“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection; suffer not woman to think or usurp authority over man, for Adam was formed first, not Eve.“For a man indeed ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man. For the man is not of the woman but woman of the man. Neither was the man created for the woman, but the woman for the man. Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord, for the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church.“When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the Lord Thy God hast delivered into thine hands, and thou hast taken them captive, and hast seen among the captives a beautiful woman and hast a desire unto her that thou wouldst have her for thy wife, then thou shalt bring her home to thy house, and she shall shave her head, and pare her nails.”
“Let the woman learn in silence with all subjection; suffer not woman to think or usurp authority over man, for Adam was formed first, not Eve.
“For a man indeed ought not to cover his head, forasmuch as he is the image and glory of God; but the woman is the glory of man. For the man is not of the woman but woman of the man. Neither was the man created for the woman, but the woman for the man. Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands as unto the Lord, for the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church.
“When thou goest forth to war against thine enemies, and the Lord Thy God hast delivered into thine hands, and thou hast taken them captive, and hast seen among the captives a beautiful woman and hast a desire unto her that thou wouldst have her for thy wife, then thou shalt bring her home to thy house, and she shall shave her head, and pare her nails.”
* * *
They were introduced at 7:15.
By 8:10 they were talking cozily in a movie.
At 9:30 they were regarding each other intimately over the remains of a chicken sandwich.
At 9:44 they stood wistfully near on the front porch.
Promptly at 9:45 he kissed her.
By 9:50 she kissed him.
At 10:00 with a touch of sadness they parted.
He walked down the steps dejectedly, but upon hearing the door close, he snapped out and walked briskly home and cut another notch in his military brushes.
“How they fall,” he murmured, “probably I am a handsome devil.”
She, sitting before her dressing-table, yawned.
“How they fall,” she sighed; “perhaps I am a sweet and delightful girl.”
And she put his name in a thick little book she had been keeping since she was sixteen!
* * *
A negro woman went into a department store and said to the clerk:
“Mister, can I exchange these stockings?”
“Why, certainly, madam; don’t they come up to your expectations?”
“Lawdy, no; dey hardly come up to ma knees.”
* * *
Little 5-year-old Marjorie was the sunshine of her mother’s heart and on all possible occasions her brightness was paraded before “company.”
It was at a meeting of the Loyal Ladies’ Card club that Marjorie’s mother contrived to “show up” her darling daughter. First she asked the little tot to get Mrs. Jones a drink of water. Marjorie got the water and was thanked for it. She was then asked to get Mrs. Smith a drink. She complied and again was thanked. She went through the same procedure for four more ladies. After the last one had drank, the mother proudly asked little Marjorie to bring in a drink for her before going out to play.
In a few moments Marjorie returned, but without water for mother.
“Muvver, I tant det any more water,” she childishly lisped.
“Why not, my child, surely you’ll get your mother a drink?”
“I tant, muvver, the water’s all don and I tant weach the chain.”
* * *
A Holyoke, Mass., lunch room displays over the counter a large sign which reads as follows:
Don’t make fun of our coffee. You may be old and weak yourself some day. Use one helping of sugar and stir like hell. We don’t mind the noise.
Don’t make fun of our coffee. You may be old and weak yourself some day. Use one helping of sugar and stir like hell. We don’t mind the noise.
* * *
The other evening a swell appearing young couple asked if they might leave an automobile cushion at the Whiz Bang farm while they hiked to Robbinsdale to report the theft of their motor car. I said “Sure,” and I still have the cushion.
* * *
The policeman watched the man creep slowly out of the saloon. Hastily he approached the unfortunate culprit:
“I just saw you come out of that saloon!”
“Sh’ever see me before?”
“No!”
“Then how ’djou know it was me?”
* * *
Are you acquainted with Olive Oil?
Very well, indeed.
Well, I’m her brother, Castor.
* * *
The famous race horse, Man o’ War, receives more personal attention than any being, human or otherwise, since Cleopatra. He has a retinue of servants and is housed more expensively than the Gaekwar of Baroda or the Jhilwar of Jhock.
* * *
Love isn’t blind—just near-sighted.
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
Did you ever feel embarrassed? We did, the other day when the boss cow, Ethelbert, kicked over our bucket at milking time and ripped our trousers in front of the chickens. Write to us about your embarrassed moments and let’s console each other. For instance, Gus, our hired man, was in Minneapolis the other day getting his usual supply of moonshine and was riding on the street car to the depot.
“I noticed a girl sitting across the aisle that I had met while in swimming at Lake Minnetonka last summer,” said Gus when he got home, “I had not seen her since until then. I tipped my cap and said ‘Hello! How are you?’” and for a minute she looked at me blankly and then burst out: “Oh, why, hello! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’ Of course this attracted the attention of the passengers and I found it more comfortable by getting off the car at the next stop for another little drink.”
Now, of course, that may have been only Gus’s alibi for coming home intoxicated.
* * *
I had a similar experience myself last time I wasin the city. A girl was telling me how embarrassed she was. “Do you know,” she confided, “I was standing in a doorway fixing my garter when a gust of wind came along and blew the hair from off my right ear. I was so embarrassed, don’t you know.”
* * *
Newspapers tell of a woman who, in order to become a mother, obtained a divorce and married another man for a year, after which she and her child went back to her first husband. This is an exception. Some women, it seems, now are inclined not to trouble with the divorce proposition at all.
* * *
Diogenes grabbed his trusty lantern and hiked from the Presidio of Frisco to the Bronx of Manhattan searching for an honest man. Old Diog was a wise bird; he never even looked for an honest woman.
* * *
He seeks relief in vain who will not follow advice.
We always remember those who have done us a favor when we want another favor done.
Running down other people’s reputation won’t run up your own.
The trouble with the average man is that he seldom increases his average.
Many a “good fellow” is so stingy with his family that he’ll stand between his wife and a show window.
When holding a straight flush it is better to stay in and raise and win than not to have raised at all.
* * *
The pretty manicurist, Louise,Has very many beaus;She calls these fellows, if you please,Her manicurios.
The pretty manicurist, Louise,Has very many beaus;She calls these fellows, if you please,Her manicurios.
The pretty manicurist, Louise,Has very many beaus;She calls these fellows, if you please,Her manicurios.
The pretty manicurist, Louise,
Has very many beaus;
She calls these fellows, if you please,
Her manicurios.
Holding hands is dangerous business. The hand is the lightning conductor of love and lust. The manicurist, like Othello, would find “occupation gone” if hand-holding were practised by men or old women. It is the sex element that usually attracts and holds.
Many modest and decent manicurists go regularly and professionally to the homes of their patients, or are found in office, parlor or barber annex position. Anywhere and everywhere they are pure and true womanly.
People who won’t work with their hands are known by the manicures they keep. Nails are peeled, pared, polished and painted, while the owner’s rough mind lives in the cellar and garret of mental and moral poverty.
Manicuring is a society luxury for men and women who form the polished horde of bores and bored. The world is still deceived with fuss and feathers and people who hide grossness with fair ornament.
The manicure is a necessity for musicians, doctors—and dudes and darlings in society who, beyond the actual care of their body, in food, dress and drink, think their hands were only made to wear gloves, rings, be manicured, held or united in a “good catch” marriage.
The rich are manicured who have money to burn. The idle are manicured who have time to waste. The idiots are manicured who have no idea of the value of time or money. Libertines are manicured who play guilty Fausts to pure and innocent Margarets. Hotel leechers and loafers are manicured who forget mother, sister, wife or sweetheart.
They have no time or money for church or charity, but sit by the hour holding a girl’s hand, looking into her face, trying to fan a spark of passion into their burnt-out cinder body while with hand, foot, eye and tongue they try to make a date.
The word “hand” means to hold or seize and is to man what the claw is to the bird, fin to fish, and hoof to horse. The hand is marvelously made with 27 bones, 8 of which are in the wrist, 5 form the palms, and 14 the bones or phalanges, or fingers. The hand was made for work, as proved by anatomy and Scripture—“Go to work”; “Work earnestly with both hands”; “Handsome is that handsome does”; and black or white hands are fine which do good work. Angelo carving marble, Raphael painting Madonnas, Shakespeare writing immortal dramas, Beethoven copying heavenly symphonies, Washington drawing his sword for liberty, and Lincoln penning the Emancipation Proclamation, spent little time or money in manicuring parlors.
Beautiful are the hands of wife, sister, man or friend which have directed, lead and lifted us by pitfall, through marsh and despair to mount the height on which we stand—hands perfumed with prayer, baptizedwith tears, clasped with affection, and generous with charity.
The man ought to be horsewhipped who uses the words “hard,” “homely,” “unmanicured,” of the hands of a father, calloused that they might give daily bread; hands of a mother, blistered and aching for work never done until they are crossed white in the coffin and God gives them rest; baby hands which twine around the trellis of our hearts and are unclasped by Death.
* * *
Another “international marriage” has gone the way of many spectacular predecessors—through the divorce mill.
In this it is hardly noteworthy. Experience and commonsense alike indicate that such unions rarely can be successful. The base allurements of a British title on one side and American gold on the other, are not the sources in which wholesome happiness finds its inspiration.
But in quite another way there is something worth noting in the divorce proceedings through which Consuelo Vanderbilt has freed herself, at last, from the disreputable ninth duke of Marlborough. It is the revelation, through her simple letters, of the true nobility of birth which does not rest upon a “Burke’s Peerage” or an “Almanach de Gotha.”
Miss Vanderbilt married this highly decorated fortune hunter in 1895. Two children were born to them. For their sakes the American wife, with womanly reserve, suffered much indignity during manyyears. Eventually driven to a separation, she still endured in silence, without resort to the unsavory publicity of divorce, reflecting upon her growing sons.
These children came of age last winter. The wife then made a last brave effort toward reconciliation. There was a brief reunion—ending in a disgraceful visit of the 45-year-old duke to Paris with a 25-year-old female companion.
Blood will tell—the plain American kinds and likewise the tainted blue sort that trickles through “noble” veins.
* * *
Noah was building the ark. A gang of “drys” hung around criticizing the job.
“Ever built an ark before?” asked the leader of the gang.
“Nope,” replied Noah, pounding away.
“By what right do you assume that this boat will be a success?” asked the other. “This has always been a dry country and there has never been any need for a so-called ark. What experience have you had with your so-called ark upon which to base so absurd a claim as that it will float? Don’t you know that umbrellas and gaiters have gotten us through the thunderstorms for the last forty years? There can be no hope of success for your so-called ark.”
But Noah kept on building away. Then came the Deluge, and for once in history, the knockers got what was coming to them.
Smokehouse Poetry
Smokehouse Poetry will lead the February issue readers through a variety of red-blooded gems, including, for instance, a bright little jingle from the pen of a new Kipling. His name is Carl M. Higdon and his first offering is “The Shimmy Shaker,” and what it lacks in veteran polish is made up in breezy sway. Such as thus:
She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool;When it comes to shimmy shaking,She’s a shimmy shaking fool.
She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool;When it comes to shimmy shaking,She’s a shimmy shaking fool.
She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool;When it comes to shimmy shaking,She’s a shimmy shaking fool.
She could shimmy on a mountain,
She could shimmy in a pool;
When it comes to shimmy shaking,
She’s a shimmy shaking fool.
Last month we promised to give you a full portion of George R. Sims’ tragic masterpiece, and so here we offer it for your approval.
By George R. Sims.
I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as night.Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;Sped the months, and came a baby—such a blue-eyed baby boy!Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.He was rubbing down the horses—gave them then and there,All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.Annie listened and was tempted—was tempted and she fell,As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,Yellow gold for child and husband—and the woman left them both.Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands andknelt.“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;Why a girl like her—God bless her—’twasn’t likely as her’d restWith her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you seeI can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple downTo the level of a market for the women of the town;And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress laySick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.All the past he had forgiven—all the sorrow and the shame,He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as night.Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;Sped the months, and came a baby—such a blue-eyed baby boy!Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.He was rubbing down the horses—gave them then and there,All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.Annie listened and was tempted—was tempted and she fell,As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,Yellow gold for child and husband—and the woman left them both.Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands andknelt.“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;Why a girl like her—God bless her—’twasn’t likely as her’d restWith her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you seeI can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple downTo the level of a market for the women of the town;And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress laySick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.All the past he had forgiven—all the sorrow and the shame,He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as night.
I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,
Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;
Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,
Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as night.
Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.
In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,
Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;
Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,
He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.
But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;Sped the months, and came a baby—such a blue-eyed baby boy!Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.
But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,
And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;
Sped the months, and came a baby—such a blue-eyed baby boy!
Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.
He was rubbing down the horses—gave them then and there,All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.
He was rubbing down the horses—gave them then and there,
All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;
It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)
That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.
Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.
Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,
He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;
Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,
Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.
Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.
Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,
He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;
Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.
And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.
So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.
So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),
He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;
And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,
And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.
’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.
’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,
’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;
’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,
Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.
Annie listened and was tempted—was tempted and she fell,As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,Yellow gold for child and husband—and the woman left them both.
Annie listened and was tempted—was tempted and she fell,
As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;
She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,
Yellow gold for child and husband—and the woman left them both.
Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands andknelt.
Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”
Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;
She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,
Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and
knelt.
“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;Why a girl like her—God bless her—’twasn’t likely as her’d restWith her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.
“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;
“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;
Why a girl like her—God bless her—’twasn’t likely as her’d rest
With her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.
“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you seeI can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”
“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,
So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;
If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you see
I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”
Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.
Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,
Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;
Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,
Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.
Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.
Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,
For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,
And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.
Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple downTo the level of a market for the women of the town;And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.
Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple down
To the level of a market for the women of the town;
And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,
With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.
Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.
Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.
Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;
Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,
Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.
Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress laySick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.
Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,
Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;
And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress lay
Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.
One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.
One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,
And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;
Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,
And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.
All the past he had forgiven—all the sorrow and the shame,He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.
All the past he had forgiven—all the sorrow and the shame,
He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;
Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,
He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.
In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.
In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,
And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;
Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,
And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.
That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
* * *
By H. H. Bennett
’Twas on a sunny morn in June,The bee had put his pipes a-tuneAnd buzzed his way across a field,The while the birds their love-song spieled.He buzzed and ate full many an hour,Then crawled into a dainty flowerAnd curled himself up for a nap,The same as any drowsy chap.A cow came browsing through the moorAnd towards the little floweret bore;Not knowing that the bee was there,She put it on her bill of fare.So rudely wakened from his doze,His beeship’s fiery temper rose.“Old Cow,” he said, “I’ll sting you deepWhen I have finished up my sleep.”So, cuddling in his darksome den,Eftsoons he went to sleep again.He slumbered on till nearly dawn—When he awoke, the cow had gone.
’Twas on a sunny morn in June,The bee had put his pipes a-tuneAnd buzzed his way across a field,The while the birds their love-song spieled.He buzzed and ate full many an hour,Then crawled into a dainty flowerAnd curled himself up for a nap,The same as any drowsy chap.A cow came browsing through the moorAnd towards the little floweret bore;Not knowing that the bee was there,She put it on her bill of fare.So rudely wakened from his doze,His beeship’s fiery temper rose.“Old Cow,” he said, “I’ll sting you deepWhen I have finished up my sleep.”So, cuddling in his darksome den,Eftsoons he went to sleep again.He slumbered on till nearly dawn—When he awoke, the cow had gone.
’Twas on a sunny morn in June,The bee had put his pipes a-tuneAnd buzzed his way across a field,The while the birds their love-song spieled.
’Twas on a sunny morn in June,
The bee had put his pipes a-tune
And buzzed his way across a field,
The while the birds their love-song spieled.
He buzzed and ate full many an hour,Then crawled into a dainty flowerAnd curled himself up for a nap,The same as any drowsy chap.
He buzzed and ate full many an hour,
Then crawled into a dainty flower
And curled himself up for a nap,
The same as any drowsy chap.
A cow came browsing through the moorAnd towards the little floweret bore;Not knowing that the bee was there,She put it on her bill of fare.
A cow came browsing through the moor
And towards the little floweret bore;
Not knowing that the bee was there,
She put it on her bill of fare.
So rudely wakened from his doze,His beeship’s fiery temper rose.“Old Cow,” he said, “I’ll sting you deepWhen I have finished up my sleep.”
So rudely wakened from his doze,
His beeship’s fiery temper rose.
“Old Cow,” he said, “I’ll sting you deep
When I have finished up my sleep.”
So, cuddling in his darksome den,Eftsoons he went to sleep again.He slumbered on till nearly dawn—When he awoke, the cow had gone.
So, cuddling in his darksome den,
Eftsoons he went to sleep again.
He slumbered on till nearly dawn—
When he awoke, the cow had gone.
* * *
In the December issue we had the original Langdon Smith’s “Evolution”. Now steps forth Lewis Allen with a much more modern expression on the tadpole and fish idea. This is it:
By Lewis Allen.
When you were a tadpole and I was a fishIn the palaeozoic time,’Twas side by side near the ebbing tideWe tangoed through the slime.We skittered with many a caudal flipThrough the maze of each fox-trot step,For we had the craze in those ancient days—To the dance stuff we were hep.Mindless we lived, and mindless we loved,And mindless we passed away—Which all goes to show that long agoOur brains were the brains of today.The world turned on “in the lathe of time”With many a mighty twist.We were normal then, beyond your ken.No watch adorned your wrist!We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,And garbed in the latest style.We coiled at ease, ’neath the dripping trees,Or played with a crocodile.Croaking and blind, with our side-laced feet,Writing a language dumb,Though we had no brains, we had no pains,And that was going some.Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,And happy we went our way,And believe me, kid, when I say we did,Which is more than we do today.And the aeons came, and the aeons fled,And days came with the nights,To our surprise, we all had eyes,So we took in the sights.Then light and swift through the jungle treesWe swung from bough to bough,Or loafed ’mid the balms of the fronded palms—Wish we could do it now!And Oh! what beautiful years were thoseWhen we learned the use of speech,When our lives were stilled and our senses thrilledAs we chattered with some dear peach!And that was a million years ago;Years that have fled away,Yet here tonight in the glaring lightWe sit in a wild cafe.And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake.Your peroxide hair is great;Though your heart is cold and your age is old,You love to hesitate.Once we howled through the jungle wastes.With a club each won his mate.And she had to work, nor could she shirk,Lest a blow would be her fate.But now we go on our bended kneesTo a girl we would make our wife,And she keeps us broke until we croak—Alas for the modern life!So as we dance at luncheon here,Missing each savory dish,I’m feeling blue, for I wish that youWere a Tadpole and I a Fish!
When you were a tadpole and I was a fishIn the palaeozoic time,’Twas side by side near the ebbing tideWe tangoed through the slime.We skittered with many a caudal flipThrough the maze of each fox-trot step,For we had the craze in those ancient days—To the dance stuff we were hep.Mindless we lived, and mindless we loved,And mindless we passed away—Which all goes to show that long agoOur brains were the brains of today.The world turned on “in the lathe of time”With many a mighty twist.We were normal then, beyond your ken.No watch adorned your wrist!We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,And garbed in the latest style.We coiled at ease, ’neath the dripping trees,Or played with a crocodile.Croaking and blind, with our side-laced feet,Writing a language dumb,Though we had no brains, we had no pains,And that was going some.Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,And happy we went our way,And believe me, kid, when I say we did,Which is more than we do today.And the aeons came, and the aeons fled,And days came with the nights,To our surprise, we all had eyes,So we took in the sights.Then light and swift through the jungle treesWe swung from bough to bough,Or loafed ’mid the balms of the fronded palms—Wish we could do it now!And Oh! what beautiful years were thoseWhen we learned the use of speech,When our lives were stilled and our senses thrilledAs we chattered with some dear peach!And that was a million years ago;Years that have fled away,Yet here tonight in the glaring lightWe sit in a wild cafe.And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake.Your peroxide hair is great;Though your heart is cold and your age is old,You love to hesitate.Once we howled through the jungle wastes.With a club each won his mate.And she had to work, nor could she shirk,Lest a blow would be her fate.But now we go on our bended kneesTo a girl we would make our wife,And she keeps us broke until we croak—Alas for the modern life!So as we dance at luncheon here,Missing each savory dish,I’m feeling blue, for I wish that youWere a Tadpole and I a Fish!
When you were a tadpole and I was a fishIn the palaeozoic time,’Twas side by side near the ebbing tideWe tangoed through the slime.We skittered with many a caudal flipThrough the maze of each fox-trot step,For we had the craze in those ancient days—To the dance stuff we were hep.
When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the palaeozoic time,
’Twas side by side near the ebbing tide
We tangoed through the slime.
We skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the maze of each fox-trot step,
For we had the craze in those ancient days—
To the dance stuff we were hep.
Mindless we lived, and mindless we loved,And mindless we passed away—Which all goes to show that long agoOur brains were the brains of today.The world turned on “in the lathe of time”With many a mighty twist.We were normal then, beyond your ken.No watch adorned your wrist!
Mindless we lived, and mindless we loved,
And mindless we passed away—
Which all goes to show that long ago
Our brains were the brains of today.
The world turned on “in the lathe of time”
With many a mighty twist.
We were normal then, beyond your ken.
No watch adorned your wrist!
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,And garbed in the latest style.We coiled at ease, ’neath the dripping trees,Or played with a crocodile.Croaking and blind, with our side-laced feet,Writing a language dumb,Though we had no brains, we had no pains,And that was going some.
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And garbed in the latest style.
We coiled at ease, ’neath the dripping trees,
Or played with a crocodile.
Croaking and blind, with our side-laced feet,
Writing a language dumb,
Though we had no brains, we had no pains,
And that was going some.
Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,And happy we went our way,And believe me, kid, when I say we did,Which is more than we do today.And the aeons came, and the aeons fled,And days came with the nights,To our surprise, we all had eyes,So we took in the sights.
Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,
And happy we went our way,
And believe me, kid, when I say we did,
Which is more than we do today.
And the aeons came, and the aeons fled,
And days came with the nights,
To our surprise, we all had eyes,
So we took in the sights.
Then light and swift through the jungle treesWe swung from bough to bough,Or loafed ’mid the balms of the fronded palms—Wish we could do it now!And Oh! what beautiful years were thoseWhen we learned the use of speech,When our lives were stilled and our senses thrilledAs we chattered with some dear peach!
Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung from bough to bough,
Or loafed ’mid the balms of the fronded palms—
Wish we could do it now!
And Oh! what beautiful years were those
When we learned the use of speech,
When our lives were stilled and our senses thrilled
As we chattered with some dear peach!
And that was a million years ago;Years that have fled away,Yet here tonight in the glaring lightWe sit in a wild cafe.And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake.Your peroxide hair is great;Though your heart is cold and your age is old,You love to hesitate.
And that was a million years ago;
Years that have fled away,
Yet here tonight in the glaring light
We sit in a wild cafe.
And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake.
Your peroxide hair is great;
Though your heart is cold and your age is old,
You love to hesitate.
Once we howled through the jungle wastes.With a club each won his mate.And she had to work, nor could she shirk,Lest a blow would be her fate.But now we go on our bended kneesTo a girl we would make our wife,And she keeps us broke until we croak—Alas for the modern life!
Once we howled through the jungle wastes.
With a club each won his mate.
And she had to work, nor could she shirk,
Lest a blow would be her fate.
But now we go on our bended knees
To a girl we would make our wife,
And she keeps us broke until we croak—
Alas for the modern life!
So as we dance at luncheon here,Missing each savory dish,I’m feeling blue, for I wish that youWere a Tadpole and I a Fish!
So as we dance at luncheon here,
Missing each savory dish,
I’m feeling blue, for I wish that you
Were a Tadpole and I a Fish!
* * *
(To the Tune of “America.”)
Ova tannas SiamGeeva tannas SiamOva tannasSucha tammas SiamInocan gif fa tamOsucha nas SiamOsucha nas.
Ova tannas SiamGeeva tannas SiamOva tannasSucha tammas SiamInocan gif fa tamOsucha nas SiamOsucha nas.
Ova tannas SiamGeeva tannas SiamOva tannasSucha tammas SiamInocan gif fa tamOsucha nas SiamOsucha nas.
Ova tannas Siam
Geeva tannas Siam
Ova tannas
Sucha tammas Siam
Inocan gif fa tam
Osucha nas Siam
Osucha nas.
* * *
She wouldn’t tell what Santa brought;We hope this don’t sound shocking—But when she got in her brand new car,We saw what she had in her stocking.
She wouldn’t tell what Santa brought;We hope this don’t sound shocking—But when she got in her brand new car,We saw what she had in her stocking.
She wouldn’t tell what Santa brought;We hope this don’t sound shocking—But when she got in her brand new car,We saw what she had in her stocking.
She wouldn’t tell what Santa brought;
We hope this don’t sound shocking—
But when she got in her brand new car,
We saw what she had in her stocking.
* * *
The following poem, written by a dope fiend, is the first of a series he has contributed to this magazine. Although these poems are morbid in character, the editor hopes their lesson will serve as warning to all to “touch not, taste, shoot nor smoke.” This is the author s opening explanation:
I started out wrong when I was a kid,And now my days are blue;Cigarettes, booze, wild women and dope—I’m a wreck at twenty-two.
I started out wrong when I was a kid,And now my days are blue;Cigarettes, booze, wild women and dope—I’m a wreck at twenty-two.
I started out wrong when I was a kid,And now my days are blue;Cigarettes, booze, wild women and dope—I’m a wreck at twenty-two.
I started out wrong when I was a kid,
And now my days are blue;
Cigarettes, booze, wild women and dope—
I’m a wreck at twenty-two.
* * *
By B.T., Los Angeles
As I lie in this room, all hazy with smokeFrom the “dopes” smoking hop and sniffing at coke,My mind wanders back just a short year agoTo the time I first started at hitting the snow.But soon I’ll be dreaming again in my sleepOf my little gray home away ’cross the deep;I’ve thought of dear mother as much as I can,I’ve fought ’gainst the dope and fought like a man.But here as I lie on my dirty old bunkIn the Hong Kong hotel, with my head full of junk,I am hopelessly gone and await the last bellThat will usher me home to the dark depths of hell.There’s a little red devil a-prodding my feet,Begging me gently to fall into sleep;I’m gradually slipping, so here’s my last knell,Because I am under the Chinaman’s spell.
As I lie in this room, all hazy with smokeFrom the “dopes” smoking hop and sniffing at coke,My mind wanders back just a short year agoTo the time I first started at hitting the snow.But soon I’ll be dreaming again in my sleepOf my little gray home away ’cross the deep;I’ve thought of dear mother as much as I can,I’ve fought ’gainst the dope and fought like a man.But here as I lie on my dirty old bunkIn the Hong Kong hotel, with my head full of junk,I am hopelessly gone and await the last bellThat will usher me home to the dark depths of hell.There’s a little red devil a-prodding my feet,Begging me gently to fall into sleep;I’m gradually slipping, so here’s my last knell,Because I am under the Chinaman’s spell.
As I lie in this room, all hazy with smokeFrom the “dopes” smoking hop and sniffing at coke,My mind wanders back just a short year agoTo the time I first started at hitting the snow.
As I lie in this room, all hazy with smoke
From the “dopes” smoking hop and sniffing at coke,
My mind wanders back just a short year ago
To the time I first started at hitting the snow.
But soon I’ll be dreaming again in my sleepOf my little gray home away ’cross the deep;I’ve thought of dear mother as much as I can,I’ve fought ’gainst the dope and fought like a man.
But soon I’ll be dreaming again in my sleep
Of my little gray home away ’cross the deep;
I’ve thought of dear mother as much as I can,
I’ve fought ’gainst the dope and fought like a man.
But here as I lie on my dirty old bunkIn the Hong Kong hotel, with my head full of junk,I am hopelessly gone and await the last bellThat will usher me home to the dark depths of hell.
But here as I lie on my dirty old bunk
In the Hong Kong hotel, with my head full of junk,
I am hopelessly gone and await the last bell
That will usher me home to the dark depths of hell.
There’s a little red devil a-prodding my feet,Begging me gently to fall into sleep;I’m gradually slipping, so here’s my last knell,Because I am under the Chinaman’s spell.
There’s a little red devil a-prodding my feet,
Begging me gently to fall into sleep;
I’m gradually slipping, so here’s my last knell,
Because I am under the Chinaman’s spell.
* * *
I had a flower garden,But my love for it is dead,’Cause I found a bachelor’s buttonIn my black-eyed susans’ bed.
I had a flower garden,But my love for it is dead,’Cause I found a bachelor’s buttonIn my black-eyed susans’ bed.
I had a flower garden,But my love for it is dead,’Cause I found a bachelor’s buttonIn my black-eyed susans’ bed.
I had a flower garden,
But my love for it is dead,
’Cause I found a bachelor’s button
In my black-eyed susans’ bed.
* * *
When old Bill Shakespeare outlined his tale for “The Merry Wives of Windsor,” he certainly used extraordinary judgment in peering into the future. His fifth act and fifth scene are almost a duplicate of present life in New York City—that grand village by the sea, where red neckties sell at a premium and moonshine lights the bright Broadway. Here are just four lines that tell a story in themselves:
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die;I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.Fairies, black, grey, green and white,You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die;I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.Fairies, black, grey, green and white,You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die;I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.Fairies, black, grey, green and white,You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die;
I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.
Fairies, black, grey, green and white,
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
* * *
(First Convulsion.)Her death was so sudden,Her death was so sad,She gave up her life,’Twas all that she had.(Second Convulsion.)She now lies sleeping silentlyBeneath a willow bough;There’s always something stirringWhen a freight train meets a cow.
(First Convulsion.)Her death was so sudden,Her death was so sad,She gave up her life,’Twas all that she had.(Second Convulsion.)She now lies sleeping silentlyBeneath a willow bough;There’s always something stirringWhen a freight train meets a cow.
(First Convulsion.)
(First Convulsion.)
Her death was so sudden,Her death was so sad,She gave up her life,’Twas all that she had.
Her death was so sudden,
Her death was so sad,
She gave up her life,
’Twas all that she had.
(Second Convulsion.)
(Second Convulsion.)
She now lies sleeping silentlyBeneath a willow bough;There’s always something stirringWhen a freight train meets a cow.
She now lies sleeping silently
Beneath a willow bough;
There’s always something stirring
When a freight train meets a cow.
* * *
(Serenade of a Whiz Bang Hen.)
I don’t need you in the morning,I don’t need you in the night,I don’t need you when I’m hungry,I don’t need you when I fight;I don’t need you when I’m lonely,I don’t need you when I’m blue—But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs,That’s when I need you.
I don’t need you in the morning,I don’t need you in the night,I don’t need you when I’m hungry,I don’t need you when I fight;I don’t need you when I’m lonely,I don’t need you when I’m blue—But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs,That’s when I need you.
I don’t need you in the morning,I don’t need you in the night,I don’t need you when I’m hungry,I don’t need you when I fight;I don’t need you when I’m lonely,I don’t need you when I’m blue—But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs,That’s when I need you.
I don’t need you in the morning,
I don’t need you in the night,
I don’t need you when I’m hungry,
I don’t need you when I fight;
I don’t need you when I’m lonely,
I don’t need you when I’m blue—
But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs,
That’s when I need you.
* * *
If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing.If you like him, or you love him, tell him now;Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes orationAnd he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it,He won’t know how many tear-drops you have shed.If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,And the hearty, warm approval of a friend,For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver,And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it—Let the words of true encouragement be said.Do not wait till life is over, and he’s underneath the clover,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing.If you like him, or you love him, tell him now;Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes orationAnd he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it,He won’t know how many tear-drops you have shed.If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,And the hearty, warm approval of a friend,For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver,And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it—Let the words of true encouragement be said.Do not wait till life is over, and he’s underneath the clover,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing.If you like him, or you love him, tell him now;Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes orationAnd he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it,He won’t know how many tear-drops you have shed.If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing.
If you like him, or you love him, tell him now;
Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration
And he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;
For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it,
He won’t know how many tear-drops you have shed.
If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,
For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,And the hearty, warm approval of a friend,For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver,And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it—Let the words of true encouragement be said.Do not wait till life is over, and he’s underneath the clover,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,
And the hearty, warm approval of a friend,
For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver,
And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.
If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it—
Let the words of true encouragement be said.
Do not wait till life is over, and he’s underneath the clover,
For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
* * *
By Gabe Caffrey.
I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own,To write them out and flop aboutAs dead as any stone.I’d love to be a physician and have my little nipOh, I want to be a doctor—And sip, and sip, and sip.
I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own,To write them out and flop aboutAs dead as any stone.I’d love to be a physician and have my little nipOh, I want to be a doctor—And sip, and sip, and sip.
I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own,To write them out and flop aboutAs dead as any stone.I’d love to be a physician and have my little nipOh, I want to be a doctor—And sip, and sip, and sip.
I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own,
To write them out and flop about
As dead as any stone.
I’d love to be a physician and have my little nip
Oh, I want to be a doctor—
And sip, and sip, and sip.
* * *
Gone are the days when we got beer in a can,Gone are the days before we got the ban,Gone are the days when we were a highball fan;I hear the angels sadly calling, “Come, dry man.”(Chorus.)I’m coming, I’m coming,And I have the ready dough;I hear those dominoes a-calling,“Come on, Joe.”
Gone are the days when we got beer in a can,Gone are the days before we got the ban,Gone are the days when we were a highball fan;I hear the angels sadly calling, “Come, dry man.”(Chorus.)I’m coming, I’m coming,And I have the ready dough;I hear those dominoes a-calling,“Come on, Joe.”
Gone are the days when we got beer in a can,Gone are the days before we got the ban,Gone are the days when we were a highball fan;I hear the angels sadly calling, “Come, dry man.”
Gone are the days when we got beer in a can,
Gone are the days before we got the ban,
Gone are the days when we were a highball fan;
I hear the angels sadly calling, “Come, dry man.”
(Chorus.)I’m coming, I’m coming,And I have the ready dough;I hear those dominoes a-calling,“Come on, Joe.”
(Chorus.)
I’m coming, I’m coming,
And I have the ready dough;
I hear those dominoes a-calling,
“Come on, Joe.”
* * *
We were crowded in the cellar,Not a soul would dare to sleep,It was midnight in the barroomAnd Old Joe lay in a heap.As we huddled there in darkness,Each one seeing snakes and bears,“They’re all drunk,” the barkeep shouted,As he staggered down the stairs.But his little barmaid whispered,Passing him a quart of gin:“There’s a ‘copper’ at the back door,Should I let the ‘cuckoo’ in?”
We were crowded in the cellar,Not a soul would dare to sleep,It was midnight in the barroomAnd Old Joe lay in a heap.As we huddled there in darkness,Each one seeing snakes and bears,“They’re all drunk,” the barkeep shouted,As he staggered down the stairs.But his little barmaid whispered,Passing him a quart of gin:“There’s a ‘copper’ at the back door,Should I let the ‘cuckoo’ in?”
We were crowded in the cellar,Not a soul would dare to sleep,It was midnight in the barroomAnd Old Joe lay in a heap.
We were crowded in the cellar,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,
It was midnight in the barroom
And Old Joe lay in a heap.
As we huddled there in darkness,Each one seeing snakes and bears,“They’re all drunk,” the barkeep shouted,As he staggered down the stairs.
As we huddled there in darkness,
Each one seeing snakes and bears,
“They’re all drunk,” the barkeep shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little barmaid whispered,Passing him a quart of gin:“There’s a ‘copper’ at the back door,Should I let the ‘cuckoo’ in?”
But his little barmaid whispered,
Passing him a quart of gin:
“There’s a ‘copper’ at the back door,
Should I let the ‘cuckoo’ in?”
* * *
By Billy Bea
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?Or a key for a lock of his hair?Or can his eyes be an academyBecause there are pupils there?In the crown of his head, what gems are found?Who travels the bridge of his nose?Does the calf of his leg get hungry at timesAnd devour the corn on his toes?Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail?Where’s the shade from the palm of his hand?How does he sharpen his shoulder blades?I’m tammed if I understand.
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?Or a key for a lock of his hair?Or can his eyes be an academyBecause there are pupils there?In the crown of his head, what gems are found?Who travels the bridge of his nose?Does the calf of his leg get hungry at timesAnd devour the corn on his toes?Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail?Where’s the shade from the palm of his hand?How does he sharpen his shoulder blades?I’m tammed if I understand.
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?Or a key for a lock of his hair?Or can his eyes be an academyBecause there are pupils there?In the crown of his head, what gems are found?Who travels the bridge of his nose?Does the calf of his leg get hungry at timesAnd devour the corn on his toes?Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail?Where’s the shade from the palm of his hand?How does he sharpen his shoulder blades?I’m tammed if I understand.
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?
Or a key for a lock of his hair?
Or can his eyes be an academy
Because there are pupils there?
In the crown of his head, what gems are found?
Who travels the bridge of his nose?
Does the calf of his leg get hungry at times
And devour the corn on his toes?
Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail?
Where’s the shade from the palm of his hand?
How does he sharpen his shoulder blades?
I’m tammed if I understand.
* * *
Then give us the dances of days long gone by,With plenty of clothes and steps not so high;Oust turkey-trot capers and buttermilk glides,The hurdy-gurd twist and the wiggle-tail slide.Then let us feast our tired optics once moreOn a genuine woman as sweet as of yore;Yes, Time, please turn backward and grant our requestFor God’s richest blessing—but not one undressed.
Then give us the dances of days long gone by,With plenty of clothes and steps not so high;Oust turkey-trot capers and buttermilk glides,The hurdy-gurd twist and the wiggle-tail slide.Then let us feast our tired optics once moreOn a genuine woman as sweet as of yore;Yes, Time, please turn backward and grant our requestFor God’s richest blessing—but not one undressed.
Then give us the dances of days long gone by,With plenty of clothes and steps not so high;Oust turkey-trot capers and buttermilk glides,The hurdy-gurd twist and the wiggle-tail slide.
Then give us the dances of days long gone by,
With plenty of clothes and steps not so high;
Oust turkey-trot capers and buttermilk glides,
The hurdy-gurd twist and the wiggle-tail slide.
Then let us feast our tired optics once moreOn a genuine woman as sweet as of yore;Yes, Time, please turn backward and grant our requestFor God’s richest blessing—but not one undressed.
Then let us feast our tired optics once more
On a genuine woman as sweet as of yore;
Yes, Time, please turn backward and grant our request
For God’s richest blessing—but not one undressed.
Pasture Pot Pourri
Eczema, Oh! Eczema, don’t be so rash.
* * *
My cross-eyed sweetheart became my cockeyed bride.
* * *
Why do the widow’s wiles usually win out against the maiden’s smiles?
* * *
The pure food law doesn’t guarantee “preserved peaches.”
* * *
He asked me if I’d kiss him,I kissed him once or twice,I know I hadn’t ought to,But, my Gawd, he smelled so nice.
He asked me if I’d kiss him,I kissed him once or twice,I know I hadn’t ought to,But, my Gawd, he smelled so nice.
He asked me if I’d kiss him,I kissed him once or twice,I know I hadn’t ought to,But, my Gawd, he smelled so nice.
He asked me if I’d kiss him,
I kissed him once or twice,
I know I hadn’t ought to,
But, my Gawd, he smelled so nice.
* * *
I wish Adam had died with all his ribs in his body.—Nat Goodwin.
What is home without another.—Jack Johnson.
I feel like the end of a misspent life.—Wm. J. Bryan.