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and weary
Over many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore,
While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door;
Only this and nothing more.

They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing,
Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er,
Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver,
Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that bore
Sorrow for them, evermore.

All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping,
And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before;
Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving,
These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore.
Happiness? No, nevermore.

Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people pining
For the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before;
Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and
bumming
Is to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor,
On the Sabbath, evermore.

Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing,
Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore.
They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of wining
Or they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore:
Wooden stocks, forevermore.

Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning
All the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door;
Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lying
On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore;
Freedom’s fled, forevermore.

* * * * *

Interpretative Dancing

I saw a barefoot lady dip,
And kneel and rise and poise and hover,
As if to pin a pillow slip
Upon the line stretched high above her.
“This must be comedy,” I said,
“Some esoteric highbrow joshing,
This nymph who moves with classic tread
Is hanging out the family washing.”

The program told me I was wrong—
The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.”

I saw a maid with flying feet,
Whose clothes were singularly airy,
Go running through a field of wheat,
With all the fleetness of a fairy.
When I had gazed awhile askance
At her abbreviated habit,
I thought “The title of this dance
Is ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’”

My guess was wrong—the program said:
“A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.”

Six damsels, very sparsely clad
In white diaphanous confections,
Came tearing in and ran like mad
In many different directions.
“Aha!” I cried, “I think I get
The meaning of this scene before us;
The title of it, I will bet,
Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’”

But my conjecture went astray—
The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.”

* * * * *

Sweet Simplicity of Ye Olden Days

Miss “Pabst,” young and fair,
With a “Blue Ribbon” in her hair,
Sat under a “Busch” of “Anheuser,”
When a “Bohemian,” by plan,
Rushed some “Schlitz” in a can
And she went home “Extra Pale”
“Budweiser.”

* * * * *

A Mother’s Prayer

Last night I dreamed—I never can forget;
I saw my son a prisoner at the bar.
A stripling with the honest eyes of Youth,
My baby strayed away from me so far.
And I, his mother, had to stand
And see him there so helpless and so dear;
God knows I thought I had done right,
But there stood leering Crime, and Shame, and Fear.
Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning bright
And give my child his need of help and love.
Help me keep faith with him, as Thee with me,
And guard this life entrusted from above.

—Nellie Putnam Chapman.

* * * * *

The Underworld

By CLEM YORE

I want to be square to the underworld
And even a dog that is down.
I’d rather be a painter of smiles
Than to carve a grewsome frown.
So sit you down by my bungalow
And we will enjoy the sky,
For brothers and sisters, pals of woe,
You’re just as immortal as I.

* * * * *

We’d Kiss Her, Too

If blue were red and red were blue
And you were I and I were you,
And you loved me and I loved you
And all alone were just we two,
And you were sure nobody knew,
Would you kiss me?

If I were you and you were I
And you so near I could hear you sigh,
And then providing no one was nigh,
And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye.
Wouldn’t I?

* * * * *

The Hooch Cure Blues

By M. V. Sumner.

Bring me a dry Martini, waiter, and chase it with something that’s wet.
I went to a pink tea yesterday and I haven’t got over it yet.
I heard they’ve discovered the North Pole, waiter, Gee, I wish I had it
here now,
They couldn’t come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow.

’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high,
Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry.
Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think,
But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink.

The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock.
Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the
dock,
Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine,
The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine.

Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero
should;
Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood.
Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I
hope,
Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap.

* * * * *

Who puts me in my little bed
And spanks me till my face is red?
My Mother.

* * * * *

All to Myself

All to myself I think of you—
Think of the things we used to do,
Think of the things we used to say,
Think of each happy yesterday;
Sometimes I sigh and sometimes I smile,
But I keep each olden, golden while
All to myself.

—W. D. N.

_Pasture Pot Pourri_

Brevity is the sole of wit, and the sole charm of a maiden’s skirt.

* * * * *

It’s the first straw hat which shows how the wind blows.

* * * * *

I suppose the maid does all the hard work?

No, my wife still makes the biscuits.

* * * * *

“Do you like music?”

“Yep.”

“Then listen to the band around my hat.”

* * * * *

If you want to see something swell, put a sponge in water.

* * * * *

Did you ever catch your wife flirting?

Yes, that’s the way I caught her.

* * * * *

If you were with me in my new Cadillac
On a road with no trolley about it,
A long way from town, would you start to walk back?
Maybe you would—but I doubt it.

* * * * *

While we live, let’s live in clover,
For when we’re dead, we’re dead all over.

* * * * *

Business as Usual

(From the Tryon, N. C. News.)

Wallace Jackson called on Miss Jennie Barnett as usual.

* * * * *

It is refreshing to know that the woman who was brought up for biting a man in self defense has been bound over to keep the piece.

* * * * *

Washington woman wants the Congress to impose a tax upon bachelors varying from one dollar a year for men from 21 to 24 to $5 for men of 65 or over. She should reverse her scale and tax the bachelors while they are useful. A bachelor of 65 is not worth taxing—from a woman’s standpoint.

* * * * *

Here’s to the girl that’s strictly in it,
Who holds her head for every minute,
Plays well the game and knows her limit
And still gets all the fun there’s in it.

* * * * *

Dode Leonard tells us that near beer is like looking through a keyhole with a glass eye.

* * * * *

Missouri is noted for three things: Raising democrats, mules and hell.

* * * * *

You say “Bye, bye,”
To some sweet little blonde,
And she says: “Sweet Daddy,
Get bottled in bond.”

* * * * *

Our Latest Song Success

The only rings I ever gave her were the rings beneath her eyes.

* * * * *

Probably Still Together

(From the Cornell, Ill., Journal.)

Joseph Highland and Miss Zelma Gourley left together, Monday, to get married. At time of going to press we have not heard any further particulars.

* * * * *

Oh, Geraldine, are the seams of my stockings on straight?

* * * * *

We will now sing: “He Asked For Bread,” and the curtain came down with a roll.

* * * * *

Ah-h! How would ze mamma like to kees ze papa?

* * * * *

Better to have loved and lost than to have been divorced and alimonied.

* * * * *

A remarkable man is the Hindoo.
He wears no clothes—makes his skindoo.

* * * * *

Who’s your new girl, Sam?

She’s not a new girl. She’s only my old one painted over.

* * * * *

_Here’s to the happiest days of my life,_
_Spent in the arms of another mans wife._
_My mother._

* * * * *

Here’s to the glass we so love to sip,
It dries many a pensive tear;
’Tis not so sweet as a woman’s lip,
But a danged sight more sincere.

* * * * *

Perfection at the Start

The first real talking machine, in which no improvement has ever been made, was made out of a rib.

* * * * *

John Barleycorn may have been officially dead for a number of years, but his funeral expenses still keep piling up.

* * * * *

Grandpa says that “skirt dances” never will be as popular as the shimmy until the girls start wearing skirts again.

* * * * *

Lips that touch a cigaroot will never park beneath my snoot.—Ethel Worrymore.

* * * * *

“That can be seen from both sides,” said the fly as he left his mark on a hall of pane.

* * * * *

Our Old One Revamped

Since prohibition came, my wife made me likker.

* * * * *

Jack—Can you keep a secret?

Jim—I should say so—I have one in the St. Paul Hotel now.

* * * * *

Purely Political Pot Pourri

“Should Mr. Noble, who sits for this constituency, consent to stand again and run he will in all probability have a walkaway.”

_Classified Ads_

Washing the Girlies

(From Indianapolis News.)

EXPERIENCED lady cleaners. Park Theater.

* * * * *

Here It Is Again

(From the Mandan, N. D., Pioneer.)

We stand behind every bed we sell. Home Furnishing Co., Mandan.

* * * * *

Take a Tip, Horace

(From Augusta Chronicle.)

Horace—Please do not phone me again. Father is cleaning his gun.—Lulu.

* * * * *

A Vague Gee-String

(From Le Bon Ton.)

“The vague bodice joins the skirt at the hip line with an embroidery stitch.”

* * * * *

Hey! Hold That Job

(Providence, R. I., Journal.)

WANTED—At Hotel Randolph, first class porter; room furnished; also chambermaid.

* * * * *

Take Your Turn, Boys!

(From Shreveport Times.)

YOUNG lady wants refined girl to share room. Also vacancy for two gentlemen. 1821 Marshall.

* * * * *

The Swamp

(From the Lowell Tribune.)

George B. Bailey went to Indianapolis Thursday to attend a meeting of the committee on drainage of the legislature.

* * * * *

Job Wanted

(From Akron, O., Beacon-Journal.)

A JOLLY GOOD LADY wants position as housekeeper in widower’s or bachelor’s home. Write E, Box 34, Beacon-Journal.

* * * * *

Oh You Farmer!

(From Wichita Eagle.)

A NICE APPEARING lady, about 40, a first class housekeeper, wants to keep house for a gentleman on farm where there is no other woman.

* * * * *

The Truth Revealed

(From Iron Mountain Tribune-Gazette.)

I wish to correct an error made by me in Monday night’s paper. My wife did not leave my bed and board, as stated, but I left the home myself as she told me to.—Jalmer Gustafson.

* * * * *

Triflers Form in the Rear

(From the Denver Post.)

A woman, beautiful, refined, 30 years, wishes to meet man; clean habits and education. Must be wealthy and a cripple; matrimony; no general delivery or triflers answer.

* * * * *

Anything to Please

(From Pensacola, Fla., News.)

SITUATION WANTED—A young widow, with one child, desires a good home as housekeeper in a wealthy widower’s home; no objection to one or two children. “V. S.,” care News.

* * * * *

Enough Is Too Much

He sat on the edge of her desk and swung his legs. She, being fully satisfied that the brevity of her frock and the excellence of her silk hose would lend charm to such a proceeding, did likewise. For she was a good secretary, and all study the tastes of their employers.

“Everything all right about the Sutton case?” he asked.

“Oh, quite,” she replied, “here are the papers,” and she passed them towards him—but before he could take them they fell to the floor.

“I am so awfully sorry,” she said, as he went down on his knees to pick them up, “let me help you.”

Then a most extraordinary thing happened. He kissed her. And she, being a proud girl and not wishing to accept favors from any man, returned it. It was a very free and easy office.

About an hour later he said he must go and see Brown about the Ware case.

But Brown was out.

So he sat on the edge of Brown’s secretary’s desk and swung his legs.

She, being every bit as good a secretary as his own, did likewise.

After a pleasant chat he said he must go home.

He found his wife reclining on a sofa swinging her legs.

“Had a busy day?” she asked him.

“Yes, very busy,” he replied.

“You’re late, are you not?”

“Yes,” he grunted, “one or two little things kept me at the office.” He glanced at his wife disapprovingly. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t sit there swinging your legs like that. It annoys me.”

* * * * *

Naughty Coppers

Speaking about the St. Paul chief of police who claimed he was “framed” with a patrolman’s wife, here’s one from London:

It had been a fairly warm evening, but about 11 p.m. it became bitterly cold and Patrolman Snorkins decided he would chance it and go and fetch his great-coat. So slipping away from his beat he hurried round to his cottage and, throwing some gravel against his wife’s bedroom window, he shouted “Chuck me out my coat, old dear.”

The wife chucked out the coat and, putting it on in the darkness, he hurried back to his beat.

“Hello, Bill,” he said to his policeman pal who was waiting for him at the end of the beat. “I just slipped round and got my coat. It’s blooming cold, ain’t it?”

“It is,” agreed Bill, eyeing him curiously. “But, say, =when the devil did you get made a sergeant=?”

* * * * *

Mottoes of the Vampire

“Gee, I wish I had a ‘sucker’ like the other girlie has—” and

“I’d like to lose you—I’m so used to you now.”

_Jest Jokes and Jingles_

Let’s now sing, with all the alcoholic accuracy possible, that old familiar farmer’s wail: “I’ve got enough money to last me the rest of my life, providing I die tonight.”

* * * * *

Sign in Doctor’s Office

A man’s a fool to live in grief
When he can get complete relief;
A good prescription, now and then,
Is relished by the best of men.

* * * * *

Fortune Teller: You wish to know about your future husband?

Customer: No; I wish to know about the past of my present husband for future use.

* * * * *

Lingo of the Limpid Lip

When a man says “Yes,” he means “Maybe”;
When he says “Maybe,” he means “No”;
When he says “No,” he’s no diplomat.

When a woman says “No,” she means “Maybe”;
When she says “Maybe,” she means “Yes”;
But if she says “Yes,” she’s no lady.

* * * * *

A girl on either side of twenty is merely interesting; at twenty she is dangerous.

* * * * *

She: “You didn’t have a shirt on your back when I first met you.”

He: “Well, then, why did you come in the bathroom without knocking?”

* * * * *

God made man
Frail as a bubble;
God made love,
Love made trouble.
God made the vine;
Was it a sin
That man made wine
To drown trouble in?

* * * * *

We have just received our copy of the London Spectator, and conclude that the spirit of spring must have struck that staid and sober paper, for it prints several verses of the old song, “Johnnie and Frankie,” but with the wrong chorus. Every connoisseur knows that the real refrain is:

“He was her man,
But he done her wrong.”

* * * * *

A gambling flea one day met some mice,
Suggested a trip to the barn to shake dice;
When in came a horse and stepped on the flea,
And the flea squealed out, “There’s a horse on me.”

* * * * *

Look before you sleep—especially at the seaside.

* * * * *

More Lingering Lingerie

A man stepped up to the counter in a department store and the pretty saleslady asked him what he wanted. He hesitated for a moment and finally said, “I’ve forgotten whether I want a camisole or a casserole.”

“That depends whether you want to put a chicken or a hen in it,” replied the saleslady.

* * * * *

We have a very pretty housemaid named Mary. One Sunday morning I was about to take my bath but found no hot water, so I told Mary to be more careful and not use it all for kitchen work. The pastor and his wife were at dinner and as Mary brought in the dishes she remarked: “Mr. Henry, I will see you get your bath this afternoon.” The minister looked horrified, as my better half snapped, “Indeed, you will not.”

* * * * *

“The man laid down his book and tossed off his fifth drink of hooch. His wife looked up at him calmly and said:

“‘George, when you proposed to me you said you were not worthy to undo the latchets of my shoes.’

“George stared at her in amazement.

“‘Well, what of it?’ he snarled.

“‘Nothing,’ she answered, ‘only I will say for you that whatever else you were, you weren’t a liar.’”

* * * * *

The life sentence—“I will.”

* * * * *

Balaam Gets Sympathy

Being given a complimentary dinner previous to his departure for foreign climes, the guest, who was badly afflicted by stuttering, induced a friend to respond to the toast of his health for him, which he did very badly, so much so that the other rose and said:

“Fo-for the fir-first time in-in my li-life I un-understand Balaam’s fee-feelings when his ass spo-spoke for him.”

* * * * *

Heaven, Hell or Los Angeles

A colored trooper of Camp Kearney, California, wanted to visit his sweetheart in Los Angeles, but as he couldn’t get a furlough, he decided to go A.W.O.L.

The guard at the gate stopped him, and demanded to see the trooper’s pass.

The black man pulled out a razor.

“Brudder,” he warned, “mah mudder’s dead and am in Heaben. Mah faddah’s dead and am in Hell, but mah gal am alive and in Los Angeles. And ah’s gwine to see one of dem three tonight.”

* * * * *

Following is a familiar conversation heard within a modern apartment building where so many home-made hooch parties are held:

Voice from without: “Cut out that noise or I’ll have you put out of this flat.”

Voice from within: “We should worry—we’ve been put out of better flats than this.”

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=Dear Bill=—You may be witty, but the guy who wrote “Snowbound” was Whittier.

* * * * *

=Marjie=—You naughty girl!

* * * * *

=Jo-Jo=—You can call it Spanish onions or Spanish fly or any other old thing you want, old dear.

* * * * *

=Ted Mann=—If your sweetheart likes music, even though your voice is poor, you can still sing to her with much feeling.

* * * * *

=Lonesome Jack=—You ought to be able to get the inspiration you want on the beach at Miami or at Ocean Park and Redondo.

* * * * *

=Parliamentarian=—The rules state that you put your hand up first and then ask the question.

* * * * *

=Shakespeareson=—Don’t get hot under the collar. You ask us what we did with your poem entitled “An Ode to Oblivion.” Our reply is: It reached its destination.

* * * * *

Revamping the Vamps

Exit the perfect 36!

Enter the perfect 34.

Dame Fashion is responsible.

Dressmakers have filled the New York papers’ want ad columns with calls for services of the 34 mannequins.

And still further they specify that she must be within the precincts of the misses’ “16.”

This is because grandmothers want to wear granddaughters’ clothes.

Specifications for the mannequins call for:

Symmetry.

Slenderness.

Small hips.

Slender biceps.

Trim ankles.

“Woman herself is responsible for the change,” says Miss Marion Rothschild, associate editor of “Women’s Wear.”

“For nearly three years the feminine population has been struggling to get into smaller and smaller clothing.

“Naturally they get what pleases them.”

* * * * *

The Old Maid’s Lament

Love without the man, is like hell without heaven; I know for I’ve been there. If you don’t believe me, try it.

* * * * *

Blood vs. Hootch

A Scotchman had been presented with a pint flask of rare old Scotch whiskey. He was walking briskly along the road toward home, when along came a Ford which he did not sidestep quite in time. It threw him down and hurt his leg quite badly. He got up and limped down the road. Suddenly he noticed that something warm and wet was trickling down his leg.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, “I hope that’s blood!”

* * * * *

A Stew’s Lament

“George, I don’t believe you did put the cat out.”

“Well, if you think I’d tell a lie about a little thing like that, go and put her out yourself.”

* * * * *

Sympathy

The harassed and weary-looking man, the personification of genteel poverty, paused before the windows which had been hired by the Humane Society.

In the center of the window was the picture of a large furry animal, with a woe-begone expression on its face.

Underneath was the placard: “I was skinned to provide a woman with fashionable furs.”

For a moment the tired expression faded from the man’s face.

“I know just how you feel, poor old chap!” he muttered. “So was I.”

* * * * *

Excuse Me

A little boy in his nightdress was on his knees, saying his prayers, and his little sister could not resist the temptation to tickle his feet.

He stood it as long as he could, and then said: “Please, God, excuse me while I knock the devil out of Nellie.”

* * * * *

Objection Sustained

A young lady has written the Navy Department asking that the styles in sailors’ uniforms be changed so that the girls will not be embarrassed.

“Every time I dance with a sailor, his loose, flappy trousers tickle my ankles and make me think my petticoat has fallen,” she complains.

* * * * *

There Are Others

Here’s to those who’d love us
If we only cared,
Here’s to those we’d love
If we only dared.

* * * * *

You know the difference between a crab and a fish.
Be a live fish, not a crab, because
A live fish swims upstream and—
A crab goes backward.

* * * * *

Only six months to wait for the second October Whiz Bang annual.

* * * * *

Real photographs of the famous California Bathing Girls.

Just the thing for your den.

Size 3½ × 5½

Positively the best on the market.

Assortment of 6 for 25 cents or 25 for $1.00

Send money order or stamps

Foreign money not accepted unless exchange is included.

Egbert Brothers, Dept. W. B., 303 Buena Vista Street, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

_Wholesale agents wanted everywhere in the U. S. Write for wholesale terms._

* * * * *

Genuine Photographs

We are headquarters for photographs and pictures of all kinds, offering the most complete line in the country.

1 Catalogue “A” illustrating 500 nude, semi-nude and bathing
girl subjects, by prepaid express, for $1.00; 6 for $5.00

1 Catalogue “B” illustrating 400 film star and bathing
girl subjects, by mail, prepaid, for 25c; 5 for 1.00

1 Catalogue “W” illustrating more than 1,200 pictures, mottoes,
etc., a part as follows: Turner Prints 14, Petty Pictures 51,
Grafton Proofs 29, Congress Prints 26, Famous Mottoes 142,
Burlington Proofs 24, Religious Pictures 20, Genuine Mezzo
Proofs 48, Genuine Mezzo Prints 112, Connoisseur Miniatures
12, and many others. Price, $1.00 per copy. Prepaid, six
copies for 5.00

25 Art Nude photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike, for 2.00
50 Art Nude photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike, for 3.00
100 Art Nude and Semi-nude photographs, size 3½ × 5½, for 5.00

20 Bathing Girl Photos, size 3½ × 5½, all different, for 1.00
50 Bathing Girl Photos, size 3½ × 5½, all different, for 2.25
100 Bathing Girl Photos, size 3½ × 5½, all different, for 4.00
250 Bathing Girl Photos, size 3½ × 5½, all different, for 10.00
500 Bathing Girl Photos, size 3½ × 5½, all different, for 25.00

12 Hand Colored, Bathing Girl Photos, size 8 × 10, for 5.00
25 Hand Colored, Bathing Girl Photos, size 8 × 10, for 10.00
50 Hand Colored, Bathing Girl Photos, size 8 × 10, for 20.00
100 Bathing Girl Photos, black and white, size 8 × 10, for 30.00

12 Art Nudes, selected from our leading sellers, or any you
may choose from our catalogue in any finish desired, at 10.00
25 Art Nudes, special selection, best sellers, size 11 × 14,
mounted (a selection that we are sure will please) 12.50
100 Art Nudes, size 7 × 9, all different, assorted finishes 50.00

12 Movie Star Photographs, size 8 × 10, your choice, at 6.00
25 Movie Star Photographs, size 8 × 10, your choice, at 12.00
50 Movie Star Photographs, size 8 × 10, your choice, at 24.00
100 Movie Star Photographs, size 8 × 10, your choice, at 35.00
150 Movie Star Photographs, size 8 × 10, your choice, at 50.00

12 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, your choice, at 1.00
25 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, your choice, at 1.50
50 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, your choice, at 2.00
100 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, your choice, at 4.00

6 Komic Pictures, 11 × 14, mntd., “Make You Laugh Kind” 1.00
12 Komic Pictures, 11 × 14, mntd., “Make You Laugh Kind” 1.50
25 Komic Pictures, 11 × 14, mntd., “Make You Laugh Kind” 2.50

Art Nudes are shipped by express only. Remit by money order or bank draft. All orders shipped promptly.

The American Art Company
Offering the Most Complete Line of Art Subjects in the World
JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN, U. S. A.

* * * * *

_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.