Questions and Answers

* * *

Nice day for swimmin’!

What swimmin’?

Loo swimmin’.

* * *

“Your new stenog, I hear, is a beauty. Can she spell?”

“What does that matter?”

Questions and Answers

Dear Captain Billy—What is meant by “A third rail girl?”—Inoa Recipe.

It probably means one dangerous to touch.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is your idea of the height of indifference?—Goofey Gander.

Spilling coffee in your lap and not caring which leg it runs down.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between kissing a horse and an ugly girl?—Paul Bearer.

No difference whatever. In either case it’s a horse on you.

* * *

Dear Whiz Bang Bill—I am a great lover of literature, but find that friends borrow my books to read. Did you ever hear of anything like it?—Oliver Mudd.

We know an old fogy who married a flapper.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—My sweetheart got angry at me last night and said I had feet like a camel. What did he mean?—Rebeccah.

He probably inferred that your feet had gone too long without water.

* * *

Dear Capt. Whiz Bang—A friend informs me his wife ran away with a “bank walker.” I have heard of bank tellers and bank cashiers, but never heard of a “bank walker.” Please tell me what he meant?—Bob Sledd.

Your query has been referred to the swimming editor.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—Will you please tell me the origin of the expression: “Mother, who is this silly ass?”—S. O. Elly.

It originated in France after the close of the war when a poilu returned and, finding his home disrupted, left again to vow further vengeance on the German.

* * *

Dear Cap—Please tell me how to grow fat.—Slim Jim.

Breed hogs.

* * *

Dear Skipper Bill—What is a cure for a horse that slobbers?—Artie Fishel.

Teach him to spit.

* * *

Dear Skipper—What is the difference between a sewing machine and a kiss?—B. Qrious.

One sews seams nice and the other seams sew nice.

* * *

Dear Captain Whiskers—What is a crazy bone?—Howe D. Dew.

A dollar spent on a girl.

* * *

Dear Kapten Billy—An electriek trolly goes through my corn feild. Would it be against the law to uze it to shock my corn with?—O. G. Kroakim.

No, but be careful and not let the juice wet the kernels.

* * *

Dear Skipper—What is meant by “self respect”?—Dottie Dimple.

Self respect, Dottie, is a comfortable feeling one has in having escaped detection.

* * *

Dear “Skipper”—Who was the Duke of Peruna?—C. C. Pill.

Lydia Pinkham’s husband.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—Please give me a definition of a cannibal.—Student.

Sure. One who loves his fellow man.

* * *

Dear Skipper—Kindly furnish me with an illustration of “Poetry of Motion.”—Awsthetic Awlice.

How would this be: A picnic girl with a bug down her back?

* * *

Dear Skipper—Do leaves of trees turn red in the fall from blushing because they are showing naked limbs?—Bon Jurrows.

No, it’s because they realize how green they were all summer.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I had a tussle with my beau last night. How may I recover myself?—Petite Fifi.

Go to a tailor.

* * *

Dear Capt. Billy—I am ambitious for a career on the stage. Can you suggest an act that will be entirely new and up-to-date?—Art Gumm.

Why not try kicking a giraffe in the mouth?

* * *

Dear Cap—I am a member of a newly formed organization known as the “Woman Hater’s Union.” Could you suggest a motto for our association?—Fat Chance.

“Oh, kill me now and call it the end of a perfect day.”

* * *

Dear Skipper—When is a good girl not a good girl?—McNotty.

About half the time, we’d say.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between a rehearsal and a show?—Plain Jane.

A rehearsal is the same as a show, only nobody comes around to see it.

* * *

Dear Captain Bullybeef—My fiance says I have a peachy complexion. What does he mean?—Kitty Furr.

He probably infers, Kitty, that you have a yellow and orange shade with fuzz on your face.

* * *

Dear Doctor Bill—Why, oh why, did the police inspect her?—The Duke o’ Dubuque.

Possibly to help the “deek” detect her.

* * *

A convalescent requiring whisky and beer for rapid recovery is convalescent all over except his thirst, and that’s in the acute stages.

* * *

“Boys,” asked the school master, “what do you consider the most beautiful thing in the world?”

“Sunshine,” hazarded one boy.

“Flowers,” ventured another.

Both answers were received with favor, and the turn went to a hefty youth.

“A woman,” announced he gruffly.

“Come out here,” commanded the master, sternly.

A good flogging was administered; and then the offender was bidden to go home and tell his father that he had been flogged, and why.

Next morning the floggee was again hauled up.

“Did you tell your father that you had been flogged?” asked the master.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you tell him why?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did he say?”

“Please, sir, dad and I talked it all over between us, and we’ve come to the conclusion that there’s something funny about you.”

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

“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

Press dispatches recently carried an item to the effect that although slightly mentally affected, the mother of Charlie Chaplin, upon her son’s earnest persuasion, had been allowed to enter this country from England.

Mrs. Chaplin, upon reaching New York, stood a chance, it was stated, of having to return had it not been for quick and effective energies of her sons and their friends in political power.

Those who know Chaplin well declare that the intense melancholy for which he is noted is due more than anything else to the affection and concern for his mother. Such things as domestic troubles, it is said, bear little weight with the man who daily makes millions laugh. ’Tis the mother.

What have we here! Consider this monumental fun-maker of the screen. Death is bad enough but when the mind of one very dear becomes clouded, then indeed does tragedy and sadness smite with a heavy hand.

We read of the circus clown whose wife and children burned to death, and yet, to keep a date with theworld of fun lovers, he went ahead that night and clowned as never he had clowned before. Have we in Chaplin a great tragedy also? It will be recalled that when he was a small boy in London he and his mother and brother lived in a workhouse in order that the streets might not be their home.

Now his mother is coming home to him, to live amid all the luxury that great wealth may bring; wealth that came after a sad little fellow with merry feet, living in a workhouse with his mother, learned to be the greatest of all fun-makers. Life’s a funny proposition, folks, isn’t it?

* * *

Half a century ago the nude in art was strange enough in America to uplift Puritanic hands in holy horror. Today, among all cultivated people, the female nude is most matter-of-fact. Our notions of art the country over have been steadily clarifying, until at last the great distinction has been recognized and conceded even by pious folk that, while the human male figure is impossible, the female form is purely beautiful.

Those rabid for realism and resolutely uncompromising, will have the assurance to claim innocuousness for the undraped male; but the opinion today among those who are not extremists is still definitely against the frank exposition of the male form in plastic or painting.

At worst the mind receives merely a filip of interest; and complete nudity, to the male fancy, repeated again and again in art, speedily sates curiosity, andwith that, incipient desire. As for the minds of women, no one would insult them with the suspicion that they find anything provocative in the portrayal of figures of their own sex.

In every landscape the eye notices at once and unavoidably the hills; it finds the plains and valleys only by an effort of the will. This fact has ever been admitted by the modern stage, which is, so far as the ethics of objective morality go, more conservative than modern art in its advanced attitude.

* * *

If you can’t be a pine on the top of the hill,Be a scrub in the valley, but beThe best little scrub by the side of the hill,Be a bush if you can’t be a tree;If you can’t be the sun be a star,But the best little booster wherever you are.

If you can’t be a pine on the top of the hill,

Be a scrub in the valley, but be

The best little scrub by the side of the hill,

Be a bush if you can’t be a tree;

If you can’t be the sun be a star,

But the best little booster wherever you are.

* * *

Teach me that 60 minutes make an hour, 16 ounces one pound and 100 cents one dollar. Help me so to live that I can lie down at night with a clear conscience, without a gun under my pillow and unhaunted by the faces of those to whom I have brought pain. Grant that I may earn my meal-ticket on the square, and that in earning it I may do unto others as I would have them do unto me. Deafen me to the jingle of tainted money and to the rustle of unholy skirts. Blind me to the faults of the other fellow but reveal to me my own. Guide me so that each nightwhen I look across the dinner table at my wife who has been a blessing to me, I will have nothing to conceal. Keep me young enough to laugh with little children, and sympathetic enough to be considerate of old age. And when comes the day of darkened shades and the smell of flowers, the tread of soft footsteps and the crunching of wheels in the yard—make the ceremony short and the epitaph simply ‘Here Lies a Man.’

* * *

He that does not know,And knows he does not know;Can be taught.TEACH HIM!He that does not know,But thinks he knows;Is a dangerous man.BEWARE OF HIM!He that does know.And knows he knows;Is a wise man—FOLLOW HIM!

He that does not know,And knows he does not know;Can be taught.TEACH HIM!

He that does not know,

And knows he does not know;

Can be taught.

TEACH HIM!

He that does not know,But thinks he knows;Is a dangerous man.BEWARE OF HIM!

He that does not know,

But thinks he knows;

Is a dangerous man.

BEWARE OF HIM!

He that does know.And knows he knows;Is a wise man—FOLLOW HIM!

He that does know.

And knows he knows;

Is a wise man—

FOLLOW HIM!

* * *

It’s a stiff neck that has no turning when a short skirt goes by.

* * *

I hope that when I die they’ll pour me back in the bottle. So do other soaks.

* * *

He had been married about a year and had taken to spending his evenings out West with the boys. One night his conscience worried him, and he thought he would phone his wife to have dinner with him.

“Hello, kiddo,” he began. “Slip on some old clothes and run down and meet me on the quiet. We’ll have a good dinner and then smear a little red paint around. How about it?”

“I’ll be delighted to join you,” was the reply. “But why not come up to the house, Jack, and get me? There’s nobody home.”

Today the young husband spends every evening at home. His name is Philip.

* * *

A stripping bee took place at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Bohumil Albrecht Thursday evening. Those present Were the Mesdames Katherine Mach, John Marek, John Jelimek, Kenzel Pokorny, Mr. and Mrs. John Novotny, Mr. and Mrs. John Hanna and Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Wessely, Sr.—(From Kewauness (Wis.) Press.)

* * *

A fatted calf maketh a full stocking.

* * *

One of the loveliest of girls went into a gents’ furnishing store to buy a necktie. She hesitated a moment, and then asked in a nice, straightforward way: “I want to put it on, please. Would you tie it for me?”

The clerk felt a little nervous, especially as the other fellows were watching him, but she had already pulled off the necktie that she wore. He said, “Certainly,” and, putting the new one around her neck as she ducked her head. She wore a dainty white silk shirt. When the tie was tied, the ends seemed a bit long, and he suggested: “Do you wear the ends tucked in?” “Yes,” she returned with unembarrassed absentmindedness. At this point his courage failed him.

* * *

“Both of dese here gents,” said the witness, Mandy Thomas, rather impressed with the importance of being in court, “was standing at the corner conversin’ with each other pretty hot an’ pointed like.”

“Relate the conversation,” said the prosecutor.

“Ah don’t jest remember, sah,” said Mandy, “’cept dat dey was callin’ each other what dey is.”

* * *

Women used to carry money in their stocking, but it’s not safe to put money in public places now.

* * *

A rash marriage is only skin deep.

Smokehouse Poetry

Whiz Bang has a double-winner for Smokehouse fans next issue! “The Lure of the Tropics” and “The Far East.”

“O’er chicle camps and logwood swampsI hunted him many a moon,Then found my man in a long pit panAt the edge of a blue lagoon.“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;It ended a two-year quest,And I left him there with an empty stareAnd a knife stuck in his chest.”

“O’er chicle camps and logwood swampsI hunted him many a moon,Then found my man in a long pit panAt the edge of a blue lagoon.

“O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps

I hunted him many a moon,

Then found my man in a long pit pan

At the edge of a blue lagoon.

“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;It ended a two-year quest,And I left him there with an empty stareAnd a knife stuck in his chest.”

“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;

It ended a two-year quest,

And I left him there with an empty stare

And a knife stuck in his chest.”

That’s the swing of the most noted poem of the tropics, “The Far East,” an excerpt from which follows, is familiar to Philippine war veterans:

“By the mud hole down in SubicLooking lazy at the bay,There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,And I think I hear her say:‘Come you back you malo soldierCome you back from o’er the sea,Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,Por-a-que! You jaw-bone me?’”

“By the mud hole down in Subic

Looking lazy at the bay,

There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,

And I think I hear her say:

‘Come you back you malo soldier

Come you back from o’er the sea,

Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,

Por-a-que! You jaw-bone me?’”

* * *

By George Liebst

You have heard of big conventions,And there’s some you can’t forget,But get this straight, there’s none so greatAs when the hoboes met.To Portland, Oregon, last yearThey came from near and far;On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,They rode on every car.Three hundred came from New York state,Some came from Eagle Pass;That afternoon, the third of June,They gathered there en masse.From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”And “Jack the Katydid”;With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazooCame “San Diego Kid.”And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”“Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,“Big Mac” from Mackinack.I saw some boys I’d never met;A bo called “New York Spike,”“Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,And “Mississippi Ike.”Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;And “Half-breed Joe” from MexicoShot craps with “Eastport Ed.”“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”Fixed up a jungle stew,While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”Croaked gumps for our menu.The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a songAlong with “Desp’rate Sam”;And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ ParkClog-danced with “Alabam.”We gathered ’round the jungle fire,The night was passing fast;We’d all done time for every crime,And talk was of the past.All night we flopped around the fireUntil the morning sun;Then from the town the cops came down—We beat it on the run.We scattered to the railroad yards,And left the “bulls” behind;Some hit the freights for other states,And many rode the “blind.”Well, here I am in Denver town,A hungry, tired-out bo;The flier’s due, when she pulls through,I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—I’ll make her on the fly;It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,I’m off again—Good Bye!

You have heard of big conventions,And there’s some you can’t forget,But get this straight, there’s none so greatAs when the hoboes met.

You have heard of big conventions,

And there’s some you can’t forget,

But get this straight, there’s none so great

As when the hoboes met.

To Portland, Oregon, last yearThey came from near and far;On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,They rode on every car.

To Portland, Oregon, last year

They came from near and far;

On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,

They rode on every car.

Three hundred came from New York state,Some came from Eagle Pass;That afternoon, the third of June,They gathered there en masse.

Three hundred came from New York state,

Some came from Eagle Pass;

That afternoon, the third of June,

They gathered there en masse.

From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”And “Jack the Katydid”;With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazooCame “San Diego Kid.”

From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”

And “Jack the Katydid”;

With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazoo

Came “San Diego Kid.”

And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”“Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,“Big Mac” from Mackinack.

And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”

Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”

“Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,

“Big Mac” from Mackinack.

I saw some boys I’d never met;A bo called “New York Spike,”“Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,And “Mississippi Ike.”

I saw some boys I’d never met;

A bo called “New York Spike,”

“Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,

And “Mississippi Ike.”

Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;And “Half-breed Joe” from MexicoShot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,

Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;

And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico

Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”Fixed up a jungle stew,While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”Croaked gumps for our menu.

“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”

Fixed up a jungle stew,

While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”

Croaked gumps for our menu.

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a songAlong with “Desp’rate Sam”;And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ ParkClog-danced with “Alabam.”

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song

Along with “Desp’rate Sam”;

And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park

Clog-danced with “Alabam.”

We gathered ’round the jungle fire,The night was passing fast;We’d all done time for every crime,And talk was of the past.

We gathered ’round the jungle fire,

The night was passing fast;

We’d all done time for every crime,

And talk was of the past.

All night we flopped around the fireUntil the morning sun;Then from the town the cops came down—We beat it on the run.

All night we flopped around the fire

Until the morning sun;

Then from the town the cops came down—

We beat it on the run.

We scattered to the railroad yards,And left the “bulls” behind;Some hit the freights for other states,And many rode the “blind.”

We scattered to the railroad yards,

And left the “bulls” behind;

Some hit the freights for other states,

And many rode the “blind.”

Well, here I am in Denver town,A hungry, tired-out bo;The flier’s due, when she pulls through,I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

Well, here I am in Denver town,

A hungry, tired-out bo;

The flier’s due, when she pulls through,

I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—I’ll make her on the fly;It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,I’m off again—Good Bye!

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—

I’ll make her on the fly;

It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,

I’m off again—Good Bye!

* * *

He blushed a fiery red,Her heart went pittypat;She gently hung her head,And looked down, at the mat.

He blushed a fiery red,

Her heart went pittypat;

She gently hung her head,

And looked down, at the mat.

* * *

Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium ditty:

Oh, she promised to meet meWhen the clock struck seventeen,At the stockyards, just three miles out of town,Where the pig eyes and pig ears and theTough old Texas steersSell for sirloin steak atEighteen cents a pound.CHORUS:Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.Although her lower teeth are phoneyFrom eating Swift’s bologna,She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

Oh, she promised to meet me

When the clock struck seventeen,

At the stockyards, just three miles out of town,

Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the

Tough old Texas steers

Sell for sirloin steak at

Eighteen cents a pound.

CHORUS:

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.Although her lower teeth are phoneyFrom eating Swift’s bologna,She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,

She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,

She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.

Although her lower teeth are phoney

From eating Swift’s bologna,

She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

* * *

Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?” Here’s a baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition. He replies to the old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own Mudville nine. Heave ho to this “Curve”—

—By James Wilson.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.”All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,”They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had comeTo see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fanWho thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sunTheir hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heardWhen the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as nightWhen the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,”A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hateHe gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—“Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew—A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight,The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;

There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.

“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,

And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.”

All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,”

They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.

And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,

While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had comeTo see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,

And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.

And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;

The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come

To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;

And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,

He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fanWho thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sunTheir hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heardWhen the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;

But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan

Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun

Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;

But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.

The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard

When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as nightWhen the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,”A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hateHe gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,

A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;

But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night

When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,”

A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—

When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;

His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate

He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—“Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;

There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.

They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”

But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;

Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.

Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—

“Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew—A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight,The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.

But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?

A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew—

A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight,

The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.

Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;

But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,

And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;

And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;

But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

* * *

By a Former Acting-assistant Buck Private, Budd L. McKillipps.

Last night I was at a partyAnd some fellow sang a song,A song I’d heard,But this poor birdHad half the words all wrong.He sang a soldier ballad,But it lacked the army tang;It sounded strangeTo hear the change,These were the songs he sang:Mademoiselle from Armentieres;Parley Vouz,Mademoiselle from Armentieres;Parley Vouz,Mademoiselle from Armentieres,She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz.I’d tell you the way we sang itAround the cafes in France,(The words grow worseWith every verse),I don’t dare take a chance.Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,And the non-commissioned officers in the tool houseWhile the privates in the mess hall running wild;The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks.Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;Then it’s home boys, home;That’s where we ought to be,Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the poleAnd we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold.That wasn’t the way we sang it,To comrades garbed in O.D.;There’s some may tellThe real song, well—You’ll not find out from me.I want to go home, I want to go home,The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;They certainly all feel sorry for me;I want to go homeI’m here with a busted knee.Oh, hell, I wish I was well,I want to go home.I cried when I heard him sing that,’Twas a song we sang in Brest;When long days creptAnd boys were keptIn stockades under arrest.Oh, why do they change those ballads,Till nothing’s left but the air?They’re made for menSo sing them whenThere’s no darned women there.

Last night I was at a partyAnd some fellow sang a song,A song I’d heard,But this poor birdHad half the words all wrong.

Last night I was at a party

And some fellow sang a song,

A song I’d heard,

But this poor bird

Had half the words all wrong.

He sang a soldier ballad,But it lacked the army tang;It sounded strangeTo hear the change,These were the songs he sang:

He sang a soldier ballad,

But it lacked the army tang;

It sounded strange

To hear the change,

These were the songs he sang:

Mademoiselle from Armentieres;Parley Vouz,Mademoiselle from Armentieres;Parley Vouz,Mademoiselle from Armentieres,She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz.

Mademoiselle from Armentieres;

Parley Vouz,

Mademoiselle from Armentieres;

Parley Vouz,

Mademoiselle from Armentieres,

She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,

Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz.

I’d tell you the way we sang itAround the cafes in France,(The words grow worseWith every verse),I don’t dare take a chance.

I’d tell you the way we sang it

Around the cafes in France,

(The words grow worse

With every verse),

I don’t dare take a chance.

Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,And the non-commissioned officers in the tool houseWhile the privates in the mess hall running wild;The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks.Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;Then it’s home boys, home;That’s where we ought to be,Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the poleAnd we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold.

Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,

With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,

And the non-commissioned officers in the tool house

While the privates in the mess hall running wild;

The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,

They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks.

Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—

The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;

Then it’s home boys, home;

That’s where we ought to be,

Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;

We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the pole

And we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold.

That wasn’t the way we sang it,To comrades garbed in O.D.;There’s some may tellThe real song, well—You’ll not find out from me.

That wasn’t the way we sang it,

To comrades garbed in O.D.;

There’s some may tell

The real song, well—

You’ll not find out from me.

I want to go home, I want to go home,The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;They certainly all feel sorry for me;I want to go homeI’m here with a busted knee.Oh, hell, I wish I was well,I want to go home.

I want to go home, I want to go home,

The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;

They certainly all feel sorry for me;

I want to go home

I’m here with a busted knee.

Oh, hell, I wish I was well,

I want to go home.

I cried when I heard him sing that,’Twas a song we sang in Brest;When long days creptAnd boys were keptIn stockades under arrest.

I cried when I heard him sing that,

’Twas a song we sang in Brest;

When long days crept

And boys were kept

In stockades under arrest.

Oh, why do they change those ballads,Till nothing’s left but the air?They’re made for menSo sing them whenThere’s no darned women there.

Oh, why do they change those ballads,

Till nothing’s left but the air?

They’re made for men

So sing them when

There’s no darned women there.

* * *

By Grayce Moody.

There are girly girls and whirly girls,And girls who are bashful and shy;There are gay brunettes and dizzy blondes,And the girl with the wicked eye.There’s the haughty girl who sits on the world,As the honey from life she sips,But give me the girl the world calls bad,The girl with the painted lips.She’s there with a smile and a friendly word,When the world is going wrong,She will jolly you and cheer you upAnd tell you life’s a song.She will stick by you and play you square,No odds if you’re down and out,She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend,I’ll say she’s a regular scout.Her life is not all sunshine and rosesThis painted little maid,But she hides her hurts behind a smileAnd faces the world unafraid;Little she minds what the world saysOr the “goody girls’” caustic quips,She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes”My girl with the painted lips.

There are girly girls and whirly girls,

And girls who are bashful and shy;

There are gay brunettes and dizzy blondes,

And the girl with the wicked eye.

There’s the haughty girl who sits on the world,

As the honey from life she sips,

But give me the girl the world calls bad,

The girl with the painted lips.

She’s there with a smile and a friendly word,When the world is going wrong,She will jolly you and cheer you upAnd tell you life’s a song.She will stick by you and play you square,No odds if you’re down and out,She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend,I’ll say she’s a regular scout.

She’s there with a smile and a friendly word,

When the world is going wrong,

She will jolly you and cheer you up

And tell you life’s a song.

She will stick by you and play you square,

No odds if you’re down and out,

She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend,

I’ll say she’s a regular scout.

Her life is not all sunshine and rosesThis painted little maid,But she hides her hurts behind a smileAnd faces the world unafraid;Little she minds what the world saysOr the “goody girls’” caustic quips,She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes”My girl with the painted lips.

Her life is not all sunshine and roses

This painted little maid,

But she hides her hurts behind a smile

And faces the world unafraid;

Little she minds what the world says

Or the “goody girls’” caustic quips,

She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes”

My girl with the painted lips.

* * *

Two young men were riding on a street car which I chanced to squeeze onto with some 249 other adults.

“I took my first drink last night, Algernon,” said one of the pair.

“Did you, Clarence? Honestly, where did you get it?” queried the other.

“Down at a near beer parlor. It was real near beer, too, with one-half of one per cent alcohol and everything.”

“I’ve been drinking, too,” said the other; “I had two whole glasses of near beer the other night. I was going to a party, you know, and wanted to get plenty of pep.”

“Did you drink your near beer straight, or did you dilute it with water?” asked Clarence.

“I drank it straight. I wanted to get the full kick. Straight, you know, with a coupla chasers.”

“I certainly went crazy after I took that drink, though. I thought I was going to try to sing at first,” said Clarence.

“I hope none of my friends saw the way I acted after I took that near beer the other night,” Algernon put in. “I went batty right away. I started telling all sorts of funny jokes and laughing ridiculously. Went to see my girl immediately after, and she said she could tell I had been drinking after I told her. She promised not to tell it, though.”

The two young men got off the car about this time, and a grizzled old dog sitting in front of me bit theneck off a bottle of turpentine he carried and drank the contents of the bottle. “I heard that pair talking,” he said.

* * *

A young colored couple were sitting at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. Henry was holding Mandy’s hand.

“Henry,” said Mandy, “Does you-all know why dey has such small lights on de Statue o’ Liberty?”

“Ah dunno,” replied the Ethiopian swain, “unless it’s because de less light, de mo’ liberty.”

* * *

Ashes to ashes,And fire to fire;He’s a weak old man,She’s a foxy vampire.

Ashes to ashes,

And fire to fire;

He’s a weak old man,

She’s a foxy vampire.

* * *

“What am de matter, Rastus? Ketch cold?”

“Yeah, purty bad, too.”

“How come?”

“Ya know, I put mah bed out in de yard, and doggone if Ah didn’t go to bed las’ night wiff de gate open.”

* * *

The head that is loaded with wisdom doesn’t leak at the mouth.

* * *

Debt is a trap which a man sets and baits for him self and then deliberately falls into.

Arthur Neale’s Page

I wish to assure the readers of Captain William’s Whiz Bang that what we stand for is one country, one flag, one language and one-piece bathing suits.

* * *

’Cause what looks so cuteAs a nice bathing suit—Provided inside itThe girl is a beaut?

’Cause what looks so cute

As a nice bathing suit—

Provided inside it

The girl is a beaut?

* * *

We notice the Very Rev. “Golightly” Morrill says: “At Puerto Cabello one goes in swimming au natural. The guide-book says: ‘The natural beauties of the place are charming.’” That settles it! Puerto Cabello is where we spend the vacation!

* * *

We heard someone say: “I do admire Art”;We blushed as we thought of our striving,But the next thing they said was a stab to the heart.’Twas: “Look! She’s so graceful when diving.”

We heard someone say: “I do admire Art”;

We blushed as we thought of our striving,

But the next thing they said was a stab to the heart.

’Twas: “Look! She’s so graceful when diving.”

* * *

Every year the bathing regulations grow stricter. If Gus, the hired man, read the ones for Coney Islandthis year we think he’d say they wear more in the sea than they do on the sidewalk.

* * *

Miss Venus, as perhaps you know,Had lost her pair of arms;It didn’t matter to her beau,The gal had other charms.

Miss Venus, as perhaps you know,

Had lost her pair of arms;

It didn’t matter to her beau,

The gal had other charms.

* * *

As the refined woman single in vaudeville said: “I may be no riot—but thank God, I’m satisfied.”

* * *

Our friends in the song-writing game will be interested to learn that we are now at work on a snappy little one-step entitled: “When Adam Said ‘Eve, You’re a Naughty Little Girl.’ She said: ‘Well, I don’t care A dam.’”

* * *

“O Fadder, give thy servant this mornin’ de eye of de eagle and de wisdom of de owl; connect his soul with de gospel telephone in de central skies; ’luminate his brow with de sun of heaben; pizen his mind with love for de people; turpentine his ’magination; grease his lips with ’possum oil; power; ’lectrify his brain with de lightnin’ of de loosen his tongue with de sledge hammer of thy word; put ’petual motion in his ahms; fill him plum’ full of de dynamite of thy glory; ’noint him all over with de kerosene oil of thy salvation, and sot him on the fire. Amen!”

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