Questions and Answers

* * *

All the world knocks a knocker.

Dear Captain Billy—I am writing a scenario on army life. Could you suggest an appropriate title?—Amy Tour.

How about: “Rumors From the Seventh Pew.” All soldiers will appreciate it, I am sure, and especially the Pugetites from Seattle who live on the Sound.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—A friend and myself have an argument and we wish you to settle it. Where hangs the sign: “Don’t leave your seat until the machinery stops running”?—Sultan of Kokomo.

Well, your sultanic majesty, the only place I recall having seen such a sign was on a merry-go-round, but it might also have appeared on our Robbinsdale trolley.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—How can I become adept in the shimmy dance?—Flora Daw.

Walk fast; stop quick. Continue this motion.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Why do girls roll their stockings?—Noah Count.

Because they are afraid the teddy bears will chew the tops off of them.

* * *

Dear Uncle Billy—While sitting in front of a bath house at Hot Springs I fell asleep and soon found myself swinging in a hammock in a shaded nook of the dells of Wisconsin. Nearby sat a young lady magnificently gowned in a low neck and short skirt creation, with her feet on a sugar barrel reading to me from the Whiz Bang. In the distance came a short, fat man carrying two bottles of Hamm’s Export just off the ice. I was about to reach for a bottle when the heavy hand of Friend Mac touched me on the shoulder and awakened me. What I want to know is, what should I do to Mac for shaking me out of my dream before the climax.—Ham Spear.

Your story reminds me of some of my dreams in the Islands, when someone would always awaken me before the Colonel had time to hand me the discharge papers I was dreaming about. I would suggest you pour hot water on Mac next time he slumbers. He will then dream of entering the gates of hell.

* * *

Dear Skipper—I’m in love with a fat girl and she insists on sitting on my lap. Advice, please.—Kennett B. Goode.

Suggest that you place an ironing board over the arms of a chair. You could then hold her on your lap indefinitely and not get tired.

* * *

Dear Skipper Bill—Can you give me the name of a rare and almost extinct bird?—School Johnnie.

Old Crow.

* * *

Dear Skipper Billy—Give me a definition of falling in love which “in the spring turns a young man’s fancy,” etc.—Bob Wire.

Love is a feeling that you feel when you feel you’re going to feel a feeling that you’ve never felt before.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is a Whiffem Poof?—Geo. Logical.

A Whiffem Poof, Geo., is a small fish that swims backward to keep the water from running into its eyes.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Can you give us a new phrase or word to describe the bedroom movies in which ladies are shown in the filmy robes du nuit, etc.—Screen Hound.

How would it be to call such pictures “Filmies”?

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Would you recommend walking on an empty stomach as an aid to digestion?—Horace D’Oevers.

Walking on an empty stomach is excellent for indigestion, but be careful who you walk on.

* * *

Dear Skipper Billy—What is your idea of the height of imagination?—Ross Field.

To sit on a cake of ice and have someone throw limburger cheese in your face and imagine you are having a sleigh ride.

* * *

Dear Bill—Who was the best known enlisted man in the United States army?—Count Lehman.

Joe Latrine.

* * *

Dear W. B. Bill—I’m a bashful young man. How can I have a girl?—Busch Wah.

Wiser men than I have puzzled over this question and never found a solution. However, I don’t see why you want one.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—Who is it that attracts all the town girls to the depot, and who always suspects the playing card manufacturers, and who causes the farmer to load his shotgun?—Watt Hoe.

Traveling Men, of course, God bless ’em.

* * *

Dear Skipper—What is considered the safest place on a battleship?—Otto Know.

I believe if I were a sailor during an engagement that I might find it necessary to seek the seclusiveness of “the head.”

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—Will you please tell me what is a Nymph?—Farmer Boy.

A Nymph, my boy, is a hasher with a good form who gets a job in a bathing girls’ show exhibiting her Prowess.

* * *

Democratic as he is, even the bootlegger treats his friend, the cop, from the bottle reserved “For Officers Only.”

Limber Kicks

Of sweethearts she has quite a few,They come from near and far;But the sailor who comes there each nightShe calls her evening’s tar.

Of sweethearts she has quite a few,

They come from near and far;

But the sailor who comes there each night

She calls her evening’s tar.

* * *

“Won’t you step into the parlor?”Said the spider to the fly.“You bet your life I’ll not,” she said.And winked her other eye.“You must think I’m easy,And that you are very sly,No knock-out drops in mine, sir,For I’m a Spanish fly.”

“Won’t you step into the parlor?”

Said the spider to the fly.

“You bet your life I’ll not,” she said.

And winked her other eye.

“You must think I’m easy,

And that you are very sly,

No knock-out drops in mine, sir,

For I’m a Spanish fly.”

* * *

Mary had a little lamb,A joyous, youthful mutton;And when they played at parlor games’Twas Mary got the butt’n.

Mary had a little lamb,

A joyous, youthful mutton;

And when they played at parlor games

’Twas Mary got the butt’n.

* * *

Little Mary had a monkeyOn a painted stick,She sucked the paint all off one day,It made poor Mary sick.

Little Mary had a monkey

On a painted stick,

She sucked the paint all off one day,

It made poor Mary sick.

* * *

The boy sat on the moon-lit deck,His head was in a whirl;His eyes and mouth were full of hair,And his arms were full of girl.

The boy sat on the moon-lit deck,

His head was in a whirl;

His eyes and mouth were full of hair,

And his arms were full of girl.

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

“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

“Life is a jest and all things show it; I thought so once but now I know it,” is Gay’s gloomy epitaph in Westminster Abbey. Did he receive this impression when he walked the streets of London? In his poem, “Trivia,” he tells us how to walk the streets, what to wear, the good people to address, the industrious ones to encourage, and the bad folks to pass by.

Poe, in his “Man in the Crowd,” writes of the mass of people, and of beggar, tramp and peddler; of the modest, pretty girl; of the women of the town like the statue in Lucian “with a surface of Parian marble and with interior filled with filth”; and of a man who walked all the crowded streets of London to get away from himself.

De Quincy visits the Strand and says: “There one feels like a single wave in the total Atlantic—like one plant in the forest of America.” The loneliness of his heart oppresses him among the crowd of unending faces which have no friendly word for him, and he stands “among hurrying figures of men weaving to and fro, seeming like a masque of maniacs or a pageant of phantoms.”

Stand on the corners, walk the streets of our own big cities, the capitals of the Old World, or far-away countries, and behold the extremes of work and idleness, vice and virtue, sickness and health, innocent mirth and mad amusement. The people follow each other like the waves of a storm-tossed sea, and long after you have returned to your room their walking, talking, laughing and crying comes to you like the sad moan of the sea trying to be at peace.

Nature is the place to study God in the book of field, mountain and ocean. City streets are the place to study man in the sham, struggle and sin of life.

In the afternoon and evening, work gives way to play. All classes meet and mingle on the street; silk and cotton, glove and hard hand, auto and carriage, revel in a democracy of delight. It is as necessary and natural to play as to work, and we must have rest, recreation and rejoicing.

At night good people say an early “Good night,” read their Bible, pray, put out the light, and snore. The Devil begins just then to light his red lamp and lead his votaries into paths that too often end in disease of body, darkness of mind, and death of soul. Next morning high society may hush up the disgrace and infamy, but guilty hearts know their own bitterness and that evening’s comedy has turned to morning’s tragedy.

Cities resemble a Demon’s brain, and the women of the night are its evil thoughts. There are too many wantons with powdered face, brazen look and leering laughter; too many giddy girls with bare necks andshoulders, abbreviated skirts and hobbled feet walking the streets.

If there were no girls,—but there are more girls than boys, and necessarily for wives and mothers to fill the vacancies caused by war, vice and death. If there were no streets,—but streets are essential as arteries of commerce, avenues of friendly meeting and public parade.

Morning, noon and night we walk the street and see dishonesty, impurity, poverty and disease,—old and young jostling each other in seeming joy; but their tell-tale faces speak of a heart with a secret grave of shame, where they fear they may stumble over a ghastly grinning skull that will mock their joy.

It will take more than Art Galleries, Symphony Concerts, Parks, Vice Commissions and Grand Jury reports to make the streets of city life clean and its boys and girls good citizens. The cure for sin is not a piece of court-plaster to cover over wrong, but the Gospel of hand, head and heart that trains a child’s soul, mind and will in the way he should go so that when he is old his steps will not depart from it.

* * *

The merits and demerits of prohibition and the lawful consumption of the grand old hootch of the good old days have been subject to warm debates as far back as history can be traced. Here’s one from Hollinshed’s Chronicles of 1577:

We distinguisheth three sortes thereof—Simplex, Composita, Perfectissima—Beying Moderately taken, sayeth he, it sloweth age, it strengthen youth; it helpeth digestion; it cutteth fleume; itabandoneth melancholie; it relisheth the taste; it lighteneth the mynd; it quickeneth the spirites; it cureth the hydropsie; it healeth the strangury; it pounceth the stone; it repelleth gravel; it puffeth away ventositie; it kepyth and preserveth the bed from whyrlyng, the eyes from dazelyng, the tongue from lispyng, the mouth from snafflyng, the teethe from chatteryng, the throte from ratlyng, the reason from stieflyng, the stomach from womblyng, the harte from swellyng, the bellie from wirtchyng, the guts from rumblyng, the hands from shiveryng, the sinoews from shrinkyng, the veynes from crumplyng, the bones from akyng, the marrow from soakyng—and trulie it is a sovereign liquor if it be orderlie taken.

Sir Walter Scott brought out the point that prohibition is as intemperate as drunkenness, when he wrote:

“Know, foolish Saracen,” replied the Christian without hesitation, “that thou blasphemest the gifts of God....“The juice of the grape is given to him that will use it wisely, as that which cheers the heart of man after toil, refreshes him in sickness and comforts him in sorrow. He who so enjoyeth it may thank God for His wine cup as for His daily bread; and he who abuseth the gift of Heaven is not a greater fool in his intoxication than thou in thine abstinence.”

“Know, foolish Saracen,” replied the Christian without hesitation, “that thou blasphemest the gifts of God....

“The juice of the grape is given to him that will use it wisely, as that which cheers the heart of man after toil, refreshes him in sickness and comforts him in sorrow. He who so enjoyeth it may thank God for His wine cup as for His daily bread; and he who abuseth the gift of Heaven is not a greater fool in his intoxication than thou in thine abstinence.”

* * *

Literary criticism is prone to make a great deal of bother about something that nobody cares two pins for, but sometimes, after the fabric of discussion has been thoroughly masticated, literary criticism does come down to bed rock and agree on one point which is incontrovertible. Among the subjects in which there is at present a universal agreement is the declaration that the American short story is the highest in perfection of any form of fiction that is put out in the world. Even the French, artists as they are, must take a back seat when it comes to the writing of tales that are brief and effective.

It was the coruscating Ouida who emphasized the fact that flowers of the most exquisite beauty havetheir origin in the backyard heaps—wonderful passion blossoms bloom gorgeously in surroundings that are the worst. The connection has never been established, but the coincidence is indisputable, that the vaunted American short story, so clean morally and so harmless that the most modest virgin may read it without fear of being corrupted, is modeled upon the naughty story, conspicuously American in its construction, which would paralyze with horror any virgin who should happen to lend to its recital an attentive ear.

If one could but divest himself of his moral pulchritude, what paeans of praise would be poured forth in honor of that sinful and abhorrent thing, the naughty story! It is so brilliant, so forceful, so perfectly filed down and sharpened and polished until its edge is like the edge of a Damascus blade and its point is finer than a needle’s! Instinctively the teller of such a tale flings aside every detail which is not absolutely essential to the narrative. There is not a word too much. There is not a trace of description which, could be dispensed with. All—all is sacrificed to the exigency of brevity and to the final effect.

* * *

My sweetheart’s a mule in the mine; I drive her without any line; on the bumper I sit, and tobacco I spit, all over my sweet Jenny’s spine.

* * *

Wine, women and song are the ruination of man, so I’ve cut out singing.

* * *

The game opened with Molasses at the stick and Smallpox catching. Cigar was in the box with plenty of smoke. Horn played first base and Fiddle on second base. Backed by Corn in the field made it hot for the umpire. Apple, who was rotten. Axe came to bat and chopped. Cigars let Brick walk and Sawdust filled the bases. Song made a hit and Twenty scored. Cigar went out and Balloon started to pitch, but went straight up. Then Cherry tried, but went wild. Old Ice kept cool in the game until he was hit by a pitched ball, then you ought to have heard Ice scream. Cabbage had a good head and kept quiet. Grass covered lots of ground and the crowd cheered when Spider caught a fly. Bread loafed on third base and bumped. Organ, who played a fast game, put out Lightning. In the fifth inning Wind began to blow what he could do. Hammer began to knock and Trees began to leave. The way they roasted Peanuts was a fright. Knife was put out for cutting first base. Lightning finished pitching and struck out six men. In the ninth Apple told Fiddle to take first base and then Song made a hit. Trombone made a slide and Meat was put out on the plate. There was a lot of betting on the game. But Soap cleaned up. The score was 1-0. Door said if he had pitched he would have shut them out.

* * *

Jonah to the whale: How far are we from land?

Whale: Three thousand miles.

Jonah: Don’t leave me, big boy!

Smokehouse Poetry

Introducing, in our July issue, George J. Liebst, alias “The Hobo Jungle Poet of the West!” Swing under Number Nine of the Santa Fe line with our knight of the bumpers and beams next issue and attend, in verse, Mr. Liebst’s “Hobo Convention” at Portland, Oregon! The author explains that the clickitty-clack of the wheels on the rails, as he hears them from a swinging position on the rods of Number Nine, furnish the metre of his jungle poem. He tells you who was at the great convention—“Texas Slim from Lone Star,”And Jack, the Katydid;“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,“And the San Diego Kid.”Put on your hobo clothes and travel with the Whiz Bang to the “convention” in the July issue!Next month we’re to witness a great ball game, in which the Mighty Casey, who, as you may recall, struck out in the famous ninth and lost the same for Mudville, stages a comeback! Get ready for this “curve.” It’s a home-run winner!

“Texas Slim from Lone Star,”And Jack, the Katydid;“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,“And the San Diego Kid.”

“Texas Slim from Lone Star,

”And Jack, the Katydid;

“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,

“And the San Diego Kid.”

Put on your hobo clothes and travel with the Whiz Bang to the “convention” in the July issue!

Next month we’re to witness a great ball game, in which the Mighty Casey, who, as you may recall, struck out in the famous ninth and lost the same for Mudville, stages a comeback! Get ready for this “curve.” It’s a home-run winner!

* * *

Way down in the Garden of EdenWas Adam with Eve on his knee.They never sat down,But just laid around,In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.

Way down in the Garden of Eden

Was Adam with Eve on his knee.

They never sat down,

But just laid around,

In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.

* * *

The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army while under restriction and confinement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz Island, California. There has been a dread about this military citadel which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular soldier.

By An Alcatraz Prisoner

Only a short ride from ’Frisco,On a rock resting out in the sea;A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”The home of the U. S. D. B.There we lay on our bed of hard metal,And think of our life among men,Ever wishing our life was far distant,Or could be lived over again.The death-colored chambers of madness,Where all rights are evermore gone;Oh, is there no chance for freedom,Will we never again see the dawn?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.So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”From the souls who go down in the strife,Where souls are evermore strivingAnd thrown by the wayside of life.Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;Assist in this hour that is blue,For the ones who are good and the ones who are badAre as good or as bad as you.

Only a short ride from ’Frisco,On a rock resting out in the sea;A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”The home of the U. S. D. B.

Only a short ride from ’Frisco,

On a rock resting out in the sea;

A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”

The home of the U. S. D. B.

There we lay on our bed of hard metal,And think of our life among men,Ever wishing our life was far distant,Or could be lived over again.

There we lay on our bed of hard metal,

And think of our life among men,

Ever wishing our life was far distant,

Or could be lived over again.

The death-colored chambers of madness,Where all rights are evermore gone;Oh, is there no chance for freedom,Will we never again see the dawn?

The death-colored chambers of madness,

Where all rights are evermore gone;

Oh, is there no chance for freedom,

Will we never again see the dawn?

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.

So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”From the souls who go down in the strife,Where souls are evermore strivingAnd thrown by the wayside of life.

So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”

From the souls who go down in the strife,

Where souls are evermore striving

And thrown by the wayside of life.

Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;Assist in this hour that is blue,For the ones who are good and the ones who are badAre as good or as bad as you.

Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;

Assist in this hour that is blue,

For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad

Are as good or as bad as you.

* * *

I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul.

I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,

But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul.

* * *

This life is but a game of cards,Which every one must learn.Each shuffles, deals and cuts the deckAnd then a trump does turn;Some show up a high card,While others make it low,And many turn no cards at all—In fact, they cannot show.When hearts are up, we play for loveAnd pleasure rules the hour,Each day goes pleasantly along,In sunshine’s rosy bower.When diamonds chance to crown the pack,That’s when men stake their gold,And thousands then are lost and won,By gamblers, young and old.When clubs are trump, look out for war,On ocean and on land,For bloody deeds are often done,When clubs are held in hand.At last up turns the darkened spade,Held by the toiling slave,And a spade will turn up trump at last,And dig each player’s grave.

This life is but a game of cards,

Which every one must learn.

Each shuffles, deals and cuts the deck

And then a trump does turn;

Some show up a high card,

While others make it low,

And many turn no cards at all—

In fact, they cannot show.

When hearts are up, we play for loveAnd pleasure rules the hour,Each day goes pleasantly along,In sunshine’s rosy bower.When diamonds chance to crown the pack,That’s when men stake their gold,And thousands then are lost and won,By gamblers, young and old.

When hearts are up, we play for love

And pleasure rules the hour,

Each day goes pleasantly along,

In sunshine’s rosy bower.

When diamonds chance to crown the pack,

That’s when men stake their gold,

And thousands then are lost and won,

By gamblers, young and old.

When clubs are trump, look out for war,On ocean and on land,For bloody deeds are often done,When clubs are held in hand.At last up turns the darkened spade,Held by the toiling slave,And a spade will turn up trump at last,And dig each player’s grave.

When clubs are trump, look out for war,

On ocean and on land,

For bloody deeds are often done,

When clubs are held in hand.

At last up turns the darkened spade,

Held by the toiling slave,

And a spade will turn up trump at last,

And dig each player’s grave.

* * *

“Lizzie went out with that floorwalker clown,She said he was filled full of boozeAnd made her get out and walk back to town,But there wasn’t no mud on her shoes.“Far be it from me to run a girl down,Mistakes I will always excuse,But when one declares she walked back to townI look for the mud on her shoes.”

“Lizzie went out with that floorwalker clown,She said he was filled full of boozeAnd made her get out and walk back to town,But there wasn’t no mud on her shoes.

“Lizzie went out with that floorwalker clown,

She said he was filled full of booze

And made her get out and walk back to town,

But there wasn’t no mud on her shoes.

“Far be it from me to run a girl down,Mistakes I will always excuse,But when one declares she walked back to townI look for the mud on her shoes.”

“Far be it from me to run a girl down,

Mistakes I will always excuse,

But when one declares she walked back to town

I look for the mud on her shoes.”

* * *

Rock-a-bye baby, little Jay Leeds,Daddy has women more than he needs;Through a divorce I’ll get lots of cash,Because your dear daddy was a little too rash.

Rock-a-bye baby, little Jay Leeds,

Daddy has women more than he needs;

Through a divorce I’ll get lots of cash,

Because your dear daddy was a little too rash.

* * *

Publication in the May issue of the Whiz Bang of “In Flanders Fields” has brought many requests for “The Poppy’s Answer,” and thus, by special permission of the author, we offer it herein.

By D. H. Winget

In Flanders fields we poppies grow,That all the passing world may knowWe herald peace—surcease of pain,For those who fought now live again,Not in cold stone or mortal arts,But in the depth of loving hearts,We bloom afresh above our dead,Our blossoms deck our hero’s bedIn Flanders fields.Our Father called us into bloom,To deck and shield each soldier’s tombTo bask and glint in glory’s stream,And fashion every soldier’s dream,As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,Each poppy true her vigil keeps,And gently to the breeze she yieldsHer soothing breathIn Flanders fields.

In Flanders fields we poppies grow,

That all the passing world may know

We herald peace—surcease of pain,

For those who fought now live again,

Not in cold stone or mortal arts,

But in the depth of loving hearts,

We bloom afresh above our dead,

Our blossoms deck our hero’s bed

In Flanders fields.

Our Father called us into bloom,To deck and shield each soldier’s tombTo bask and glint in glory’s stream,And fashion every soldier’s dream,As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,Each poppy true her vigil keeps,And gently to the breeze she yieldsHer soothing breathIn Flanders fields.

Our Father called us into bloom,

To deck and shield each soldier’s tomb

To bask and glint in glory’s stream,

And fashion every soldier’s dream,

As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,

Each poppy true her vigil keeps,

And gently to the breeze she yields

Her soothing breath

In Flanders fields.

* * *

She lifts her skirts from danger,With her left hand, while her rightGrasps the nozzle, and the strangerGets a very shocking sight.The neighbors gaze with rapture,And their interest daily grows,For they like to see her sprinkle,And they like to watch the hose.

She lifts her skirts from danger,With her left hand, while her rightGrasps the nozzle, and the strangerGets a very shocking sight.

She lifts her skirts from danger,

With her left hand, while her right

Grasps the nozzle, and the stranger

Gets a very shocking sight.

The neighbors gaze with rapture,And their interest daily grows,For they like to see her sprinkle,And they like to watch the hose.

The neighbors gaze with rapture,

And their interest daily grows,

For they like to see her sprinkle,

And they like to watch the hose.

* * *

His eyelids closed, his breath came fast,His eager lips met hers;They parted ere the week had passed—She had a set of furs.

His eyelids closed, his breath came fast,

His eager lips met hers;

They parted ere the week had passed—

She had a set of furs.

* * *

You’ve heard the tale of Daphne of a hundred years ago?You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a thing you ought to know.Though pretty smart at most things (for her age was seventeen)She didn’t know the proper way to wear a crinoline.For instance, when the winter winds came tearing through the townShe made the most ridiculous attempts to hold it down;And thus it was that often as she tacked across the streetThe people got a view of her that wasn’t only feet.You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today?You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way.In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims,She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs.For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more,She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before.And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose,The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes.I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate,But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait;And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint,The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint;And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude,And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude—Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves,And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves!—A. B. M.

You’ve heard the tale of Daphne of a hundred years ago?

You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a thing you ought to know.

Though pretty smart at most things (for her age was seventeen)

She didn’t know the proper way to wear a crinoline.

For instance, when the winter winds came tearing through the town

She made the most ridiculous attempts to hold it down;

And thus it was that often as she tacked across the street

The people got a view of her that wasn’t only feet.

You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today?You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way.In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims,She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs.For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more,She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before.And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose,The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes.

You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today?

You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way.

In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims,

She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs.

For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more,

She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before.

And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose,

The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes.

I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate,But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait;And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint,The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint;And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude,And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude—Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves,And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves!

I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate,

But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait;

And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint,

The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint;

And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude,

And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude—

Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves,

And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves!

—A. B. M.

* * *

(Ocean Park, California)

One night as I strolled on the sand,The hour of twelve was near,By chance my wandering footsteps ledMe underneath the pier.Ye Gods! the people I saw that night,As I strolled along my way;Behind each piling they ’rose like ghostsAnd silently faded away.I saw there men, and women, too;And friends I held most dear,And I turned and fled (for I wasn’t alone),As I strolled beneath the pier.

One night as I strolled on the sand,

The hour of twelve was near,

By chance my wandering footsteps led

Me underneath the pier.

Ye Gods! the people I saw that night,

As I strolled along my way;

Behind each piling they ’rose like ghosts

And silently faded away.

I saw there men, and women, too;

And friends I held most dear,

And I turned and fled (for I wasn’t alone),

As I strolled beneath the pier.

* * *

By Enid R. Clay

March winds were blowing when we met—(And so the game was started)You blew a breath of love to meThat left me broken-hearted.June roses scented all the air—(The game seemed so worth winning).Their glory mingled with your kiss,And never thought it sinning.And still for some the March winds blow,And roses perish never;For all my play—and some must lose—Forever and forever.

March winds were blowing when we met—(And so the game was started)You blew a breath of love to meThat left me broken-hearted.

March winds were blowing when we met—

(And so the game was started)

You blew a breath of love to me

That left me broken-hearted.

June roses scented all the air—(The game seemed so worth winning).Their glory mingled with your kiss,And never thought it sinning.

June roses scented all the air—

(The game seemed so worth winning).

Their glory mingled with your kiss,

And never thought it sinning.

And still for some the March winds blow,And roses perish never;For all my play—and some must lose—Forever and forever.

And still for some the March winds blow,

And roses perish never;

For all my play—and some must lose—

Forever and forever.

* * *

It was Christmas at the workhouse,And the convicts gathered there.They were sitting at the table,Partaking of their fare,When the warden quietly entered,And he shouted through the cells,“Merry Christmas, good old convicts,”And the convicts answered “Bells.”Now this made the warden angry,And he swore by all the Gods,“You shall have no Christmas pudding.You’re a dang big bunch of slobs.”Then spoke the oldest convict,With a voice that was not pure,“Just take that Christmas pudding,And shove it in the sewer.”—By Dan Moriarty.

It was Christmas at the workhouse,

And the convicts gathered there.

They were sitting at the table,

Partaking of their fare,

When the warden quietly entered,

And he shouted through the cells,

“Merry Christmas, good old convicts,”

And the convicts answered “Bells.”

Now this made the warden angry,And he swore by all the Gods,“You shall have no Christmas pudding.You’re a dang big bunch of slobs.”Then spoke the oldest convict,With a voice that was not pure,“Just take that Christmas pudding,And shove it in the sewer.”

Now this made the warden angry,

And he swore by all the Gods,

“You shall have no Christmas pudding.

You’re a dang big bunch of slobs.”

Then spoke the oldest convict,

With a voice that was not pure,

“Just take that Christmas pudding,

And shove it in the sewer.”

—By Dan Moriarty.

* * *

’Twas a balmy summer eveningAnd a goodly crowd was thereBut it wasn’t in the barroomFor the barrooms now are bare.

’Twas a balmy summer evening

And a goodly crowd was there

But it wasn’t in the barroom

For the barrooms now are bare.

* * *

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowParley vou.That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowParley vou.That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowHe believes me when I tell him “no.”Hinkey dinkey parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowParley vou.That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowParley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

Parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

Parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slowHe believes me when I tell him “no.”Hinkey dinkey parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

He believes me when I tell him “no.”

Hinkey dinkey parley vou.

* * *

By W. D. Nesbit

Is it ladylike to giggle?Is it ladylike to wink?Is it ladylike to ride a horse a-straddle?Is it ladylike to wiggle?Is it ladylike to drink?Is it ladylike upon the beach to paddle?Is it ladylike to mutter?Is it ladylike to stare?Is it ladylike to do those fancy dances?Is it ladylike to sputter?Is it ladylike to swear?Is it ladylike to use expressive glances?Is it ladylike to gurgle?Is it ladylike to joke?Is it ladylike to boast of being wealthy?Is it ladylike to burgle?Is it ladylike to smoke?Is it ladylike to know that you are healthy?Is it ladylike to shiver?Is it ladylike to weep?Is it ladylike to walk through forests shady?Is it ladylike to quiver?Is it ladylike to peep?Is it ladylike to be a little lady?

Is it ladylike to giggle?Is it ladylike to wink?Is it ladylike to ride a horse a-straddle?Is it ladylike to wiggle?Is it ladylike to drink?Is it ladylike upon the beach to paddle?

Is it ladylike to giggle?

Is it ladylike to wink?

Is it ladylike to ride a horse a-straddle?

Is it ladylike to wiggle?

Is it ladylike to drink?

Is it ladylike upon the beach to paddle?

Is it ladylike to mutter?Is it ladylike to stare?Is it ladylike to do those fancy dances?Is it ladylike to sputter?Is it ladylike to swear?Is it ladylike to use expressive glances?

Is it ladylike to mutter?

Is it ladylike to stare?

Is it ladylike to do those fancy dances?

Is it ladylike to sputter?

Is it ladylike to swear?

Is it ladylike to use expressive glances?

Is it ladylike to gurgle?Is it ladylike to joke?Is it ladylike to boast of being wealthy?Is it ladylike to burgle?Is it ladylike to smoke?Is it ladylike to know that you are healthy?

Is it ladylike to gurgle?

Is it ladylike to joke?

Is it ladylike to boast of being wealthy?

Is it ladylike to burgle?

Is it ladylike to smoke?

Is it ladylike to know that you are healthy?

Is it ladylike to shiver?Is it ladylike to weep?Is it ladylike to walk through forests shady?Is it ladylike to quiver?Is it ladylike to peep?Is it ladylike to be a little lady?

Is it ladylike to shiver?

Is it ladylike to weep?

Is it ladylike to walk through forests shady?

Is it ladylike to quiver?

Is it ladylike to peep?

Is it ladylike to be a little lady?

Budd’s Bundle of Bunk

BY BUDD L. McKILLIPS

“My,” said the old lady after her first night auto ride into the country, “the people who fix automobiles will make a lot of money tomorrow. Every few blocks there was a car standing with nobody around it. It was so dark that I couldn’t see if they were smashed up, but I guess the people must have walked back to town.”

* * *

What is it the bootlegger buysOne-half so vicious as the stuff he sells?

What is it the bootlegger buys

One-half so vicious as the stuff he sells?

* * *

EMIL ASKED CLARATO TAKEA WALK WITH HIMAND PICK FLOWERS,BUTCLARA’S BROTHERCAME ALONG,AND SOTHEY PICKED FLOWERS.

EMIL ASKED CLARA

TO TAKE

A WALK WITH HIM

AND PICK FLOWERS,

BUT

CLARA’S BROTHER

CAME ALONG,

AND SO

THEY PICKED FLOWERS.

* * *

Mrs. Bloolaw laid down her newspaper with an angry snort. “I see where they are talking aboutreviving the ‘Passion Play’; another of those disgraceful shows, I suppose.”

* * *

“How much,” asked John Burroughs in his daily Nature column, “does it cost to set a tree out in the street?”

Some festive friends of ours set a bartender out in the street in the days B. P. and if memory is correct it cost them $10 and costs.

* * *

“People Who Ride in Our Car Never Have to Walk Back Home” advertises a St. Louis automobile agency. The girl in the house next door says a hat pin gives her the same assurance.

* * *

If there’s one secluded spotThat I would like to ownAnd fence about, ’tis that small plotWhere my wild oats were sown.

If there’s one secluded spot

That I would like to own

And fence about, ’tis that small plot

Where my wild oats were sown.

* * *

She asked him if he’d take a seat,But he, his blushes hiding,Replied that he preferred to stand,For he’d been horseback riding.

She asked him if he’d take a seat,

But he, his blushes hiding,

Replied that he preferred to stand,

For he’d been horseback riding.

* * *

The porcupine may have his quills,The elephant his trunk,But when it comes to common scentsMy money’s on the skunk.

The porcupine may have his quills,

The elephant his trunk,

But when it comes to common scents

My money’s on the skunk.

Film Feast Fights

Ah! Now the dainty damsels of the screen have the excitement for which their artistic temperaments crave! For the edification of the filmland folk, Los Angeles hotels have introduced the prize fight as a dinner attraction, partly supplanting the dinner dansant, and here we have diminutive Bebe Daniels cavorting at one of these film fight feasts, rubbing elbows with effete Kid McCoy, whose barefoot partner, as Richmond states, put on her shoes and walked out.

Society prize fights are the latest in Los Angeles and Pasadena. The winter tourists, society people and so on have fallen. Didn’t Anne Morgan set the example in New York? Main dining rooms have been turned into prize rings, where, during a lull in the supper dance, the fighters, their seconds, water bottles, cuspidors and other necessary adjuncts are led forth.

No, prizefighters don’t generally have cuspidors; they generally spit in the water bucket or on the floor; anyhow, they spit. They can’t help it.

The swell hotels of Pasadena and Los Angeles already have staged their preliminary fistic functions. There is no bunc about the fights, at least so far as appearance and appurtenances are concerned. The men wear regulation ring clothes and, as everyone knows, this means they can’t wear much more thanmost of the women present, who shriek with delight and false alarm at the thud of brawny fists on hairy breasts and bloody noses.

Whiz Bang is not long-haired, consequently can’t be against a good boxing contest or a fight, whatever it is they call them. But one may entertain an opinion that some things were meant for men and if there is anything a man is better fitted for, or can do better, than women, for heaven’s sake let him do it.

The Alexandria-Alec, as it popularly is known, initiated the fad in this burg. The society editors must have been there for one thing, judging from elite galaxy of names which appeared next day.

Kid McCoy also was there, appearing somewhat better in his tux than most of the non-athletic looking gentlemen present. The Kid emerged recently from his ninth (or was it his fifteenth?) matrimonial experiment. He married a dancer of the films, a bare-footed one. But evidently she put on her shoes and walked out.

The literary lights were somewhat in evidence. Guy Price, Eddie Moriarity and H. M. Walker, with the assumed or naturally bored air that seems to mark the popular newspaper sporting writers, were taking in the innovation or being innovated in the taking in, whichever it was. Moriarity and Walker said who won the fights and from their dour looks one would never judge they write funny titles for Semon and Lloyd.

Tom Mix jumped into the ring as referee. Those who watched paid well for it. But there was dinner, of course, and a dance, thrown in.

Bebe Daniels was one of the first on the floor. Not that Bebe seemed overly excited about it. But the proud looking young man who trotted her out seemed not without fear that his appearance with the fair Bebe might be overlooked if he didn’t get an early start upon the ball room boards.

But Bebe was worth looking at; incidentally, one of the few modest looking women on the floor. They say she is stuck up. They say that about most of the really stellar female attractions of the screen. But the insider opines that Bebe’s bored look combines a sense of humor and the common sense of a young girl who finds that the glitter and night adulation are mostly 18 carat bunc. Yet Bebe danced and danced.

As we have said before, society doesn’t know what to do about the picture stars, especially if they are starettes. But to miss seeing them, so one can talk about what they wore and whom they were with, that would be ultra ignoramus, as one might aptly say. Just what a bunch of supposedly high bred society women, Miss Morgan to the contrary, can see in the spectacle of two men slamming each other around the ring passeth, no doubt, some portion of the male element.

Sounds like we are getting sermony. Far be it from us. There are worse things than women in evening garb gushing over mostly naked men fighting in the main dining room of our swell hotels.

One thing about Mary and Doug.; they are fairly exclusive. Some of the younger stars might do well to emulate them. Yet, perhaps before a star becomes aluminous planet it must do its sparkle; cast its lesser light, until the fact that it does not glow at every gay party can cause more comment than the mere presence, thereat, would cause.

Mary and Doug. are becoming more talked of because they stay home than because they step out. Of course, Mary and Doug. have something to chat of among themselves again, now that Nevada is talking marriage annulment again.

We still remain firm in our predictions of months ago that Nevada has more talk than annulment in her system, so far as the Fairbanks family is concerned.

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