Shocking!

* * *

My brother Roscoe, who is a captain in the Air Service, tells the following:

Officers in a garrison school were studying “Small Problems for Infantry.” Turning to the large-sized map on the wall, the major instructor called upon one officer, Jones by name.

“Jones,” said he, “your battalion is camped here at cross-roads 435 (indicating on map). It is enemy country and you are told to cross this cornfield toward farmhouse half-mile distant for the purpose of bringing in the farmer or somebody who might furnish information of the movements of the enemy. It is in September, the corn is cut but not shocked, and as you make your way across the field you suddenly ran into two young ladies. What do you do?”

“I-I-I-I don’t know,” falteringly replied the second looey. “I didn’t get time to study the lesson today. But, did I understand you to say that the corn had not been shocked?”

Questions and Answers

To Captain Billy(thru channels)—It is requested that the Captain give his expert advice on the following subjects: (a) Girl in question insists on wearing filmy Georgette waists, which are just about as efficient as chicken wire as far as concealment is concerned. There is no objection on my part to looking through them, but do not desire others to have same advantage. (b) Passing along our main drag the other day, observed squab with brilliant green stockings. Promptly remembered General Order No. 2, and followed it out to best of my ability, when another one hove in sight with red, white and blue effect on limbs. Puzzled to know which color to pay attention to in case it happens again.—Gerry Ed.

Indorsements in reply—(a) Would suggest that you drape your girl in question in heavier attire. (b) You did perfectly right in observing both sets of stockings, as your general orders are: “To walk my post in a military manner, observing everything that takes place within sight or hearing.”

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is most like a hen stealing?—Dismal Dan.

A Cock Robin, I s’pose.

* * *

Dear Bill—Who is the lightweight champion of America?—Private Stock.

My coal dealer.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is a husband?—Will B. Schmellie.

Husbands are very useful things to have about the house. Caught young they make useful pets and can be taught to do a number of tricks. Some husbands are domesticated and stay at home in the evenings. I knew one who used to spend every evening at home. He suffered with gout. Others stay out late and then, having good friends, they get carried straight in. The duty of a husband is to touch the cash register and look pleasant, and so he spent his time trying to live round a seven by six family on a two by three salary. Very few husbands ever live any longer than is absolutely necessary.

* * *

dEAR WhiZ bAng Bil—my name is OLE. My brother GUS he go away 7 yeres ago to work in Minnesoty milkking cows. Ay skol lak to know if your hired man is my brother GUS, as you SaY in yure magazeen that your hired man GUS has strong feet.—Ole Skolstad.

No, Ole, my hired man is not your brother. He says that all hired men have a bad odor about their pedals, due, he says, to the brand of snuff they snoose.

* * *

Dear Skipper Bill—Do you like Popcorn Balls?—Sig. R. Liter.

I don’t know; I never was to one.

* * *

Dear Whiz Bang Bill—What’s the extreme penalty for bigamy?—Ophelia Anckel.

Two mothers-in-law.

* * *

Dear Skipper—My husband stays out every night and he always says he sits up with Jack, but he won’t tell me his friend’s last name. Can you advise me?—Grace Gravydisch.

Your husband probably is attending Jack Pot.

* * *

Dear Farmer Bill—As you are living on a farm, perhaps you may be able to give me the correct definition of a filly.—Cobb Webb.

A filly, my dear sir, is a lady horse that has never had a honeymoon.

* * *

Dear Skipper—I’ve heard the expression, “The Evening Wore On,” and will you please tell me what it wore?—E. Normous Nutt.

Must have been wearing The Close of the Day.

* * *

Dear Skipper—What would you recommend as a good hair tonic?—Rundown Ike.

Wine of Pepsin, but I didn’t think they used it on their hair any more.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—How may I become popular as an aesthetic dancer?—Miss Fitt.

Simply shiver and shake and look wicked.

* * *

Dear Skipper—Why is a sailor usually referred to as an “Old Salt”?—Cap Pistol.

After saltpeter, which is used so much in the navy as an ingredient in the manufacture of high explosive shells.

* * *

Dear Capt. Billy—What is a Peruvian Phump?—G. Howie Pants.

An animal found only in the Arctic Circle, and having two or more speeds.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—What’s the difference between a model woman and a woman model?—Krazy Kookoo.

A model woman is a bare possibility, while a woman model is a naked fact.

* * *

Dear Professor Bill—What range of mountains did Napoleon cross, what year, and what mode of travel?—Hyley Shocked.

I am not much of an historian but I think it was in 1492 that Napoleon crossed the Rockies in a canoe.

* * *

Dear Capt. Bill—I have lived in the city all my life but have decided to become a farmer. Can you tell me whether or not macaroni is a profitable crop to grow?—Carse E. Noma.

They don’t grow macaroni any more, they make it. Just take a big long hole and put dough around it. I have been told that in some foreign countries they use this hole for vermicelli.

Limber Kicks

The young man led for a heart,The maid for a diamond played,The old man came down with a club,And the sexton used a spade.

The young man led for a heart,

The maid for a diamond played,

The old man came down with a club,

And the sexton used a spade.

* * *

It wasn’t the folly of Willie and MollyNor the heat of the sun or the sands,That made Willie silly, and Molly so jolly,’Twas the Whiz Bangs they had in their hands.

It wasn’t the folly of Willie and Molly

Nor the heat of the sun or the sands,

That made Willie silly, and Molly so jolly,

’Twas the Whiz Bangs they had in their hands.

* * *

“Here’s to the girl who is mine—all mine;She drinks and she bets,And she smokes cigarettes,And, sometimes, I’m told,She goes out, and forgetsThat she’s mine—all mine.”

“Here’s to the girl who is mine—all mine;

She drinks and she bets,

And she smokes cigarettes,

And, sometimes, I’m told,

She goes out, and forgets

That she’s mine—all mine.”

* * *

The little boy had quite a cold—The weather it was hot;I said, “Is that sweat on your lip?”He said, “No, sir, it’s not.”

The little boy had quite a cold—

The weather it was hot;

I said, “Is that sweat on your lip?”

He said, “No, sir, it’s not.”

Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

Less than two short years ago the Whiz Bang was founded, upon my return from the army, on the Whiz Bang Farm, hoping in so doing that the veterans and their friends of Robbinsdale and vicinity would be supplied with samples of the pep and ginger we had in the army and navy and marine corps. In our opening number, we expressed a faint hope for “big time” sometime, and that we could follow in the footsteps of the Cherry Sisters of vaudeville.

Our hopes and aspirations have been more than fulfilled. In twenty months, without the aid of advertising or circulation campaigns, and without a single subscription agent in the field, we have grown from 3,500 circulation in October, 1919, to more than 300,000 guaranteed paid circulation with this issue, May, 1921. America surely has given us a grand reception, and we are grateful. Next month we are planning on letting our Canadian neighbors get our bundle of farm filosophy, and as quickly as newsdealers can be communicated with, we will open up new territory.

Here’s thanks to you, folks, one and all. And we want you to consider yourself as associate editors. Ifyou have a story, or a joke, or a question for Captain Billy to answer, or a verse, or prose, or a catchy saying—send it in.

And as a grand finale, so to speak, the Whiz Bang will stay in the fight for the rights of all mankind to enjoy that liberty—the full measure of our personal and national liberty—for which we bucked the bean line in khaki and blue in the recent war. We will stand firmly opposed to any invasion of our inherent rights to the pursuit of happiness, health and prosperity.

* * *

The rôle of the drum is anything but hum-drum. The ear-drum recognizes the sound of a drum whether the instrument is side, snare, brass or kettle. In travel I have seen and heard drums big and little, round, cylindrical, high and low, loud and soft, wild and weird; played by head, hand and foot—played fast and slow in life and death, peace and war—played by savage and by civilized man in the desert or orchestra hall.

Savages, whose natural argument was a blow on the head to beat out their enemies’ brains, naturally fell into a percussion style of music and invented the drum, often the sole as well as the chief musical instrument.

The drum figures in this world from religion to ragtime—from the Salvation Army to the jazz band.

Deborah’s timbrel was a sort of drum. The old tom-tom at an Indian snake-charming doubtless had its counterpart in Egypt in 1600 B. C., and one listensto that same noise in modern Cairo. The dull sound that waked my dreams in the Alhambra was from a drum the Moor had brought from the East after a crusade.

Music is a universal language, and the despised, unmusical drum has a polyglot tongue. All other musical instruments have their speech of sentiment, love and emotion, but the voice of the drum knows the eloquent language of liberty and can get more volunteers for God, home and native land than all the orators. The roll of the drum, like that of the sea, fills the soul’s shore-line and its every bay and gulf. Heine says that the history of the storming of the Bastile cannot be correctly understood until we know how the drumming was done.

The reveille of the drum means that it is time to get up, and there is a fable of its resurrection meaning in the old legend of soldiers, fallen in battle, who by night rose from the grave in the battlefield, and with drummer at their head, marched back to their native home.

There is a pathetic story in French history of Napoleon’s nameless drummer-boy being swept from the ranks, by the sudden dash of an avalanche, into an Alpine valley. He was uninjured and the drum still hung suspended from his neck. He waved his hands to the soldiers 200 feet above him and began to drum, playing the tattoo, the reveille, the advance and the charge. But there was no time to rescue him, the soldiers passed on, and the last thing they heard in the clear, cold air was the beat of a funeral march.Then the little drummer boy lay on the snow bank to die with the snow for his shroud and the falling night for his pall. For years the veterans of the Italian campaign hushed their voices at the campfire, as they told the story of Napoleon’s drummer-boy, whose slender body lay frozen beside his drum in the silent solitudes of the snowy Alps.

In patriotic art we have the spirit of ’76. Germany has used the drum as a favorite means to raise recruits—we have done it against her, and by God’s grace will give her a drum-head court martial before long, though the world is waiting for the time Tennyson speaks of, “When the war-drum throbs no longer.”

The drum is the heart-beat of a liberty-loving humanity. The Fourth of July drum recalls the spirit of 1917, when Uncle Sam started to make the world habitable and we prayed that the American eagle might beat out the brains of Germany’s two-headed vulture; recalls the spirit of the Spanish War to give Cuba and the Philippines human rights; recalls the War of the Rebellion for the union of all creeds, colors and conditions; recalls the war of Mexico for a square deal for Americans; recalls the war of 1812 for free commerce of our ships upon the high seas; recalls the war of 1776 for liberty by the noble colonists.

I believe in the drum. Can you beat it? Hurrah for Uncle Sam, the drum-major of the world in the march for freedom of body, mind and soul, always and everywhere!

* * *

Several persons of our acquaintance have asked why we refer to marriage in the same sentence with war. There is no difference.

A fellow meets a girl and decides that she is the woman he wants to “battle” through life with.

You “present arms” and she “falls in.”

You talk it over and decide on an “engagement.” At the marriage license bureau you “sign up.” A minister “swears you in.”

There are only a few “skirmishes” during the courtship. The real “fighting” starts after marriage. That’s when a man thinks he’s a “Colonel,” and he’s only a nut.

In the house, as well as on the “battlefield,” they use “hand-grenades,” such as flatirons, pots, and rolling pins.

The wife is usually a good “rifler.” She rifles your pockets every night, takes your large money, and “confines you to quarters.”

Whether you have done anything or not, she always has you on the “mess detail.” She makes her “counter attacks” in the department stores, and she knows how to “charge.”

She is your “Commanding Officer,” and you are her “Supply Officer.”

In the game the fiercest fight is always to come. Wait until the “infantry” arrives. Instead of “shouldering arms,” you shoulder the baby. On the battlefields, shells may screech and scream, but they have nothing on the kid. You get your “walking papers” every night. This is the only “hike” you take.

In war, you sign up for four years. There is no such clause as that in your wedding certificate. You can get exemption from war on account of marriage, but you can’t get exempt from marriage on account of war.

* * *

One outraged pulpit orator states that when the average society girl enters the ballroom in these depraved times she has on only four garments, but we take it for granted he didn’t count shoes and stockings in making up his estimate.

* * *

Now one of our most eminent medical scientists announces that hiccoughs may be stopped immediately by placing one’s index finger on the patient’s fifth curvicular nerve and pressing hard, but we must find out definitely where the fifth curvicular nerve is before trying this simple remedy on the next hiccoughing girl friend we happen to be with.

* * *

A little fun occasionally is all right, but life is too short and too serious to spend it all around the monkey cage.

* * *

“I do not fear a sirenWith a mass of midnight hair;With wicked, drooping eyelids,And a blase, worldly air;But, oh, I cross my fingers,And I breathe a little prayer,When I meet a blond-haired cutie,With a blue-eyed baby stare!”

“I do not fear a siren

With a mass of midnight hair;

With wicked, drooping eyelids,

And a blase, worldly air;

But, oh, I cross my fingers,

And I breathe a little prayer,

When I meet a blond-haired cutie,

With a blue-eyed baby stare!”

Smokehouse Poetry

Another red-blooded verse, dedicated to the great American rambler, will appear in the Whiz Bang for June—“The Gila Monster Route,” being the tale of a hobo on the Southern Pacific “Sunset” route. Excerpts from the poem give the swing:“A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo,On a hostile pike without a show;’Neath a cactus tree, with sand piled deep,On the Gila route came his last long sleep.”Recently the Whiz Bang received a letter from the cellhouse of Alcatraz federal penitentiary, located on an island overlooking San Francisco—the dread of the army—and in this letter was a pathetic poem from a prisoner, who begs that we publish it for the benefit of the humans on the “great outside.”“To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,Where the eyes of mankind are blind,To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,Eternally losing your mind.”This appeal also will appear in the June Whiz Bang.

“A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo,On a hostile pike without a show;’Neath a cactus tree, with sand piled deep,On the Gila route came his last long sleep.”

“A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo,

On a hostile pike without a show;

’Neath a cactus tree, with sand piled deep,

On the Gila route came his last long sleep.”

Recently the Whiz Bang received a letter from the cellhouse of Alcatraz federal penitentiary, located on an island overlooking San Francisco—the dread of the army—and in this letter was a pathetic poem from a prisoner, who begs that we publish it for the benefit of the humans on the “great outside.”

“To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,Where the eyes of mankind are blind,To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,Eternally losing your mind.”

“To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,

Where the eyes of mankind are blind,

To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,

Eternally losing your mind.”

This appeal also will appear in the June Whiz Bang.

* * *

So many calls have been received at the Whiz Bang Farm for back copies containing certain Smokehouse Poems that we’ve decided to put out a book containing many of the gems of past issues, as well as new red-blooded poems, to be ready for our readers early this fall. The book of Smokehouse Poetry will be in addition to our new Winter Annual—Folliesof 1921-22, which will be ready for you in October with ALL NEW STUFF—jokes, jingles, stories, prose, poetry, pot pourri, advice to love-lorn and love-shorn, and, oh, we just hate to tell you of the many bright surprises.We’ve also had many calls for the works of Robert W. Service, which we must refer to the publishers, Barse & Hopkins, 21 Division Street, Newark, N. J.

We’ve also had many calls for the works of Robert W. Service, which we must refer to the publishers, Barse & Hopkins, 21 Division Street, Newark, N. J.

* * *

By William Ernest Henley

Or ever the knightly years were gone,With the old world to the grave,I was a king in Babylon,And you were a Christian slave.I saw, I took, I cast you by,I bent and broke your pride,You loved me well, or I heard them lie,But your longing was denied;Surely I knew that by and byYou cursed your gods and died.And a myriad suns have set and shone,Since then upon the grave,Decreed by the king in Babylon,To her that had been his slave.The pride I trampled is now my scathe,For it tramples me again,The old resentment lasts like death,For you love, yet you refrain,I break my heart on your hard unfaith,And I break my heart in vain.Yet not for an hour do I wish undone,The dead beyond the grave,When I was a king in Babylon,And you were a Virgin slave.

Or ever the knightly years were gone,With the old world to the grave,I was a king in Babylon,And you were a Christian slave.

Or ever the knightly years were gone,

With the old world to the grave,

I was a king in Babylon,

And you were a Christian slave.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,I bent and broke your pride,You loved me well, or I heard them lie,But your longing was denied;Surely I knew that by and byYou cursed your gods and died.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,

I bent and broke your pride,

You loved me well, or I heard them lie,

But your longing was denied;

Surely I knew that by and by

You cursed your gods and died.

And a myriad suns have set and shone,Since then upon the grave,Decreed by the king in Babylon,To her that had been his slave.

And a myriad suns have set and shone,

Since then upon the grave,

Decreed by the king in Babylon,

To her that had been his slave.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe,For it tramples me again,The old resentment lasts like death,For you love, yet you refrain,I break my heart on your hard unfaith,And I break my heart in vain.

The pride I trampled is now my scathe,

For it tramples me again,

The old resentment lasts like death,

For you love, yet you refrain,

I break my heart on your hard unfaith,

And I break my heart in vain.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone,The dead beyond the grave,When I was a king in Babylon,And you were a Virgin slave.

Yet not for an hour do I wish undone,

The dead beyond the grave,

When I was a king in Babylon,

And you were a Virgin slave.

* * *

The Whiz Bang has received so many requests for “Toledo Slim” that we will herewith publish this virile poem of the underworld.

We were seated in a pool room on a cold December day,Telling jokes and funny stories just to pass the time away;When the door was softly opened and a form walked slowly in;All the boys soon stopped their kidding when they saw Toledo Slim.But a different man was he and they hardly knew the guy;He no longer wore the glad rags he had worn in days gone by.He took a look around him as he crept into the place.And we saw a look of hunger on his dirty, grimy face.“Hello, Slim, old pal!” said Boston Red; “you’re lookin’ on the pork;Why, you used to be the swellest guy of any in New York.Come, tell us, Slim, what happened that you are on the bum?”The crowd then gathered ’round him and the story Slim begun.’Tis true I’m on the bum, boys; I’m on the hog for fair.But in the past I led them all, my roll was always there.I never turned an old pal down, I spent my money free.And all the sports along the line were glad to stick with me.I was an all ’round hustler, I trimmed the birdies right.I never shied at any game when greenbacks were in sight,But one sad night I met my fate; I fell like many more,That’s how I’m on the bum, boys, played out and feeling sore;It happened just five years ago, if I remember right,I trimmed a sucker for a roll and felt most out of sight.I took a stroll along the line; “set up” for all the boys,And just to pass the time away I dropped in Kid McCoy’s.And while I sat there drinking, getting on a mighty stew,A dead swell dame came in the place and sat beside me, too.I asked her if she’d have a drink, she sweetly said she would,And as I gazed into her eyes, I thought I understood.Perhaps you’ll think me fickle, pals, but it isn’t any dream;For when it comes to peachy looks that “Tommy” was the queen.We “chewed the rag” for quite a while, I “shot the con” for fair,(And when it comes to spreading salve, you may gamble I was there.)I told her I would place her in a finely furnished flat,And when the joint closed up that night I had my girlie pat.Next day we saw the parson and paid a month’s rent down.And then she went a hustling for work around the town.She’d get up in the morning, go out and get the grub;While I lay in my downy bed so humble and so snug.But if the day proved gloomy, then in the house we’d stop.She’d gather ’round the lay-out while I cooked the fragrant hop.When winter drew around at last and things were going fine,We had the swellest flat of any couple on the line.One night I had a job to do, the richest home in town;I got my tools and started out with my pal, Jackie Brown.We never thought we’d get a blow, the thing looked like a pipe.With all the folks a-sleeping and not a soul in sight,We put the goods into a sheet and started down the block.And just as luck would have it we bumped into a cop.We dropped the swag quick as a flash and started on the run,With the copper close behind us, a-shooting off his gun.But we were fleet as greyhounds and were halfway down the street,When a bullet hit me in the leg and I knew that I was beat.The copper stopped to handcuff me while Jackie got away,And I never saw his face again for many and many a day.Well, boys, I know you’ll guess the rest; they made short work of me.They sent me up the river to do my little “V.”But still I did not worry; I thought my girl would stickAnd keep the flat a-going while I did my little trick;I never thought she’d turn me down in 40,000 years;But when I think of what came off it almost brings the tears.At last the long years passed away and one bright summer dayI started back to old New York so happy and so gay,But when I reached my little flat I found my girl had flown—She had run away with Jackie and left me all alone.It was then I took to boozing and went from bad to worse;I tried to drown my sorrow and forget the bitter curse,But the memory of that pretty face was always on my mind,So I searched the city over, but no trace of her could find.I roamed the streets at leisure seeking vainly for my prey,Looking for the man that ruined me and stole my girl away.I swore that I’d have his life for the trick that he had done.So I searched the country everywhere, knowing well my time would come.One day I met a wise guy who knew my pal full well.He said he was in ’Frisco and living mighty swell.The girl had died in Denver of consumption, so he said,Where my former pal had left her to starve from want of bread.It happened at a time, boys, when I didn’t have a cent;So I beat my way to Frisco with my mind on vengeance bent.One foggy day on Market Street I met him sure as fate;He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late.I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,And then I made my getaway and “glommed” an eastbound train.That’s all there is to tell, boys; I’m like the rest of bums,I’ve lost all my ambition and don’t care what becomes—And as he finished talking, from his hip he drew a gun.In a moment came a sharp report—his grafting days were done.

We were seated in a pool room on a cold December day,

Telling jokes and funny stories just to pass the time away;

When the door was softly opened and a form walked slowly in;

All the boys soon stopped their kidding when they saw Toledo Slim.

But a different man was he and they hardly knew the guy;

He no longer wore the glad rags he had worn in days gone by.

He took a look around him as he crept into the place.

And we saw a look of hunger on his dirty, grimy face.

“Hello, Slim, old pal!” said Boston Red; “you’re lookin’ on the pork;

Why, you used to be the swellest guy of any in New York.

Come, tell us, Slim, what happened that you are on the bum?”

The crowd then gathered ’round him and the story Slim begun.

’Tis true I’m on the bum, boys; I’m on the hog for fair.But in the past I led them all, my roll was always there.I never turned an old pal down, I spent my money free.And all the sports along the line were glad to stick with me.I was an all ’round hustler, I trimmed the birdies right.I never shied at any game when greenbacks were in sight,But one sad night I met my fate; I fell like many more,That’s how I’m on the bum, boys, played out and feeling sore;It happened just five years ago, if I remember right,I trimmed a sucker for a roll and felt most out of sight.

’Tis true I’m on the bum, boys; I’m on the hog for fair.

But in the past I led them all, my roll was always there.

I never turned an old pal down, I spent my money free.

And all the sports along the line were glad to stick with me.

I was an all ’round hustler, I trimmed the birdies right.

I never shied at any game when greenbacks were in sight,

But one sad night I met my fate; I fell like many more,

That’s how I’m on the bum, boys, played out and feeling sore;

It happened just five years ago, if I remember right,

I trimmed a sucker for a roll and felt most out of sight.

I took a stroll along the line; “set up” for all the boys,And just to pass the time away I dropped in Kid McCoy’s.And while I sat there drinking, getting on a mighty stew,A dead swell dame came in the place and sat beside me, too.I asked her if she’d have a drink, she sweetly said she would,And as I gazed into her eyes, I thought I understood.Perhaps you’ll think me fickle, pals, but it isn’t any dream;For when it comes to peachy looks that “Tommy” was the queen.

I took a stroll along the line; “set up” for all the boys,

And just to pass the time away I dropped in Kid McCoy’s.

And while I sat there drinking, getting on a mighty stew,

A dead swell dame came in the place and sat beside me, too.

I asked her if she’d have a drink, she sweetly said she would,

And as I gazed into her eyes, I thought I understood.

Perhaps you’ll think me fickle, pals, but it isn’t any dream;

For when it comes to peachy looks that “Tommy” was the queen.

We “chewed the rag” for quite a while, I “shot the con” for fair,(And when it comes to spreading salve, you may gamble I was there.)I told her I would place her in a finely furnished flat,And when the joint closed up that night I had my girlie pat.Next day we saw the parson and paid a month’s rent down.And then she went a hustling for work around the town.She’d get up in the morning, go out and get the grub;While I lay in my downy bed so humble and so snug.But if the day proved gloomy, then in the house we’d stop.She’d gather ’round the lay-out while I cooked the fragrant hop.When winter drew around at last and things were going fine,We had the swellest flat of any couple on the line.

We “chewed the rag” for quite a while, I “shot the con” for fair,

(And when it comes to spreading salve, you may gamble I was there.)

I told her I would place her in a finely furnished flat,

And when the joint closed up that night I had my girlie pat.

Next day we saw the parson and paid a month’s rent down.

And then she went a hustling for work around the town.

She’d get up in the morning, go out and get the grub;

While I lay in my downy bed so humble and so snug.

But if the day proved gloomy, then in the house we’d stop.

She’d gather ’round the lay-out while I cooked the fragrant hop.

When winter drew around at last and things were going fine,

We had the swellest flat of any couple on the line.

One night I had a job to do, the richest home in town;I got my tools and started out with my pal, Jackie Brown.We never thought we’d get a blow, the thing looked like a pipe.With all the folks a-sleeping and not a soul in sight,We put the goods into a sheet and started down the block.And just as luck would have it we bumped into a cop.We dropped the swag quick as a flash and started on the run,With the copper close behind us, a-shooting off his gun.But we were fleet as greyhounds and were halfway down the street,When a bullet hit me in the leg and I knew that I was beat.The copper stopped to handcuff me while Jackie got away,And I never saw his face again for many and many a day.

One night I had a job to do, the richest home in town;

I got my tools and started out with my pal, Jackie Brown.

We never thought we’d get a blow, the thing looked like a pipe.

With all the folks a-sleeping and not a soul in sight,

We put the goods into a sheet and started down the block.

And just as luck would have it we bumped into a cop.

We dropped the swag quick as a flash and started on the run,

With the copper close behind us, a-shooting off his gun.

But we were fleet as greyhounds and were halfway down the street,

When a bullet hit me in the leg and I knew that I was beat.

The copper stopped to handcuff me while Jackie got away,

And I never saw his face again for many and many a day.

Well, boys, I know you’ll guess the rest; they made short work of me.They sent me up the river to do my little “V.”But still I did not worry; I thought my girl would stickAnd keep the flat a-going while I did my little trick;I never thought she’d turn me down in 40,000 years;But when I think of what came off it almost brings the tears.

Well, boys, I know you’ll guess the rest; they made short work of me.

They sent me up the river to do my little “V.”

But still I did not worry; I thought my girl would stick

And keep the flat a-going while I did my little trick;

I never thought she’d turn me down in 40,000 years;

But when I think of what came off it almost brings the tears.

At last the long years passed away and one bright summer dayI started back to old New York so happy and so gay,But when I reached my little flat I found my girl had flown—She had run away with Jackie and left me all alone.It was then I took to boozing and went from bad to worse;I tried to drown my sorrow and forget the bitter curse,But the memory of that pretty face was always on my mind,So I searched the city over, but no trace of her could find.I roamed the streets at leisure seeking vainly for my prey,Looking for the man that ruined me and stole my girl away.I swore that I’d have his life for the trick that he had done.

At last the long years passed away and one bright summer day

I started back to old New York so happy and so gay,

But when I reached my little flat I found my girl had flown—

She had run away with Jackie and left me all alone.

It was then I took to boozing and went from bad to worse;

I tried to drown my sorrow and forget the bitter curse,

But the memory of that pretty face was always on my mind,

So I searched the city over, but no trace of her could find.

I roamed the streets at leisure seeking vainly for my prey,

Looking for the man that ruined me and stole my girl away.

I swore that I’d have his life for the trick that he had done.

So I searched the country everywhere, knowing well my time would come.One day I met a wise guy who knew my pal full well.He said he was in ’Frisco and living mighty swell.The girl had died in Denver of consumption, so he said,Where my former pal had left her to starve from want of bread.It happened at a time, boys, when I didn’t have a cent;So I beat my way to Frisco with my mind on vengeance bent.

So I searched the country everywhere, knowing well my time would come.

One day I met a wise guy who knew my pal full well.

He said he was in ’Frisco and living mighty swell.

The girl had died in Denver of consumption, so he said,

Where my former pal had left her to starve from want of bread.

It happened at a time, boys, when I didn’t have a cent;

So I beat my way to Frisco with my mind on vengeance bent.

One foggy day on Market Street I met him sure as fate;He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late.I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,And then I made my getaway and “glommed” an eastbound train.That’s all there is to tell, boys; I’m like the rest of bums,I’ve lost all my ambition and don’t care what becomes—And as he finished talking, from his hip he drew a gun.In a moment came a sharp report—his grafting days were done.

One foggy day on Market Street I met him sure as fate;

He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late.

I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,

And then I made my getaway and “glommed” an eastbound train.

That’s all there is to tell, boys; I’m like the rest of bums,

I’ve lost all my ambition and don’t care what becomes—

And as he finished talking, from his hip he drew a gun.

In a moment came a sharp report—his grafting days were done.

* * *

Listen, my children, and you shall hear,Of the famous wife of Paul Revere;While Paul flivvered out on his midnight ride,Do you think she camped at the old fireside?Emphatically no, but like the modern girl,She busted right out for a shimmie whirl,She parked where the lights were glowing bright,To do a few steps of the “Hold-Me-Tight;”She “copped” a partner, a boy from college,Who just returned from a hall of knowledge,With a bean chuck full of “mule” and school,This “rah-rah” boy was a dancing fool;They dangled a hoof and shook them all,From the “Frontporch-Swing” to the “Downstairs-Fall,”When the band started jazzing that song of reposeOf “Just Kiss Me, Doc, and Burn All My Clothes,”They would clinch and grapple in vise-like embrace,And he’d plant his “map” up the side of her face.With his right “lunch-hook” her waist he’d entwine,You’d almost think he was massaging her spine.And thus clamped together they would trot and tripAnd shake all the movements of the “Slovenly-Slip,”The “Kitchen-Sink” and the “Box-Car-Bump,”The “Cellar-Step” and the “Public-Dump,”The “Old-Boardwalk” and the “Arctic-Shivver,”The “Back-Yard-Dash” and the “St. Vitus Quiver,”The “Old-Milk-Shake” and the “Slippery-Slide,”The “Wormy-Wiggle” and the “Peruvian-Glide.”The Moral is this, “When all’s done and said,Why go to a dance, when you got music at home?”—W. K. Edwards.

Listen, my children, and you shall hear,

Of the famous wife of Paul Revere;

While Paul flivvered out on his midnight ride,

Do you think she camped at the old fireside?

Emphatically no, but like the modern girl,

She busted right out for a shimmie whirl,

She parked where the lights were glowing bright,

To do a few steps of the “Hold-Me-Tight;”

She “copped” a partner, a boy from college,

Who just returned from a hall of knowledge,

With a bean chuck full of “mule” and school,

This “rah-rah” boy was a dancing fool;

They dangled a hoof and shook them all,

From the “Frontporch-Swing” to the “Downstairs-Fall,”

When the band started jazzing that song of repose

Of “Just Kiss Me, Doc, and Burn All My Clothes,”

They would clinch and grapple in vise-like embrace,

And he’d plant his “map” up the side of her face.

With his right “lunch-hook” her waist he’d entwine,

You’d almost think he was massaging her spine.

And thus clamped together they would trot and trip

And shake all the movements of the “Slovenly-Slip,”

The “Kitchen-Sink” and the “Box-Car-Bump,”

The “Cellar-Step” and the “Public-Dump,”

The “Old-Boardwalk” and the “Arctic-Shivver,”

The “Back-Yard-Dash” and the “St. Vitus Quiver,”

The “Old-Milk-Shake” and the “Slippery-Slide,”

The “Wormy-Wiggle” and the “Peruvian-Glide.”

The Moral is this, “When all’s done and said,

Why go to a dance, when you got music at home?”

—W. K. Edwards.

* * *

In the April issue, the Whiz Bang published the noted poem of Lt. Col. John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.” Here is his other masterpiece, “The Anxious Dead,” and also “America’s Answer,” by R. W. Lillard, and “Poppies,” by J. Eugene Chrisman.

By Lt.-Col. John McCrae

Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hearAbove their heads the legions passing on;Those fought their fight in time of bitter fear,And died not knowing how the day had gone.Oh flashing muzzle, pause and let them see,The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;Then let your mighty chorus witness beTo them and Caesar, that we still make war.Tell them, oh guns, that we have heard their call,That we have sworn and will not turn aside,That we will onward till we win or fall,That we will keep the faith for which they died.Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,They shall feel earth enrapt in silence deep,Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,And in content may turn them to their sleep.

Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hearAbove their heads the legions passing on;Those fought their fight in time of bitter fear,And died not knowing how the day had gone.

Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hear

Above their heads the legions passing on;

Those fought their fight in time of bitter fear,

And died not knowing how the day had gone.

Oh flashing muzzle, pause and let them see,The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;Then let your mighty chorus witness beTo them and Caesar, that we still make war.

Oh flashing muzzle, pause and let them see,

The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;

Then let your mighty chorus witness be

To them and Caesar, that we still make war.

Tell them, oh guns, that we have heard their call,That we have sworn and will not turn aside,That we will onward till we win or fall,That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Tell them, oh guns, that we have heard their call,

That we have sworn and will not turn aside,

That we will onward till we win or fall,

That we will keep the faith for which they died.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,They shall feel earth enrapt in silence deep,Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,And in content may turn them to their sleep.

Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,

They shall feel earth enrapt in silence deep,

Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,

And in content may turn them to their sleep.

* * *

By R. W. Lillard

Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.The fight that ye so bravely ledWe’ve taken up. And we will keepTrue faith with you who lie asleepWith each a cross to mark his bed,And poppies blowing overhead,Where once his own life blood ran red.So let your rest be sweet and deepIn Flanders fields.Fear not that ye have died for naught.The torch ye threw to us we caught.Ten million hands will hold it high,And Freedom’s light will never die!We’ve learned the lesson that ye taughtIn Flanders fields.

Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.

The fight that ye so bravely led

We’ve taken up. And we will keep

True faith with you who lie asleep

With each a cross to mark his bed,

And poppies blowing overhead,

Where once his own life blood ran red.

So let your rest be sweet and deep

In Flanders fields.

Fear not that ye have died for naught.

The torch ye threw to us we caught.

Ten million hands will hold it high,

And Freedom’s light will never die!

We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught

In Flanders fields.

* * *

By J. Eugene Chrisman

Poppies?Not for me, buddy!Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em,Plain red hell—they—They remind me——And folks plant ’em aroundGardens—huh!Says one old dame to me,“Don’t they bring back,” says she,“The poppied fields of Flanders?”“Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva—But who wants ’em brung back—huh?Say, buddy,If she’d seen poppiesLike I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres—Scattered through the wheat-fields,Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies—Yeah—mostly!Slim—my buddy—old scoutSlept under the same handkerchief,Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go!I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I—Day we kicked off west o’ Château-ThierryDown the valley—Poppies—say,You couldn’t rest for poppies.Then the Jerries cut looseMachine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle.Poppy leaves—bits o’ redFlickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind,Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world!Got old Slim—got him right!Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’!Don’t talk poppies to me—Skunk cabbage first—compree?If you’d seen old Slim—Boy, he diedwallerin’in poppies!Poppies—Hell!

Poppies?Not for me, buddy!Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em,Plain red hell—they—They remind me——

Poppies?

Not for me, buddy!

Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em,

Plain red hell—they—

They remind me——

And folks plant ’em aroundGardens—huh!Says one old dame to me,“Don’t they bring back,” says she,“The poppied fields of Flanders?”“Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva—But who wants ’em brung back—huh?Say, buddy,If she’d seen poppiesLike I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres—Scattered through the wheat-fields,Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies—Yeah—mostly!

And folks plant ’em around

Gardens—huh!

Says one old dame to me,

“Don’t they bring back,” says she,

“The poppied fields of Flanders?”

“Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva—

But who wants ’em brung back—huh?

Say, buddy,

If she’d seen poppies

Like I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres—

Scattered through the wheat-fields,

Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies—

Yeah—mostly!

Slim—my buddy—old scoutSlept under the same handkerchief,Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go!I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I—Day we kicked off west o’ Château-ThierryDown the valley—Poppies—say,You couldn’t rest for poppies.Then the Jerries cut looseMachine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle.Poppy leaves—bits o’ redFlickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind,Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world!Got old Slim—got him right!Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’!Don’t talk poppies to me—Skunk cabbage first—compree?If you’d seen old Slim—Boy, he diedwallerin’in poppies!Poppies—Hell!

Slim—my buddy—old scout

Slept under the same handkerchief,

Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go!

I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I—

Day we kicked off west o’ Château-Thierry

Down the valley—

Poppies—say,

You couldn’t rest for poppies.

Then the Jerries cut loose

Machine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle.

Poppy leaves—bits o’ red

Flickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind,

Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world!

Got old Slim—got him right!

Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’!

Don’t talk poppies to me—

Skunk cabbage first—compree?

If you’d seen old Slim—

Boy, he diedwallerin’in poppies!

Poppies—

Hell!

* * *

This poem was not written by Kipling, nor has it passed the scrutiny of our village schoolmaster, but what it lacks in rhetoric is made up in punch. “I made this up about a girl that turned me down over a shipmate of mine, and will thank you to publish it for the benefit of other love-sick gobs,” writes the author, a sailor at the Philadelphia naval station.

Now, listen shipmates, listen,And I shall tell to you,How once I met a girlie,Just like other fellows do.I loved her, yes, I loved her,And I know she knew it well,But I tipped her to a shipmate,And he held her in his spell.He enraptured her with stories,And he said I was not true,When next I met my loved one,She said, “I’m through with you.”I’ve told you all I know, boys,Or all I care to tell,So if you love a girlie, Gobs,Have your shipmates go tu’ell.

Now, listen shipmates, listen,And I shall tell to you,How once I met a girlie,Just like other fellows do.

Now, listen shipmates, listen,

And I shall tell to you,

How once I met a girlie,

Just like other fellows do.

I loved her, yes, I loved her,And I know she knew it well,But I tipped her to a shipmate,And he held her in his spell.

I loved her, yes, I loved her,

And I know she knew it well,

But I tipped her to a shipmate,

And he held her in his spell.

He enraptured her with stories,And he said I was not true,When next I met my loved one,She said, “I’m through with you.”

He enraptured her with stories,

And he said I was not true,

When next I met my loved one,

She said, “I’m through with you.”

I’ve told you all I know, boys,Or all I care to tell,So if you love a girlie, Gobs,Have your shipmates go tu’ell.

I’ve told you all I know, boys,

Or all I care to tell,

So if you love a girlie, Gobs,

Have your shipmates go tu’ell.

* * *

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,Peroxide makes the blonde grow blonder,Onions make the breath grow stronger,But Bunk makes the grass grow longer.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,

Peroxide makes the blonde grow blonder,

Onions make the breath grow stronger,

But Bunk makes the grass grow longer.

* * *

I love a lassie,She’s skinny, but she’s classy,She’s as neat as the paper on the wall;She’s got a face like a dragon,A shape like a horse and wagon,She’s my lassie of the Scotch mask ball.

I love a lassie,

She’s skinny, but she’s classy,

She’s as neat as the paper on the wall;

She’s got a face like a dragon,

A shape like a horse and wagon,

She’s my lassie of the Scotch mask ball.

* * *

Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray Thee, please, my soul to keep,Grant no other soldier takeMy shoes and socks before I wake.Try and guard me in my sleep,And keep my bunk upon its feet,And in the morning let me wakeBreathing whiffs of sirloin steak.Please protect me in my dreams,And make it better than it seems,Grant the time may swiftly flyWhen I myself may rest (or try)In a snowy feather bed,With a pillow ’neath my head.Far away from all these scenes,From the smell of hash and beans,Take me back into the land,Where they don’t scrub down with sand.And Thou knowest all my woes,Feed me in my dyin’ throes,Take me back and I promise TheeNever more to cross the sea.

Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray Thee, please, my soul to keep,Grant no other soldier takeMy shoes and socks before I wake.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray Thee, please, my soul to keep,

Grant no other soldier take

My shoes and socks before I wake.

Try and guard me in my sleep,And keep my bunk upon its feet,And in the morning let me wakeBreathing whiffs of sirloin steak.

Try and guard me in my sleep,

And keep my bunk upon its feet,

And in the morning let me wake

Breathing whiffs of sirloin steak.

Please protect me in my dreams,And make it better than it seems,Grant the time may swiftly flyWhen I myself may rest (or try)In a snowy feather bed,With a pillow ’neath my head.

Please protect me in my dreams,

And make it better than it seems,

Grant the time may swiftly fly

When I myself may rest (or try)

In a snowy feather bed,

With a pillow ’neath my head.

Far away from all these scenes,From the smell of hash and beans,Take me back into the land,Where they don’t scrub down with sand.

Far away from all these scenes,

From the smell of hash and beans,

Take me back into the land,

Where they don’t scrub down with sand.

And Thou knowest all my woes,Feed me in my dyin’ throes,Take me back and I promise TheeNever more to cross the sea.

And Thou knowest all my woes,

Feed me in my dyin’ throes,

Take me back and I promise Thee

Never more to cross the sea.

* * *

She’s knockkneed; she’s lazy;She’s bow-legged; she’s crazy;She’s maul-eyed, she’s wall-eyed, she’s lame.Well, her teeth are all false, from indulging in salts,She’s my cockeyed, consumptive Plain Jane.

She’s knockkneed; she’s lazy;

She’s bow-legged; she’s crazy;

She’s maul-eyed, she’s wall-eyed, she’s lame.

Well, her teeth are all false, from indulging in salts,

She’s my cockeyed, consumptive Plain Jane.

* * *

My girl was the best of girls,Her curls were the prettiest of curls.No girl had lips so sweet,No girl had such dainty feet.My girl never told a lie,Not even to me.What a shame my girl must dieAt the age of three.

My girl was the best of girls,

Her curls were the prettiest of curls.

No girl had lips so sweet,

No girl had such dainty feet.

My girl never told a lie,

Not even to me.

What a shame my girl must die

At the age of three.

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