* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Kissing causes my heart to flutter violently. What should I do when my sweetheart tries to kiss me?—May Leigh.
Letter flutter.
* * *
Dear Keptin—What is the quickest lunch you ever heard of?—Pholush A. Ginn.
Hasty pudding on a Jewish Fast day.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I have several gentlemen friends whom I would like to give presents to on Christmas. Would you kindly give me a list of suggestions?—Miss Goo C. Lou.
Below are ten suggestions which I think would make gifts appreciated by almost any man:
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—What is a husband?—Little Willie.
Something no respectable woman should be without.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—What is steam?—Talo Pott.
Steam is water gone crazy with the heat.
* * *
Dear Bilious Skipper—I am a bride of two weeks and my husband has broken my heart accusing me of extravagance and failure to economize in the home. I have tried lots of cheap dishes without success. Could yousuggest a few menus which would enable me to make both ends meet?—Worried Marjorie.
Well, Marj, I am not much of an expert at cooking so I have referred your question to Maggie the hired girl. She suggests as a cheap dish, beans, but if you have tried them without success, why not try serving tongue and eggs?
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Can you tell me where moonshine comes from?—Hugo Chaser.
No, that’s a secret still.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I am informed that it is absolutely proper for a lady to shake hands when sitting. If so, has the gentleman the same privilege?—Minnie Haha.
When shaking hands in this glorious land of the free and the home of the Drys, a Gentleman does it standing, a lady has the privilege of shaking sitting down, and a Dog does it standing on three legs.
* * *
Dear Captain—What makes the ocean so blue?—T. N. T.
Because it has to embrace so many objectionable people.
* * *
Dear Bill—Why does a chicken cross the road?—Slim Jim.
Because she sees some fellow over there who looks like easy picking.
* * *
A son of Erin wandered into a revival meeting one night. After listening to the revivalist catalogue the crimes and misdemeanors of which his hearers were guilty and enlarge upon the danger of spending eternity in a warm but insalubrious climate, the poor Irishman felt that he was “hair hung and breeze shaken over hell” as Elder Means said. Soon he was under deep “conviction” and in due time was soundly converted.
A few evenings later he arose to give his “testimony” and said: “Ladies and gintlemen; Oh, Oi beg yer pardon—My Dear Sisters an’ Brothers; you know Oi’m not used to spakin’ in meetin’s like this. But Oi want to tell you that Oi’m glad Oi’m saved. An’ be the way, it took a helluva lot of grace to save me, for Oi was a dom bad man. Oi lied an’ dhrank an’ swore an’ stole an’ gambled an’ did everyt’ing that was low and vile an’ mean. An’ more than that, Oi was a ‘killer’ among the women, as many of the sisters here present kin testify.”
* * *
Danny was a good boy.
Jimmy was not.
Danny said his prayers—“Give us this day our daily bread.”
But Jimmy interrupted—“Strike him for pie, Danny.”
* * *
A man who was walking through a train inadvertently left the door of one of the cars open. A big man sitting in a seat in the middle of the car yelled: “Shut the door, you fool! Were you raised in a barn?”
The man who had left the door open closed it and then, dropping into a seat, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The big man looked somewhat uncomfortable and, rising finally walked up to the weeper and tapped him on the shoulder.
“My friend,” he said, “I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. I just wanted you to close the door.”
The man who was weeping raised his head and grinned. “Old man,” he said, “I am not crying because you hurt my feelings, but because you asked me if I was raised in a barn. The fact is that I was raised in a barn, and every time I hear an ass bray it makes me homesick.”
* * *
“How did you like the banquet last night?”
“Fine. There was a lady at the table across from me who had one of those ‘table line gowns’ on. She looked like Venus.”
“How do you know she had on a gown, then?”
“I dropped my fork.”
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
There are many “Calamity Janes” in the U. S. A. One of their stock cries, just after a crime has been committed is, “If she gets off, she’s going in the movies!”
Let us look at the real facts. Searching the history of the moving picture business, in not a single instance has a murder been starred in pictures.
About seven or eight years ago a wealthy married man in Virginia was shot by his wife (or was it by a girl in the case?)—Beulah Binford—because he had trifled with her affections. The courts proved the man a rotter, and because Beulah was a very young girl, she was released without a prison sentence. Beulah’s heart and life were broken and she wanted to bury herself in her little home town and try to start over again, but she needed money. An unscrupulous promoter from New York who thought he could profit by the notoriety caused by the crime, made her an offer to be starred in pictures. Beulah went to New York. The picture was taken but thepolice closed Madison Square Garden when it was scheduled to show there. Even in those early days of picturedom, movie companies of any standing were bitterly incensed against promoters who wanted to make money by exploiting crime.
The tragic figure in this case was Beulah Binford herself. When the picture failed to bring in receipts she was left alone and penniless in a strange city. She went from studio to studio asking for work, but despite the fact that she was beautiful, no one wanted to take a chance with her. Finally the Republic Film Company, of New York, gave her a job sorting papers in their office. She went through countless hardships in the city. What has become of her, we do not know.
A few years later, in Wisconsin, a boy student killed his sweetheart in a lonely wooded section not far from the state university buildings. The case was never proved to have been premeditated murder and he was not given a prison sentence. A well known New York syndicate writer, a woman went out to Wisconsin and tied up the boy’s services for pictures. She then hastened back to New York to sell the contract for a profit. Every picture company in New York turned down her proposition to star the boy!
After Marie Edwards shot Senator Lyons a year or so ago in California, she visitedall the studios in Los Angeles in an attempt to get into the movies. Not a single position was offered her.
Mrs. Louise Peete, who was recently sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of J. C. Denton at his home in Los Angeles, made overtures to the picture companies during the time she thought she was going to be freed. Not a single studio executive paid the slightest attention to her attempts to be exploited on the screen.
The “son” of Senator New, who brutally killed his sweetheart in Topanga Canyon near Los Angeles about a year ago, also thought he might follow a picture career, but this was cut short when he was sentenced to twenty years in the penitentiary.
Mrs. Marie Bailey, who shot her sweetheart, Clarence Hogan, in Pasadena last December, told all reporters that she was going to be featured in pictures as soon as she was released. Mrs. Bailey had previously played in pictures, but when she was arrested, picture studios all made the notation that she would never again be hired even as an “extra.” Marie has gone “up” for ten years.
The Clara Hamon picture, “Fate,” although already produced, has not been exhibited in the theatres. In the light of the history of past cases has it a chance?
* * *
Burning kisses always go with sparks.
* * *
An authority once established is hard to controvert. That is why it is going to be one heck of a job to knock any kind of a dent into the present Volstead law prohibiting even a smelling acquaintance with wine, beer or regular hard “licker.” Organized minorities vote solidly in politics; the vote of the majority is scattered. There is nothing more easily swayed than popular opinion and popular “passion” with the right kind of propaganda.
I remember when Carpentier, the French fight champ, came across to get his bump on the beak, Gus and I were discussing the antics of the New York society women who “literally” fought with each other for the privilege of kissing him at a garden party. It is the human nature of the female of the specie to kiss the male brute at every opportune occasion, and, under stress of easily aroused emotions, under other conditions as well.
Emotion is a primitive human instinct and if women swarm to kiss a prize fighter in these enlightened days, it is easy to understand how an unorganized majority of males, as well as females, might be moulded by proper propaganda to a conviction that this country will go to the bow wows unless booze of all character and description is kicked into the discard.
We must admit that the prohibition minority did not slip anything over on the majority when it wasn’t looking. First they sneakedinto a few legislatures and then they put it through Congress and had it ratified by their legislatures. The majority found out about it when it was too late. All the majority can do now is to defy the Volstead law and vote down the enforcement provisions of it. Some of them are doing this—while others are becoming Cunard addicts and going to Europe and Havana.
Europe used to be a continent of kings—now it is only America’s corner saloon.
We have never held any particular briefs for Squirrel whisky and other forms of 100 proof “hootch.” But even our former president, Woodrow—what was his name?—Wilson, is strong for wines and beers and we are willing to stack with him on this question, at least. It is going to be a hard job—getting any concessions from the prohibitionists. We believe Gus has the right idea, however, when he says the day of the “bum voyage” to Europe is nearing a close, and that the old familiar sign “Wines, Liquors and Segars” may soon be dusted off and tacked up outside the front door.
* * *
We will now sing that little Nanny-goat song entitled “Mammy.” Also that well known ballad “Just a Japanese Ashcan.”
* * *
The stage contortionist leads a double life.
Smokehouse Poetry
Every once in a while we get regular he-man verse prompted by dreams in some feather bed, but from the pen of Budd L. McKillips, Whiz Bang readers again are to be treated with a poem inspired by real life. In the Winter Annual of the Whiz Bang we reproduced Mr. McKillips’ poem “After the Raid,” inspired while Mr. McKillips, as a newspaper reporter, “covered” story of the raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis. Recently pretty Zelda Crosby, picture scenario writer, of New York, committed suicide in a hotel by drinking poison, as a result of a prominent film magnate spurning her after teaching her the ways of love and folly. This magnate, like many other alleged reformers, has been a leading figure in the movement for purity in pictures. The title of Mr. McKillips poem, written exclusively for the Whiz Bang, is “The Girl From Over ‘There’.” In addition to that poem we are publishing a crackerjack rival to the “Gila Monster Route,” with which Winter Annual readers have fallen in love, called “The Blanket Stiff.”
* * *
Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,And be scattered around and together be laid,And the old and the young and the low and the high,Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant’s affection who proved,The husband that mother and infant who blessed,Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,That withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.For we are the same our fathers have been:We see the same sights our fathers have seen—We drink the same stream and view the same sun,And run the same course our fathers have run.The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;To the life we are clinging they also would cling,But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now,That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,And make in their dwellings a transient abode;Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other like surge upon surge.’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud;Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,And be scattered around and together be laid,And the old and the young and the low and the high,Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant’s affection who proved,The husband that mother and infant who blessed,Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,That withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.For we are the same our fathers have been:We see the same sights our fathers have seen—We drink the same stream and view the same sun,And run the same course our fathers have run.The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;To the life we are clinging they also would cling,But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now,That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,And make in their dwellings a transient abode;Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other like surge upon surge.’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud;Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud,A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
Oh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,And be scattered around and together be laid,And the old and the young and the low and the high,Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
And be scattered around and together be laid,
And the old and the young and the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,The mother that infant’s affection who proved,The husband that mother and infant who blessed,Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each all are away to their dwellings of rest.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,That withers away to let others succeed;So the multitude comes even those we behold,To repeat every tale that has often been told.
So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been:We see the same sights our fathers have seen—We drink the same stream and view the same sun,And run the same course our fathers have run.
For we are the same our fathers have been:
We see the same sights our fathers have seen—
We drink the same stream and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;To the life we are clinging they also would cling,But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling,
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come;They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now,That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,And make in their dwellings a transient abode;Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode;
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,We mingle together in sunshine and rain;And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,Still follow each other like surge upon surge.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud;Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud;
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
* * *
By Hudson Hawley.
(In the Stars and Stripes.)
Standin’ up here on the fire-stepLookin’ ahead in the mist,With a tin hat over your ivoryAnd a rifle clutched in your fist;Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’If the Huns comin’ over tonight—Say, aren’t the things you think of,Enough to give you a fright?Things you ain’t even thought ofFor a couple o’ months or more;Things that ’ull set you laughin’;Things that ’ull make you sore;Things that you saw in the movies,Things that you saw on the street,Things that you’re really proud of,Things that are—not so sweet.Debts that are past collection,Stories you hear and forget,Ball games and birthday parties,Hours of drill in the wet;Headlines, recruitin’ posters,Sunsets way out at sea,Evenings of pay days—golly—It’s a queer thing, this memory!Faces of pals in the home burg,Voices of women folk,Verses you learned in school days,Pop up in the mist and smoke,As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,A standin’ and chilled to the bone,Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’Just thinkin’ there—all alone!When will the war be over?When will the gang break through?What will the U. S. look like?What will there be to do?Where will the Boshes be then?Who will have married Nell?When’s that relief a-comin’ up?Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
Standin’ up here on the fire-stepLookin’ ahead in the mist,With a tin hat over your ivoryAnd a rifle clutched in your fist;Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’If the Huns comin’ over tonight—Say, aren’t the things you think of,Enough to give you a fright?Things you ain’t even thought ofFor a couple o’ months or more;Things that ’ull set you laughin’;Things that ’ull make you sore;Things that you saw in the movies,Things that you saw on the street,Things that you’re really proud of,Things that are—not so sweet.Debts that are past collection,Stories you hear and forget,Ball games and birthday parties,Hours of drill in the wet;Headlines, recruitin’ posters,Sunsets way out at sea,Evenings of pay days—golly—It’s a queer thing, this memory!Faces of pals in the home burg,Voices of women folk,Verses you learned in school days,Pop up in the mist and smoke,As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,A standin’ and chilled to the bone,Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’Just thinkin’ there—all alone!When will the war be over?When will the gang break through?What will the U. S. look like?What will there be to do?Where will the Boshes be then?Who will have married Nell?When’s that relief a-comin’ up?Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
Standin’ up here on the fire-stepLookin’ ahead in the mist,With a tin hat over your ivoryAnd a rifle clutched in your fist;Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’If the Huns comin’ over tonight—Say, aren’t the things you think of,Enough to give you a fright?
Standin’ up here on the fire-step
Lookin’ ahead in the mist,
With a tin hat over your ivory
And a rifle clutched in your fist;
Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’
If the Huns comin’ over tonight—
Say, aren’t the things you think of,
Enough to give you a fright?
Things you ain’t even thought ofFor a couple o’ months or more;Things that ’ull set you laughin’;Things that ’ull make you sore;Things that you saw in the movies,Things that you saw on the street,Things that you’re really proud of,Things that are—not so sweet.
Things you ain’t even thought of
For a couple o’ months or more;
Things that ’ull set you laughin’;
Things that ’ull make you sore;
Things that you saw in the movies,
Things that you saw on the street,
Things that you’re really proud of,
Things that are—not so sweet.
Debts that are past collection,Stories you hear and forget,Ball games and birthday parties,Hours of drill in the wet;Headlines, recruitin’ posters,Sunsets way out at sea,Evenings of pay days—golly—It’s a queer thing, this memory!
Debts that are past collection,
Stories you hear and forget,
Ball games and birthday parties,
Hours of drill in the wet;
Headlines, recruitin’ posters,
Sunsets way out at sea,
Evenings of pay days—golly—
It’s a queer thing, this memory!
Faces of pals in the home burg,Voices of women folk,Verses you learned in school days,Pop up in the mist and smoke,As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,A standin’ and chilled to the bone,Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’Just thinkin’ there—all alone!
Faces of pals in the home burg,
Voices of women folk,
Verses you learned in school days,
Pop up in the mist and smoke,
As you stand there grippin’ that rifle,
A standin’ and chilled to the bone,
Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’
Just thinkin’ there—all alone!
When will the war be over?When will the gang break through?What will the U. S. look like?What will there be to do?Where will the Boshes be then?Who will have married Nell?When’s that relief a-comin’ up?Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
When will the war be over?
When will the gang break through?
What will the U. S. look like?
What will there be to do?
Where will the Boshes be then?
Who will have married Nell?
When’s that relief a-comin’ up?
Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell!
* * *
By Dorothy.
Dream girl with your raven hairEyes of brown and dimples tooCan’t you find one day to spareThat I may elope with you?Too many ginks are on your hooksYou trifle right and leftThey toddle round with hungry looksPoor nuts they’re all bereft.Dream girl get your cigarettesAnd I’ll produce the booze,Put the brake on vain regretsAnd let us burn the fuse.Hire a hall or buy a yachtIt’s all the same, Oh! geeBut give me everything you’ve gotIt’s coming straight to ME.Dream girl with your raven hairCome cuddle up and teaseLove me, bite me like a bear,Then kiss me—naughty—please.Make it today and don’t postponeDon’t make your sweetie pout,Dear heart I’m sitting all aloneFor the darned old booze gave out.
Dream girl with your raven hairEyes of brown and dimples tooCan’t you find one day to spareThat I may elope with you?Too many ginks are on your hooksYou trifle right and leftThey toddle round with hungry looksPoor nuts they’re all bereft.Dream girl get your cigarettesAnd I’ll produce the booze,Put the brake on vain regretsAnd let us burn the fuse.Hire a hall or buy a yachtIt’s all the same, Oh! geeBut give me everything you’ve gotIt’s coming straight to ME.Dream girl with your raven hairCome cuddle up and teaseLove me, bite me like a bear,Then kiss me—naughty—please.Make it today and don’t postponeDon’t make your sweetie pout,Dear heart I’m sitting all aloneFor the darned old booze gave out.
Dream girl with your raven hairEyes of brown and dimples tooCan’t you find one day to spareThat I may elope with you?
Dream girl with your raven hair
Eyes of brown and dimples too
Can’t you find one day to spare
That I may elope with you?
Too many ginks are on your hooksYou trifle right and leftThey toddle round with hungry looksPoor nuts they’re all bereft.
Too many ginks are on your hooks
You trifle right and left
They toddle round with hungry looks
Poor nuts they’re all bereft.
Dream girl get your cigarettesAnd I’ll produce the booze,Put the brake on vain regretsAnd let us burn the fuse.
Dream girl get your cigarettes
And I’ll produce the booze,
Put the brake on vain regrets
And let us burn the fuse.
Hire a hall or buy a yachtIt’s all the same, Oh! geeBut give me everything you’ve gotIt’s coming straight to ME.
Hire a hall or buy a yacht
It’s all the same, Oh! gee
But give me everything you’ve got
It’s coming straight to ME.
Dream girl with your raven hairCome cuddle up and teaseLove me, bite me like a bear,Then kiss me—naughty—please.
Dream girl with your raven hair
Come cuddle up and tease
Love me, bite me like a bear,
Then kiss me—naughty—please.
Make it today and don’t postponeDon’t make your sweetie pout,Dear heart I’m sitting all aloneFor the darned old booze gave out.
Make it today and don’t postpone
Don’t make your sweetie pout,
Dear heart I’m sitting all alone
For the darned old booze gave out.
* * *
By Ted Lattourette Hansford.
I have a home I’m not ashamed of,In the land of Gee and Haw,Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocksAnd called it Arkansaw.And I am going back to Flatrock,Where the cornfed people stay,And they make a little moonshineJust to pass the time away.I can see old Hank and Silas,A firing up the drumTo run a drink that’s guaranteedTo put sorrow on the bum.It glistens like the dewdrops,At the dawn of early morn,And you can smell the boys’ feetThat plowed the yaller corn.It fills your heart with gratitude,And keeps you feeling fine,Like everybody was owin’ youAnd you didn’t need a dime.’Tis the land where satisfaction,Peace, love and feuds reside,And the farms they sit up edgeways;You can farm on either side.Where they dance from dark till daylight,Calling swing, and balance all;With the fiddler full o’ pine top,Playing Turkey in The Straw.When you read these lines, yours trulyWill be there for evermore,Wading through the moonshine,Singing Sailor on The Shore.And my address, should you want me,Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw;Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson,In the Land of Gee and Haw.
I have a home I’m not ashamed of,In the land of Gee and Haw,Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocksAnd called it Arkansaw.And I am going back to Flatrock,Where the cornfed people stay,And they make a little moonshineJust to pass the time away.I can see old Hank and Silas,A firing up the drumTo run a drink that’s guaranteedTo put sorrow on the bum.It glistens like the dewdrops,At the dawn of early morn,And you can smell the boys’ feetThat plowed the yaller corn.It fills your heart with gratitude,And keeps you feeling fine,Like everybody was owin’ youAnd you didn’t need a dime.’Tis the land where satisfaction,Peace, love and feuds reside,And the farms they sit up edgeways;You can farm on either side.Where they dance from dark till daylight,Calling swing, and balance all;With the fiddler full o’ pine top,Playing Turkey in The Straw.When you read these lines, yours trulyWill be there for evermore,Wading through the moonshine,Singing Sailor on The Shore.And my address, should you want me,Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw;Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson,In the Land of Gee and Haw.
I have a home I’m not ashamed of,In the land of Gee and Haw,Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocksAnd called it Arkansaw.
I have a home I’m not ashamed of,
In the land of Gee and Haw,
Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocks
And called it Arkansaw.
And I am going back to Flatrock,Where the cornfed people stay,And they make a little moonshineJust to pass the time away.
And I am going back to Flatrock,
Where the cornfed people stay,
And they make a little moonshine
Just to pass the time away.
I can see old Hank and Silas,A firing up the drumTo run a drink that’s guaranteedTo put sorrow on the bum.
I can see old Hank and Silas,
A firing up the drum
To run a drink that’s guaranteed
To put sorrow on the bum.
It glistens like the dewdrops,At the dawn of early morn,And you can smell the boys’ feetThat plowed the yaller corn.
It glistens like the dewdrops,
At the dawn of early morn,
And you can smell the boys’ feet
That plowed the yaller corn.
It fills your heart with gratitude,And keeps you feeling fine,Like everybody was owin’ youAnd you didn’t need a dime.
It fills your heart with gratitude,
And keeps you feeling fine,
Like everybody was owin’ you
And you didn’t need a dime.
’Tis the land where satisfaction,Peace, love and feuds reside,And the farms they sit up edgeways;You can farm on either side.
’Tis the land where satisfaction,
Peace, love and feuds reside,
And the farms they sit up edgeways;
You can farm on either side.
Where they dance from dark till daylight,Calling swing, and balance all;With the fiddler full o’ pine top,Playing Turkey in The Straw.
Where they dance from dark till daylight,
Calling swing, and balance all;
With the fiddler full o’ pine top,
Playing Turkey in The Straw.
When you read these lines, yours trulyWill be there for evermore,Wading through the moonshine,Singing Sailor on The Shore.
When you read these lines, yours truly
Will be there for evermore,
Wading through the moonshine,
Singing Sailor on The Shore.
And my address, should you want me,Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw;Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson,In the Land of Gee and Haw.
And my address, should you want me,
Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw;
Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson,
In the Land of Gee and Haw.
* * *
Ten years on the Islands,And you’re mad;Not a spark of decency—Oh! it’s sad;Can’t recall one sober day,That you’ve had;You’ve let the tropics get you,And you’re bad.Ten years on the Islands,And you fell,Hardly conscious of surrender,To the spell;You’re eaten up with leprosy,Traders tell,You’re a comber of the beaches—Gone to hell.Ten years on the Islands,It’s too long,To preserve one’s sense of right,And of wrong,The tropic’s spell is gentle,But it’s strong,It feeds the soul on lotus,Till it’s gone.
Ten years on the Islands,And you’re mad;Not a spark of decency—Oh! it’s sad;Can’t recall one sober day,That you’ve had;You’ve let the tropics get you,And you’re bad.Ten years on the Islands,And you fell,Hardly conscious of surrender,To the spell;You’re eaten up with leprosy,Traders tell,You’re a comber of the beaches—Gone to hell.Ten years on the Islands,It’s too long,To preserve one’s sense of right,And of wrong,The tropic’s spell is gentle,But it’s strong,It feeds the soul on lotus,Till it’s gone.
Ten years on the Islands,And you’re mad;Not a spark of decency—Oh! it’s sad;Can’t recall one sober day,That you’ve had;You’ve let the tropics get you,And you’re bad.
Ten years on the Islands,
And you’re mad;
Not a spark of decency—
Oh! it’s sad;
Can’t recall one sober day,
That you’ve had;
You’ve let the tropics get you,
And you’re bad.
Ten years on the Islands,And you fell,Hardly conscious of surrender,To the spell;You’re eaten up with leprosy,Traders tell,You’re a comber of the beaches—Gone to hell.
Ten years on the Islands,
And you fell,
Hardly conscious of surrender,
To the spell;
You’re eaten up with leprosy,
Traders tell,
You’re a comber of the beaches—
Gone to hell.
Ten years on the Islands,It’s too long,To preserve one’s sense of right,And of wrong,The tropic’s spell is gentle,But it’s strong,It feeds the soul on lotus,Till it’s gone.
Ten years on the Islands,
It’s too long,
To preserve one’s sense of right,
And of wrong,
The tropic’s spell is gentle,
But it’s strong,
It feeds the soul on lotus,
Till it’s gone.
* * *
When you are awfully cross to meI pout, and pout, and pout,My lip goes down, my eyes get bigAnd then my tears come out.When you are awfully good to meI smile, and smile, and smile,So if you like sun more than rainTry being good awhile.
When you are awfully cross to meI pout, and pout, and pout,My lip goes down, my eyes get bigAnd then my tears come out.When you are awfully good to meI smile, and smile, and smile,So if you like sun more than rainTry being good awhile.
When you are awfully cross to meI pout, and pout, and pout,My lip goes down, my eyes get bigAnd then my tears come out.
When you are awfully cross to me
I pout, and pout, and pout,
My lip goes down, my eyes get big
And then my tears come out.
When you are awfully good to meI smile, and smile, and smile,So if you like sun more than rainTry being good awhile.
When you are awfully good to me
I smile, and smile, and smile,
So if you like sun more than rain
Try being good awhile.
* * *
“Hang it all, daughter,” exploded old Jenkins. “You can’t marry young Dobbins, I won’t have it. Why he only makes eighteen dollars a week.”
“I know father,” replied the sweet young thing, “but a week passes so quickly when you are fond of each other.”
* * *
It doesn’t extinguish the conflagration in a man’s burning brain when a pretty girl turns her hose on him.
* * *
Smith Dalrymple tells this one: When I was in Bartlesville I went into a lady barber shop to get shaved. That was the first female joint I ever saw. When I went in the barber was sitting on a fellow’s lap.
She jumped up and said, “You’re next.”
I said, “I know it and I know who I am next to.”
She said, “Do you want a close shave?”
I said, “No, I just had one, my wife passed the window and didn’t look in.”
I gave her a quarter, she handed me back ten cents and before I thought where I was I said, “Put it in the piano.”
* * *
We heard a couple talking in the rear of a machine ahead of us. The man sighed, “Oh, dearest, you never have acted this way before. Always you have been cold towards me and now you’re—”
So I put on my brakes and pulled my radiator away from the back of their machine.
* * *
(From the Chicago Tribune)
“She had those wide blue eyes whose expression can be misleading in their infantile pathos; hair fine and shining like gossamer gold; a complexion firm and white, with the barest breath of rose leaf pink on the cheek bones, and the whole of her was small, neat, rounded.”
* * *
The prosy old parson was coming and his hostess carefully drilled her daughter to answer the string of questions he always asked every little girl: (1) “What is your name?” (2) “How old are you?” (3) “Are you a good little girl?” (4) “Do you know where bad little girls go?”
But the little girl was overtrained and when the reverend visitor began by asking her her name, she spilled all the answers at once in a single breath.
“Dorothy, sir; six years old, sir; yes, sir; go to hell, sir.”
* * *
Dear Captain Billy,I am full of regrets,Because the other nightI set out to find the goldAt the end of the rainbow.And all that I saw was“The Gold Diggers.”Ain’t that always the wayIn Boston?
Dear Captain Billy,I am full of regrets,Because the other nightI set out to find the goldAt the end of the rainbow.And all that I saw was“The Gold Diggers.”Ain’t that always the wayIn Boston?
Dear Captain Billy,I am full of regrets,Because the other nightI set out to find the goldAt the end of the rainbow.And all that I saw was“The Gold Diggers.”Ain’t that always the wayIn Boston?
Dear Captain Billy,
I am full of regrets,
Because the other night
I set out to find the gold
At the end of the rainbow.
And all that I saw was
“The Gold Diggers.”
Ain’t that always the way
In Boston?
* * *
“I rise to propose a little toast,” announced the president of the Hay Fever Club.
“What is it?”
“Here’s looking at—choo!”
Hollywood Flirtations
It is rumored around filmland that handsome (?) “Bull” Montana is shortly to be married. Doug Fairbanks, in lowbrow days before he married Mary, used to pal around with “Bull” and other ringside favorites, but ’tis said Mary ruled against Bull as being “declasse.”
* * *
It will be remembered that Viola Dana was a very close friend of Orma Locklear, the famous aviator, who was killed about a year ago. A few months later, she was often seen with Earl Daugherty, also a well known aviator, who maintains one of the finest flying fields in Southern California. Now Earl and Viola are never seen together. What happened, Viola?
* * *
’Tis said on “Elinor Glyn Night” at the Ambassador Cocoanut Grove, our visiting English authoress ate her entire supper without once removing her long white gloves. Those were “great moments” when the olives, corn and asparagus came on! Elinor was again accompanied by that tall, youngishactor, Dana Todd. Hollywood has been undergoing mental confusion all summer as to whether Dana was in love with Gloria Swanson or Elinor or merely a protege protector of both ladies when they took their evenings out.
* * *
Lois Wilson, Lasky star, has a brand new Chicago millionaire beau who seems to be quite serious in his intentions. Mildred Harris, who has also been playing over at the Lasky lot of late, is favoring a millionaire of brunette hue.
* * *
Mabel Normand went off on a farm in Vermont last winter and drank milk until she could again ask her friends how one could lose weight. Just now, a distinguished looking gentleman with gray hair is trotting Mabel about to the dance emporiums.
* * *
Bessie Love is often seen at the cafes, but almost always with “mama.” Lost your hunting license, Bessie?
* * *
The other evening when Clara Kimball Young stepped out with Harry Garson wearing a whole photoplay worth of ermine and diamonds, a very embarrassing thing happened. They danced of course, but in one of those floor jams, Clara suddenly found her lovely head parked on the shoulder of her ex-spouse, Jimmy Young. Gallant to the end,Jimmy appeared not to notice—but when the next dance began, Jimmy sat it out with his partner at one end of the ball-room while Clara feigned weariness at the other end!
* * *
Ruth Renick, film star, is in love with an unknown hero. While horseback riding the other day, she hurt her ankle and went into a drug store for aid. Then she grew faint and fell right over into the arms of a handsome stranger. He vanished when she woke up and that ends the story. Ruth and “we all” are hoping for developments.
* * *
Roy Stewart has been riding horseback of late with Miss Stanley Partridge, a young Los Angeles society girl.
* * *
Walter Morosco and Betty Compson are often seen stepping about together.
* * *
Yes, we admit that this item should have headline position. ’Tis true that Mr. and Mrs. Wallace MacDonald (Doris May), took a second-run honeymoon over at Catalina.
* * *
Bill Desmond and his own wife, Mary McIvor, often step out together and dance together all evening—because they like it. This same state of affairs exists with the Wesley Ruggles and Conrad Nagles as well as in the Bryant Washburn household.
* * *
Evelyn Nesbit, formerly Mrs. Harry K. Thaw, recently caused the arrest of four men on charges of disorderly conduct. She complained they entered the hallway outside of her apartment and that one seized her by the shoulders and made an insulting remark. The complainant said she knew none of the men. At the station house Miss Nesbit said that the men fled in a taxicab when she ran to the street yelling “fire” and calling for the police. The quartet returned later and encountered two policemen.
* * *
The London Post reports the following—
There was fighting in the fo’c’sle; and the aggressor, a hard-faced, hard-fisted sailor man from Rotherhithe, was called upon to explain.
“That square-headed Swede miscalled me,” he bellowed. “He said I was an Irishman, and I’m not. Me mother was a good Mexican lady and me father was two marines from Chatham!”
The explanation cordially accepted.
* * *
One time I got mad at a sassy kid; I said, “There is enough brass in your face to make a large kettle.”
He said “Yes, and there’s enough sap in your head to fill it.”
* * *
Oh to spend “jack” like a Jackass; to have the “hips” of a hippo; the neck of a giraffe; the thirst of a camel and the “jag” of a jaguar.
* * *
She—“What are you thinking about?”
He—“Just what you’re thinking about.”
She—“If you do, I’ll scream.”—Phoenix.
* * *
He—“Hu-nnnh?”
She—“Nu’unnnh.”
He—“Please.”
She—“I told you NO!”
He—“Hu’nnnnnnh?”
She—“Nu’unnnnnnh.”
He—“Huu’n n n n n nh?”
She—“Nu—Unnnnnnn’huh.”
Smack!
* * *
She nestled against the two strong arms that held her. She pressed her flushed cheek against the smooth skin-so near-so tan-so glowing.
“How handsome!” she cried, her eyes noting the fine straight back, the sturdy, well-shaped legs.
“How handsome!” she repeated. “I adore a leather upholstered chair.”
* * *
Ain’t no use of living, nothing gained,Ain’t no use of eating just pain,Ain’t no use of kissing he’ll tell,Ain’t no use of nothing, Oh, well.
Ain’t no use of living, nothing gained,Ain’t no use of eating just pain,Ain’t no use of kissing he’ll tell,Ain’t no use of nothing, Oh, well.
Ain’t no use of living, nothing gained,Ain’t no use of eating just pain,Ain’t no use of kissing he’ll tell,Ain’t no use of nothing, Oh, well.
Ain’t no use of living, nothing gained,
Ain’t no use of eating just pain,
Ain’t no use of kissing he’ll tell,
Ain’t no use of nothing, Oh, well.
* * *
An Englishman bragged that he was once mistaken for Lloyd George. The American boasted that he had been taken for President Wilson.
Paddy said he had them all beat.
“A fellow walked up to me and tapped me on the shoulder and said ‘Great God, is that you?’”
* * *
Lydia Pinkham recently received a love letter from the vegetable compound magnate reading as follows, our correspondents report:
“Do you carrot all for me? My bleeding heart beets for you. My love is as soft as a squash, but as strong as an onion. You are a peach with your radish hair and turnip nose. Your cherry lips and forget-me-not eyes call me. You are the apple of my eye, and if we canteloupe lettuce marry for I am sure we would make a happy pear.”
* * *
“Oh see the darling little cow-lets!”
“Miss, those are not cow-lets, they’re bull-ets.”
Pasture Pot Pourri
The other day a stranger walked up and asked me if I was a doctor. I informed him that I wasn’t, but that I thought I knew where he could get some.
* * *
Some women get red in the face from modesty, some from anger, and some from the druggist.
* * *
She wiggled, she waddled,She leapt and she toddled;She shivered, she quivered, she shook.She rippled, she trippled,She sprang and she skippled—Her dance was “The Song of the Brook.”
She wiggled, she waddled,She leapt and she toddled;She shivered, she quivered, she shook.She rippled, she trippled,She sprang and she skippled—Her dance was “The Song of the Brook.”
She wiggled, she waddled,She leapt and she toddled;She shivered, she quivered, she shook.She rippled, she trippled,She sprang and she skippled—Her dance was “The Song of the Brook.”
She wiggled, she waddled,
She leapt and she toddled;
She shivered, she quivered, she shook.
She rippled, she trippled,
She sprang and she skippled—
Her dance was “The Song of the Brook.”
* * *
“There’s just one Gal in Galveston, but there’s More in Baltimore.”