* * *
THE BATTLE OF GARTER RUN.
* * *
The architect was standing before one of his newly completed creations. Its mistress, plentifully sprinkled with diamonds at eleven in the morning, turned to him and said:
“It’s grand, and I’ve just decided not to employ a landscape gardener. I know just what I want myself. Banked up right against the porch there I want a real thick border—now what is that name? You know; those bright red flowers that look so dressy—yes; now I have it—saliva.”
The architect was staggered for a moment, but soon recovered and came back enthusiastically.
“The very thing,” he agreed. “And right in front a nice row of spitunians.”
* * *
Dark—Going to the dance tonight, Sam?
Darker—Naw, I ain’t got any razor.
* * *
Clancy chuckled.
“What’s the joke?” asked Mooney.
“Sure,” replied Clancy, “Casey bet me ten dollars he could shoot a peanut off my head with a shot gun and oi took him up because oi knew he’d miss it.”
* * *
He wouldn’t supporter, so she stole his suspenders.
Hollywood Flirtations
Little Shannon Day, a Ziegfeld Folly girl, is out west playing in a Lasky picture. Monte Katterjohn, Lasky scenario writer has been seen with Miss Shannon very frequently during the past two years, both in New York and in Hollywood. He went so far as to take her to a formal Authors League Dinner last year and the speeches and the minutes of the meeting and the pleas for unpaid dues were such a tax on Shannon’s mind that she was caught dropping off to sleep many times before the tiresome evening was over. “I can’t see nothing to authors” quotes Shannon as she smoothes a new dress which Mamma Dolly of the famous Dolly Sisters team made for her just before she left New York.
* * *
While Geraldine Farrar stayed in Southern California last month, fulfilling her concert engagements she kept herself much secluded in her bungalow at the Hotel Maryland in Pasadena. Her parents were with her. Many of her former friends in the film colony attempted to see her in vain and it is surmised that Miss Farrar wished to keep toherself until the matter of her pending divorce from Lou Tellegen has either been granted or repatched.
* * *
The weekly calendar of a well known church in Los Angeles printed the following questions soon after the Arbuckle affair spread itself forth in the newspapers:
“What would you do if you were in Mr. Arbuckle’s predicament?”
“Is this a day of judgment for the movies?”
“Was Miss Virginia Rappe of aristocratic blood?”
“How much do we know of Henry Lehrman, the lover of Miss Rappe?”
* * *
Another wedding in the Pickford family is predicted. It is whispered that Lottie Pickford is soon to marry Alan Forrest, popular and handsome young leading man of the films. Lottie Pickford was formerly Mrs. Rupp, wife of a Los Angeles broker, whom she divorced about two years ago.
* * *
He (driving up to the curb)—Hello, little girl, wanta go for a ride?
Sweet Thing—Nothing doing, I’m walking home from one now.
* * *
She—“I wish God had made me a boy.”
He—“He did. I’m he.”
* * *
A stranger, walking along the road, passed an old darkey. He began talking with him and found out that he had known George Washington.
“I suppose you remember when Washington crossed the Delaware?” he asked.
“’Deed, boss, I steered dat boat,” was the reply.
“And do you remember when he took a hack at that cherry tree?”
“’Deed I do,” the darkey replied, “’case I drove that hack myself.”
* * *
Ah’s so tough ah scratches de enamel off de tub when ah takes a bafth.
* * *
“Darling, put your arms around me,Oh, for heaven’s sake!Ain’t you awfully glad you found me?Oh, for heaven’s sake!Am I not your little beauty?Are you not my little cutie?Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie,Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
“Darling, put your arms around me,Oh, for heaven’s sake!Ain’t you awfully glad you found me?Oh, for heaven’s sake!Am I not your little beauty?Are you not my little cutie?Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie,Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
“Darling, put your arms around me,Oh, for heaven’s sake!Ain’t you awfully glad you found me?Oh, for heaven’s sake!Am I not your little beauty?Are you not my little cutie?Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie,Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
“Darling, put your arms around me,
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
Ain’t you awfully glad you found me?
Oh, for heaven’s sake!
Am I not your little beauty?
Are you not my little cutie?
Kiss me, kiss me, Sweet Patootie,
Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
* * *
Thousands of lonely women are staring at faded photographs when they might be kissing the faces of children.
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
Jazz life seems to agree with Americans. We not only live faster than our great- grandparents, but, on the average, we also live eight years longer. So says the Census Bureau.
Some day the centenarian will be the rule, not the exception. That will come as a result of health education, not from eating monkey glands.
A popular song had this refrain: “He may be old, but he’s got young ideas.” That appealed to popular fancy because it caught the subconscious mind, which probably knew what the census now reports:
That marriages of persons beyond fifty years of age are steadily increasing in numbers, already being frequent. Out of 100 American men and women, 80 are married before they reach 45, while 10 take the leap afterward and 10 remain single.
Divorces among those who have passed 45 are also becoming more common. This, however, is not making us a cynical people, for thecensus finds that the majority of divorced people try marriage at least a second time, many making three or four ventures.
Figures—which never lie, though liars often figure—show that the span of life is lengthening during the Jazz Age.
The strain at times gets on our nerves. Frequently one of the contestants howls and goes to pieces. But, on the average, the real effects of the Jazz Age will not show up until our descendants of one hundred years or more hence.
* * *
In Dr. W. A. Evans’ column in the Minneapolis Journal, “A. G. M.” writes, under the heading of the Artistic Sex:“I have a son, seventeen years old, who is and has been for ten years, obsessed with a strange desire. He wants and feels that he ought to be a girl. Ever since he was seven years old, and probably before, although I had never noticed it, he has thought of himself as a girl, acted like one, desired to be regarded as a girl, and has, whenever he could worn girls’ clothing.“His mother and I had a terrific struggle to allow his hair to be cut like a boys’, when he was six or seven years old. He withstood us until he was nearly ten, when, for the sake of peace, he consented to have it bobbed. Up to that time he had worn it in a great mass of curls, away down over his shoulders, regardless of the ridicule of his playmates. He wore his hair bobbed until two years ago, when he finally had it cut after a fashion similar to other boys. This is just one incident, but it may serve to show you something of his frame of mind.“He attended a gymnasium class until he was fourteen, and he invariably wore bloomers and a bow of ribbon in his hair.“In fact, he is far more at home in girls’ clothing than he is in boys’, for he has always insisted on wearing dresses and gowns when in the house. His bedroom is a real girl’s boudoir, with dressing table, powder puff, etc. He has as few boys’ clothes as he can get along with for going out. Playing with dolls was his favorite amusement until he was about thirteen. He is about five feet eleven and one-half inches tall, good looking and possessed of a remarkably good mind. He never has given any signs of mental deficiency, unless you term what I have above described as mental deficiency, or rather insanity. I would be grateful if you would tell me your opinion.”(Dr. Evans’ answer): This is a case of third or intermediate sexism. You will find a fair amount of literature on the subject. Such subjects are not in any sense feeble-minded. In fact, many of them are exceptionally bright. As a rule the stage, music or painting offers the best fields for men and women of this group.
In Dr. W. A. Evans’ column in the Minneapolis Journal, “A. G. M.” writes, under the heading of the Artistic Sex:
“I have a son, seventeen years old, who is and has been for ten years, obsessed with a strange desire. He wants and feels that he ought to be a girl. Ever since he was seven years old, and probably before, although I had never noticed it, he has thought of himself as a girl, acted like one, desired to be regarded as a girl, and has, whenever he could worn girls’ clothing.
“His mother and I had a terrific struggle to allow his hair to be cut like a boys’, when he was six or seven years old. He withstood us until he was nearly ten, when, for the sake of peace, he consented to have it bobbed. Up to that time he had worn it in a great mass of curls, away down over his shoulders, regardless of the ridicule of his playmates. He wore his hair bobbed until two years ago, when he finally had it cut after a fashion similar to other boys. This is just one incident, but it may serve to show you something of his frame of mind.
“He attended a gymnasium class until he was fourteen, and he invariably wore bloomers and a bow of ribbon in his hair.
“In fact, he is far more at home in girls’ clothing than he is in boys’, for he has always insisted on wearing dresses and gowns when in the house. His bedroom is a real girl’s boudoir, with dressing table, powder puff, etc. He has as few boys’ clothes as he can get along with for going out. Playing with dolls was his favorite amusement until he was about thirteen. He is about five feet eleven and one-half inches tall, good looking and possessed of a remarkably good mind. He never has given any signs of mental deficiency, unless you term what I have above described as mental deficiency, or rather insanity. I would be grateful if you would tell me your opinion.”
(Dr. Evans’ answer): This is a case of third or intermediate sexism. You will find a fair amount of literature on the subject. Such subjects are not in any sense feeble-minded. In fact, many of them are exceptionally bright. As a rule the stage, music or painting offers the best fields for men and women of this group.
Wonder what our friends of the theatre think of Dr. Evans’ advice? Probably they would feel the same way as the Army officials felt towards certain chiefs of police who paroled the bums and the crooks on condition they join the Army.
* * *
Never get too intimateWith your friends,They may some dayBe your enemies;Never be too hardOn your enemies,They may some dayBe your friends.
Never get too intimateWith your friends,They may some dayBe your enemies;Never be too hardOn your enemies,They may some dayBe your friends.
Never get too intimateWith your friends,They may some dayBe your enemies;Never be too hardOn your enemies,They may some dayBe your friends.
Never get too intimate
With your friends,
They may some day
Be your enemies;
Never be too hard
On your enemies,
They may some day
Be your friends.
Smokehouse Poetry
Dear folk: We have some dandy stuff in store for you. Among the masters who are writing for Whiz Bang the coming year are J. Eugene Chrisman, author of “Poppies, Hell,” with his “Chi Slim,” “Keyhole Stuff” and others; H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor” with his “Trapper’s Story,” “Charlie Wong” and others; Frank B. Lindeman, the prospector-poet with his ode “To a Mountain Rat” and others; and last but not least, some almost forgotten masterpieces of James Whitcomb Riley, whose “Passing of the Old Smokehouse,” was one of the many hits of our Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22.
* * *
By Gifford and Whitney.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;The Sage-brush seems unreal;My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.Sure wished I had a meal.My feet are growin’ weary;My head is hangin’ low;My eyes are a lookin’ teary.Gawd! But it’s hard to go.There’s two thousand ties to a mile,And fifty more miles to go.I’ve counted those ties with a smile,Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.Now—they seem a mile apart.I can’t help feelin’ cold.Got an achin’ down around my heartI guess—I’m a gettin’—old.Know what the gangs a doin’ now,Way down in Elephant Slough.They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chowHelpin’ themselves tuh stew.I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,But I know it’s dang sight more.My throat is dry—my insides squeak—I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,When bad luck comes my way.I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.The Bo got down on rough worn ties;Lifted his head in prayer,And knelt there pleading to the skies—A whistle sounded through the air.The Hobo heard and tried to rise,Saw the train comin’ fast.His muscles failed—and from the ties,He welcomed this—the last.It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,Sent another bum to Hell.Had I better report on it?I guess I might as well.No, Con, don’t make out no report.Let’s plant him by the steel.The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,And tracks will make it real.The Western trail is a gittin’ black.It’s time we moved along.They buried him beside the track—The hot western wind for the psalm.The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;Clean, just like he’d had a bath.Instead of the ties that held him downHe followed a golden path.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;The Sage-brush seems unreal;My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.Sure wished I had a meal.My feet are growin’ weary;My head is hangin’ low;My eyes are a lookin’ teary.Gawd! But it’s hard to go.There’s two thousand ties to a mile,And fifty more miles to go.I’ve counted those ties with a smile,Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.Now—they seem a mile apart.I can’t help feelin’ cold.Got an achin’ down around my heartI guess—I’m a gettin’—old.Know what the gangs a doin’ now,Way down in Elephant Slough.They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chowHelpin’ themselves tuh stew.I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,But I know it’s dang sight more.My throat is dry—my insides squeak—I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,When bad luck comes my way.I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.The Bo got down on rough worn ties;Lifted his head in prayer,And knelt there pleading to the skies—A whistle sounded through the air.The Hobo heard and tried to rise,Saw the train comin’ fast.His muscles failed—and from the ties,He welcomed this—the last.It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,Sent another bum to Hell.Had I better report on it?I guess I might as well.No, Con, don’t make out no report.Let’s plant him by the steel.The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,And tracks will make it real.The Western trail is a gittin’ black.It’s time we moved along.They buried him beside the track—The hot western wind for the psalm.The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;Clean, just like he’d had a bath.Instead of the ties that held him downHe followed a golden path.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;The Sage-brush seems unreal;My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.Sure wished I had a meal.
The Western trail is a gittin’ dim;
The Sage-brush seems unreal;
My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim.
Sure wished I had a meal.
My feet are growin’ weary;My head is hangin’ low;My eyes are a lookin’ teary.Gawd! But it’s hard to go.
My feet are growin’ weary;
My head is hangin’ low;
My eyes are a lookin’ teary.
Gawd! But it’s hard to go.
There’s two thousand ties to a mile,And fifty more miles to go.I’ve counted those ties with a smile,Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.
There’s two thousand ties to a mile,
And fifty more miles to go.
I’ve counted those ties with a smile,
Keeps time from a goin’ so slow.
Now—they seem a mile apart.I can’t help feelin’ cold.Got an achin’ down around my heartI guess—I’m a gettin’—old.
Now—they seem a mile apart.
I can’t help feelin’ cold.
Got an achin’ down around my heart
I guess—I’m a gettin’—old.
Know what the gangs a doin’ now,Way down in Elephant Slough.They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chowHelpin’ themselves tuh stew.
Know what the gangs a doin’ now,
Way down in Elephant Slough.
They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow
Helpin’ themselves tuh stew.
I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,But I know it’s dang sight more.My throat is dry—my insides squeak—I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.
I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week,
But I know it’s dang sight more.
My throat is dry—my insides squeak—
I’m hungry—clean to th’ core.
I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,When bad luck comes my way.I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.
I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell,
When bad luck comes my way.
I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell.
But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray.
The Bo got down on rough worn ties;Lifted his head in prayer,And knelt there pleading to the skies—A whistle sounded through the air.
The Bo got down on rough worn ties;
Lifted his head in prayer,
And knelt there pleading to the skies—
A whistle sounded through the air.
The Hobo heard and tried to rise,Saw the train comin’ fast.His muscles failed—and from the ties,He welcomed this—the last.
The Hobo heard and tried to rise,
Saw the train comin’ fast.
His muscles failed—and from the ties,
He welcomed this—the last.
It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,Sent another bum to Hell.Had I better report on it?I guess I might as well.
It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit,
Sent another bum to Hell.
Had I better report on it?
I guess I might as well.
No, Con, don’t make out no report.Let’s plant him by the steel.The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,And tracks will make it real.
No, Con, don’t make out no report.
Let’s plant him by the steel.
The Bum’s bound for an unknown port,
And tracks will make it real.
The Western trail is a gittin’ black.It’s time we moved along.They buried him beside the track—The hot western wind for the psalm.
The Western trail is a gittin’ black.
It’s time we moved along.
They buried him beside the track—
The hot western wind for the psalm.
The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;Clean, just like he’d had a bath.Instead of the ties that held him downHe followed a golden path.
The Bo woke up in a nice white gown;
Clean, just like he’d had a bath.
Instead of the ties that held him down
He followed a golden path.
* * *
By Budd L. McKillips
A pistol shot, a darting painLike red-hot needles through her brain,And ere the smoke cleared from the roomAnother soul groped through the gloom.With fleeting glance the policemen cameLooked through her purse, took down her name;Reporters never wondered whyOr reasoned how she came to die.In silent morgue, somber and drab—With folded hands, on sheeted slab—No mourners crowded ’round her bierTo say a prayer or shed a tear.Yet scarce a week before and sheHad smiled and looked on life with gleeDreamed dreams of everlasting blissAnd reveled in her lover’s kiss.His mistress? yes but oft he’d saidHe loved her madly, soon they’d wed;Love-blind she hung on every wordWhile ugly rumors went unheard.Then came the day which like a thiefStole joy and filled her heart with grief;Cursed by the man she called her own,She woke to find her dreams had flown.Tired of his toy he now defamedAnd thrust her from him, unashamed,To find refuge among her kind;Then went to meet his latest find.Black as the night from pole to poleThe world seemed to her aching soul;With heart bowed down and racked with painShe sent a bullet through her brain.In restaurant where bright lights shineA man laughs loud, made gay with wineHe beams on one with youth abloom—The fairest creature in the room.The violins wail and cymbals clash,The dancers whirl and diamonds flash;His heart is light and free of careAs tambos beat and trombones blare.Forgotten is the long ago,The whispered love-words, soft and lowEach word a lie, each kiss a snareFor her long since passed over “there.”Unnoticed by the merry crowdA figure enters clad in shroud,Her ghastly face a lurid glow—The dead girl’s face of long ago.The music stops, unseen she flitsTo where a laughing couple sitsA choking shriek, a gasp for breath—A man lies still and stark in death.A hush falls o’er the crowded roomThere comes a breath as from a tomb—The eyes now set in glassy stareHad seen the face from over “there.”
A pistol shot, a darting painLike red-hot needles through her brain,And ere the smoke cleared from the roomAnother soul groped through the gloom.With fleeting glance the policemen cameLooked through her purse, took down her name;Reporters never wondered whyOr reasoned how she came to die.In silent morgue, somber and drab—With folded hands, on sheeted slab—No mourners crowded ’round her bierTo say a prayer or shed a tear.Yet scarce a week before and sheHad smiled and looked on life with gleeDreamed dreams of everlasting blissAnd reveled in her lover’s kiss.His mistress? yes but oft he’d saidHe loved her madly, soon they’d wed;Love-blind she hung on every wordWhile ugly rumors went unheard.Then came the day which like a thiefStole joy and filled her heart with grief;Cursed by the man she called her own,She woke to find her dreams had flown.Tired of his toy he now defamedAnd thrust her from him, unashamed,To find refuge among her kind;Then went to meet his latest find.Black as the night from pole to poleThe world seemed to her aching soul;With heart bowed down and racked with painShe sent a bullet through her brain.In restaurant where bright lights shineA man laughs loud, made gay with wineHe beams on one with youth abloom—The fairest creature in the room.The violins wail and cymbals clash,The dancers whirl and diamonds flash;His heart is light and free of careAs tambos beat and trombones blare.Forgotten is the long ago,The whispered love-words, soft and lowEach word a lie, each kiss a snareFor her long since passed over “there.”Unnoticed by the merry crowdA figure enters clad in shroud,Her ghastly face a lurid glow—The dead girl’s face of long ago.The music stops, unseen she flitsTo where a laughing couple sitsA choking shriek, a gasp for breath—A man lies still and stark in death.A hush falls o’er the crowded roomThere comes a breath as from a tomb—The eyes now set in glassy stareHad seen the face from over “there.”
A pistol shot, a darting painLike red-hot needles through her brain,And ere the smoke cleared from the roomAnother soul groped through the gloom.
A pistol shot, a darting pain
Like red-hot needles through her brain,
And ere the smoke cleared from the room
Another soul groped through the gloom.
With fleeting glance the policemen cameLooked through her purse, took down her name;Reporters never wondered whyOr reasoned how she came to die.
With fleeting glance the policemen came
Looked through her purse, took down her name;
Reporters never wondered why
Or reasoned how she came to die.
In silent morgue, somber and drab—With folded hands, on sheeted slab—No mourners crowded ’round her bierTo say a prayer or shed a tear.
In silent morgue, somber and drab—
With folded hands, on sheeted slab—
No mourners crowded ’round her bier
To say a prayer or shed a tear.
Yet scarce a week before and sheHad smiled and looked on life with gleeDreamed dreams of everlasting blissAnd reveled in her lover’s kiss.
Yet scarce a week before and she
Had smiled and looked on life with glee
Dreamed dreams of everlasting bliss
And reveled in her lover’s kiss.
His mistress? yes but oft he’d saidHe loved her madly, soon they’d wed;Love-blind she hung on every wordWhile ugly rumors went unheard.
His mistress? yes but oft he’d said
He loved her madly, soon they’d wed;
Love-blind she hung on every word
While ugly rumors went unheard.
Then came the day which like a thiefStole joy and filled her heart with grief;Cursed by the man she called her own,She woke to find her dreams had flown.
Then came the day which like a thief
Stole joy and filled her heart with grief;
Cursed by the man she called her own,
She woke to find her dreams had flown.
Tired of his toy he now defamedAnd thrust her from him, unashamed,To find refuge among her kind;Then went to meet his latest find.
Tired of his toy he now defamed
And thrust her from him, unashamed,
To find refuge among her kind;
Then went to meet his latest find.
Black as the night from pole to poleThe world seemed to her aching soul;With heart bowed down and racked with painShe sent a bullet through her brain.
Black as the night from pole to pole
The world seemed to her aching soul;
With heart bowed down and racked with pain
She sent a bullet through her brain.
In restaurant where bright lights shineA man laughs loud, made gay with wineHe beams on one with youth abloom—The fairest creature in the room.
In restaurant where bright lights shine
A man laughs loud, made gay with wine
He beams on one with youth abloom—
The fairest creature in the room.
The violins wail and cymbals clash,The dancers whirl and diamonds flash;His heart is light and free of careAs tambos beat and trombones blare.
The violins wail and cymbals clash,
The dancers whirl and diamonds flash;
His heart is light and free of care
As tambos beat and trombones blare.
Forgotten is the long ago,The whispered love-words, soft and lowEach word a lie, each kiss a snareFor her long since passed over “there.”
Forgotten is the long ago,
The whispered love-words, soft and low
Each word a lie, each kiss a snare
For her long since passed over “there.”
Unnoticed by the merry crowdA figure enters clad in shroud,Her ghastly face a lurid glow—The dead girl’s face of long ago.
Unnoticed by the merry crowd
A figure enters clad in shroud,
Her ghastly face a lurid glow—
The dead girl’s face of long ago.
The music stops, unseen she flitsTo where a laughing couple sitsA choking shriek, a gasp for breath—A man lies still and stark in death.
The music stops, unseen she flits
To where a laughing couple sits
A choking shriek, a gasp for breath—
A man lies still and stark in death.
A hush falls o’er the crowded roomThere comes a breath as from a tomb—The eyes now set in glassy stareHad seen the face from over “there.”
A hush falls o’er the crowded room
There comes a breath as from a tomb—
The eyes now set in glassy stare
Had seen the face from over “there.”
* * *
By Edward E. Paramore, Jr.
As originally published in Vanity Fair.
Oh the North Countree is a hard countreeThat mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name,In the days of his pious youth,Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist churchBy betraying a girl named Ruth.But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,”The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal,For that is the name that Jacob KaimeIs known by from Nome to the Pole.He was just a boy and the parson’s joy(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hayOn a farm near Keokuk.But a Service tale of illicit kale—And whiskey and women wild—Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureenFrom this poor but honest child.He longed for the bite of a Yukon nightAnd the Northern Light’s weird flicker,Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,And the taste of raw red licker.He wanted to mush along in the slush,With a team of huskie hounds,And to fire his gat at a beaver hatAnd knock it out of bounds.So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores,And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse—Till the rum dripped from his pores,When the boys on a spree were drinking it freeIn a Malamute saloonAnd Dan Megrew and his dangerous crewShot craps with the piebald coon;When the Kid on his stool banged away like a foolAt a jag-time melodyAnd the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd,That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee—Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the nameOf Yukon Jake, the Killer,Would rake the dive with his forty-fiveTill the atmosphere grew chiller.With a sharp command he’d make ’em standAnd deliver their hard-earned dust,Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye,As a Klondike bully must.Without coming to blows he would tweak the noseOf Dangerous Dan Megrew,And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulderThe lady that’s known as Lou.Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake—Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,And drank his rum by the keg.In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)He was shunned by the best of his palsAn outcast he, from the comraderieOf all but wild animals.So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal,A reef in the Bering Sea,And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelfIn lonely iniquity.But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia.,Did a ruined maiden fightTo remove the smirch from the Baptist ChurchBy bringing the heathen Light.And the Elders declared that all would be squaredIf she carried the holy wordsFrom her Keokuk Home to the hell-town NomeTo save those sinful birds.So, two weeks later, she took a freighter,For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed—She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal!All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost—All but the maiden Ruth,Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledgeWhere abode the love of her youth.He was hunting a seal for his evening meal(He handled a mean harpoon)When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,But a girl in a frozen swoon,Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,And he rubbed her knees with gin.To his great surprise, she opened her eyesAnd revealed—his Original Sin!His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weirdAnd it felt like a chestnut burr,And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard,That he’d do right by her.But the cold sweat froze on the end of her noseTill it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,Down the back of the grateful girl.But a hopeless rake was Yukon JakeThe Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!And the dizzy maid he rebetrayedAnd wrecked her immortal soul!Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,And he sold her to Dan MegrewFor a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog—As rascals are wont to do.Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouthWith scarlet cheeks and lips,And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngsThat come from the sealing ships.For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous missThey will give a seal’s sleek fur,Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;It’s much the same to her.Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,That mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born from the Pole to the HornWas the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
Oh the North Countree is a hard countreeThat mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name,In the days of his pious youth,Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist churchBy betraying a girl named Ruth.But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,”The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal,For that is the name that Jacob KaimeIs known by from Nome to the Pole.He was just a boy and the parson’s joy(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hayOn a farm near Keokuk.But a Service tale of illicit kale—And whiskey and women wild—Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureenFrom this poor but honest child.He longed for the bite of a Yukon nightAnd the Northern Light’s weird flicker,Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,And the taste of raw red licker.He wanted to mush along in the slush,With a team of huskie hounds,And to fire his gat at a beaver hatAnd knock it out of bounds.So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores,And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse—Till the rum dripped from his pores,When the boys on a spree were drinking it freeIn a Malamute saloonAnd Dan Megrew and his dangerous crewShot craps with the piebald coon;When the Kid on his stool banged away like a foolAt a jag-time melodyAnd the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd,That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee—Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the nameOf Yukon Jake, the Killer,Would rake the dive with his forty-fiveTill the atmosphere grew chiller.With a sharp command he’d make ’em standAnd deliver their hard-earned dust,Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye,As a Klondike bully must.Without coming to blows he would tweak the noseOf Dangerous Dan Megrew,And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulderThe lady that’s known as Lou.Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake—Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,And drank his rum by the keg.In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)He was shunned by the best of his palsAn outcast he, from the comraderieOf all but wild animals.So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal,A reef in the Bering Sea,And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelfIn lonely iniquity.But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia.,Did a ruined maiden fightTo remove the smirch from the Baptist ChurchBy bringing the heathen Light.And the Elders declared that all would be squaredIf she carried the holy wordsFrom her Keokuk Home to the hell-town NomeTo save those sinful birds.So, two weeks later, she took a freighter,For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed—She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal!All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost—All but the maiden Ruth,Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledgeWhere abode the love of her youth.He was hunting a seal for his evening meal(He handled a mean harpoon)When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,But a girl in a frozen swoon,Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,And he rubbed her knees with gin.To his great surprise, she opened her eyesAnd revealed—his Original Sin!His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weirdAnd it felt like a chestnut burr,And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard,That he’d do right by her.But the cold sweat froze on the end of her noseTill it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,Down the back of the grateful girl.But a hopeless rake was Yukon JakeThe Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!And the dizzy maid he rebetrayedAnd wrecked her immortal soul!Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,And he sold her to Dan MegrewFor a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog—As rascals are wont to do.Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouthWith scarlet cheeks and lips,And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngsThat come from the sealing ships.For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous missThey will give a seal’s sleek fur,Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;It’s much the same to her.Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,That mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born from the Pole to the HornWas the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
Oh the North Countree is a hard countreeThat mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.
Oh the North Countree is a hard countree
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul,
But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,
Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal.
Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name,In the days of his pious youth,Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist churchBy betraying a girl named Ruth.But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,”The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal,For that is the name that Jacob KaimeIs known by from Nome to the Pole.He was just a boy and the parson’s joy
Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name,
In the days of his pious youth,
Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist church
By betraying a girl named Ruth.
But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,”
The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal,
For that is the name that Jacob Kaime
Is known by from Nome to the Pole.
He was just a boy and the parson’s joy
(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hayOn a farm near Keokuk.But a Service tale of illicit kale—And whiskey and women wild—Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureenFrom this poor but honest child.He longed for the bite of a Yukon nightAnd the Northern Light’s weird flicker,Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,And the taste of raw red licker.He wanted to mush along in the slush,With a team of huskie hounds,And to fire his gat at a beaver hatAnd knock it out of bounds.
(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),
And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay
On a farm near Keokuk.
But a Service tale of illicit kale—
And whiskey and women wild—
Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureen
From this poor but honest child.
He longed for the bite of a Yukon night
And the Northern Light’s weird flicker,
Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,
And the taste of raw red licker.
He wanted to mush along in the slush,
With a team of huskie hounds,
And to fire his gat at a beaver hat
And knock it out of bounds.
So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores,And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse—Till the rum dripped from his pores,When the boys on a spree were drinking it freeIn a Malamute saloonAnd Dan Megrew and his dangerous crewShot craps with the piebald coon;When the Kid on his stool banged away like a foolAt a jag-time melodyAnd the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd,That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee—
So he left his home for the hell-town Nome,
On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores,
And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse—
Till the rum dripped from his pores,
When the boys on a spree were drinking it free
In a Malamute saloon
And Dan Megrew and his dangerous crew
Shot craps with the piebald coon;
When the Kid on his stool banged away like a fool
At a jag-time melody
And the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd,
That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee—
Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the nameOf Yukon Jake, the Killer,Would rake the dive with his forty-fiveTill the atmosphere grew chiller.With a sharp command he’d make ’em standAnd deliver their hard-earned dust,Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye,As a Klondike bully must.Without coming to blows he would tweak the noseOf Dangerous Dan Megrew,And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulderThe lady that’s known as Lou.Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake—Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,And drank his rum by the keg.In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)He was shunned by the best of his palsAn outcast he, from the comraderieOf all but wild animals.So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal,A reef in the Bering Sea,And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelfIn lonely iniquity.
Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name
Of Yukon Jake, the Killer,
Would rake the dive with his forty-five
Till the atmosphere grew chiller.
With a sharp command he’d make ’em stand
And deliver their hard-earned dust,
Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye,
As a Klondike bully must.
Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose
Of Dangerous Dan Megrew,
And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder
The lady that’s known as Lou.
Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake—
Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.
He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,
And drank his rum by the keg.
In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)
He was shunned by the best of his pals
An outcast he, from the comraderie
Of all but wild animals.
So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal,
A reef in the Bering Sea,
And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelf
In lonely iniquity.
But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia.,Did a ruined maiden fightTo remove the smirch from the Baptist ChurchBy bringing the heathen Light.And the Elders declared that all would be squaredIf she carried the holy wordsFrom her Keokuk Home to the hell-town NomeTo save those sinful birds.So, two weeks later, she took a freighter,For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed—She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal!
But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia.,
Did a ruined maiden fight
To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church
By bringing the heathen Light.
And the Elders declared that all would be squared
If she carried the holy words
From her Keokuk Home to the hell-town Nome
To save those sinful birds.
So, two weeks later, she took a freighter,
For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,
But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed—
She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal!
All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost—All but the maiden Ruth,Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledgeWhere abode the love of her youth.He was hunting a seal for his evening meal(He handled a mean harpoon)When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,But a girl in a frozen swoon,Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,And he rubbed her knees with gin.To his great surprise, she opened her eyesAnd revealed—his Original Sin!
All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost—
All but the maiden Ruth,
Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledge
Where abode the love of her youth.
He was hunting a seal for his evening meal
(He handled a mean harpoon)
When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,
But a girl in a frozen swoon,
Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,
And he rubbed her knees with gin.
To his great surprise, she opened her eyes
And revealed—his Original Sin!
His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weirdAnd it felt like a chestnut burr,And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard,That he’d do right by her.But the cold sweat froze on the end of her noseTill it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,Down the back of the grateful girl.But a hopeless rake was Yukon JakeThe Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!And the dizzy maid he rebetrayedAnd wrecked her immortal soul!Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,And he sold her to Dan MegrewFor a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog—As rascals are wont to do.Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouthWith scarlet cheeks and lips,And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngsThat come from the sealing ships.For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous missThey will give a seal’s sleek fur,Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;It’s much the same to her.
His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weird
And it felt like a chestnut burr,
And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard,
That he’d do right by her.
But the cold sweat froze on the end of her nose
Till it gleamed like a Teckla pearl,
While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,
Down the back of the grateful girl.
But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake
The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
And the dizzy maid he rebetrayed
And wrecked her immortal soul!
Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar,
And he sold her to Dan Megrew
For a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog—
As rascals are wont to do.
Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth
With scarlet cheeks and lips,
And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs
That come from the sealing ships.
For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss
They will give a seal’s sleek fur,
Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;
It’s much the same to her.
Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,That mothers a bloody brood;And its icy arms hold hidden charmsFor the greedy, the sinful and lewd.And strong men rust, from the gold and the lustThat sears the Northland soul,But the wickedest born from the Pole to the HornWas the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul,
But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn
Was the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal!
* * *
A mud-spattered dough-boy slouched into the ‘Y’ hut where an entertainment was in progress and slumped into a front seat.
Firm, kindly, and efficient, a Y. M. C. A. man approached him, saying: “Sorry, buddy, but the entire front section is reserved for officers.”
Wearily the youth rose.
“All right,” he drawled, “but the one I just got back from wasn’t.”
* * *
On our recent visit in Los Angeles we became contaminated with Ham Beall’s filosophy. (Note to the boys: This was written just before Ham went on the wagon.)
He is not drunk who from the floor,Can rise again and drink once more;But he is drunk who prostrate lies,And cannot either drink or rise.
He is not drunk who from the floor,Can rise again and drink once more;But he is drunk who prostrate lies,And cannot either drink or rise.
He is not drunk who from the floor,Can rise again and drink once more;But he is drunk who prostrate lies,And cannot either drink or rise.
He is not drunk who from the floor,
Can rise again and drink once more;
But he is drunk who prostrate lies,
And cannot either drink or rise.
The Flesh Pots of Egypt
BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL
Pastor, People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.
Allah be praised! Here I am in Alexandria, the city founded by Alexander the Great. Yet Alex. could never conquer this part of the world today—the smells would put him to rout. This polyglot port is in “Lower” Egypt, and its dives are among the lowest found anywhere. The Rue des Soeurs is a street where crooked people go straight to perdition. Gambling hells are overflowing. Sailors and soldiers from the four corners of the globe crowd the cafes, where guitars twang, pianos jangle, drunks bawl, booze flows, choruses cheer and women leer. Fleshy Fatimas, overpainted and underclothed prowl about the street seeking whom they may devour. From lighted windows come droning nasal songs—
“Ya benat Iskendereeyeh,” etc.
“Ya benat Iskendereeyeh,” etc.
“Ya benat Iskendereeyeh,” etc.
“Ya benat Iskendereeyeh,” etc.
“O ye damsels of Alexandria!Your walk over the furniture is alluring:Ye wear the Kashmeer shawl with embroidered work,And your lips are sweet as sugar.”
“O ye damsels of Alexandria!Your walk over the furniture is alluring:Ye wear the Kashmeer shawl with embroidered work,And your lips are sweet as sugar.”
“O ye damsels of Alexandria!Your walk over the furniture is alluring:Ye wear the Kashmeer shawl with embroidered work,And your lips are sweet as sugar.”
“O ye damsels of Alexandria!
Your walk over the furniture is alluring:
Ye wear the Kashmeer shawl with embroidered work,
And your lips are sweet as sugar.”
All aboard for Cairo, city of the Caliphs, and I felt like taking a board and spanking the exposed anatomy of the Arab youths who posed along the railroad tracks to shock and mock the passengers.
Leaving the black sheep tourists at “Shepherds” Hotel, I visited the mosques which are as numerous in Cairo as mosquitoes in New Jersey. There may be a thousand; I visited five hundred, more or less. Sometimes I took off my slippers at the outer door, and at others I wore a kind of moccasin over my tourist shoes and shuffled and slid over the old floors, wondering how in the name of everything sacred I could profane anything with a good “sole” like mine. In my fling about the city I visited the Whirling Dervishes who whirled and dervished for me to my heart’s content with a poetry of motion a Sitka Indian could never attain. My head grows dizzy and my stomach faint when I think of them and their musical accompaniment of tambourines and flutes which were a cross between an ungreased saw and the breathing of an overdriven horse. I left before these human tops stopped spinning, and I carried away the memory of their tomato-can hats, bell-shaped robes, half-closed eyes, drooping heads and extended arms. I still see the uplifted right palm catching a blessing from Allah, the left hand turned down to bestow it.
Cairo’s amusements are varied: you may attend the opera house and listen to Italian music or see a French farce; take a turn at the hippodrome and have a circus; or stop at an open air play on the Esbekeeyah; or, if religiously inclined, take in the convent with its dancing dervishes and barbarous music; watch snake-charmers, glass-eaters, sword-swallowers, long-haired fakirs, chibook-smokers and munchers of scorpions; sip cafe noir (that looks and tastes like sweetened Nile mud) in a little shop where the waiters and loungers are as thick as the drink; or see Arabs gamble with dice and cards, much as they do in America; go to a kind of vaudeville, where a stringed band of lady-performers try to beguile travelers, with American airs and Persian dances, into buying drinks for them at the rate of one or two dollars a bottle, and poor stuff at that; or meander through the Fish Market at midnight where streets are filled with citizens and sight-seers, sidewalks with roystering soldiers, bazaars with shrewd traders, dens with drunken natives, and miles of houses with women outcasts from all quarters of the globe, leering, lurking and lustful, caged like wild beasts behind iron-barred gratings which are necessary to keep them from murderous assault on the morals, money and lives of the passersby. I was held up in an alleyway by a beautiful Ghawazee girl who said, with outstretched hand, “Me backsheesh to give God.” She wouldneed a bank-roll to get full pardon for her multitudinous mistakes. The resorts where naked women invite you to see the “Danse du Ventre,” a Terpsichorean exercise not noted for its modesty, and the mahsheshehs, or hang-outs where hasheesh smokers stimulate themselves into idiotic talk and laughter and stupefy their brains into a narcotic nepenthe of poverty, hunger and dirt, may seem quite unethical to the Occidental tenderfoot, but they are Christian places of entertainment compared with those infamous joints in the Fish Market where men, dressed up like women, carry on. These bordels had their prototype of old in the Egyptian temples of Isis.
I entered a Cafe Chantant where, before an entranced audience, two daughters of the desert, with incandescent kohl-stained eyes and sin-stained souls, were going through the sinuous undulations of the “hooche-cooche.” They moved their necks to and fro like cobras before a snake-charmer, and the motion of hip, breast and abdomen thrilled the spectators. These Egyptian dancers show a laxity of muscles and morals, and dance in a way that makes it unnecessary to attend a gymnasium. The dishes served were delicate, but the songs were indelicate, to say the least. There was a very pathetic one which I translate:
“O damsel! thy silk shirt is worn out, and thine arms have become visible,And I fear for thee, on account of the blackness of thine eyes.I desire to intoxicate myself, and kiss thy cheeks,And do deeds that ’Antar did not.”
“O damsel! thy silk shirt is worn out, and thine arms have become visible,And I fear for thee, on account of the blackness of thine eyes.I desire to intoxicate myself, and kiss thy cheeks,And do deeds that ’Antar did not.”
“O damsel! thy silk shirt is worn out, and thine arms have become visible,And I fear for thee, on account of the blackness of thine eyes.I desire to intoxicate myself, and kiss thy cheeks,And do deeds that ’Antar did not.”
“O damsel! thy silk shirt is worn out, and thine arms have become visible,
And I fear for thee, on account of the blackness of thine eyes.
I desire to intoxicate myself, and kiss thy cheeks,
And do deeds that ’Antar did not.”
The Oriental orchestra was made up of a darabooka drum, made of a wooden cylinder over which is stretched a parchment; the tar, a sort of tambourine; the kemengeh, a viol of two strings with a cocoanut sounding-body; the kanoon, a stringed instrument held on the knees and played with the fingers; the ’ood, a guitar with seven double strings; and the nay, a reed flute blown at the end. The music produced is most unspeakably unspiritual and nasally noisome. It outranks the obligato serenade of a love-sick tom-cat. The melody is old as the Libyan hills. Is this what Mark Antony heard when he fell for Cleopatra? If so, what a fall there was, my countrymen!
Here I bade adieu to the country which has all that was, is and ever will be. Good-bye, Egypt! Land of faro-banks and Pharaoh mummies—of backsheesh, bad smells, sphinx and blase globe-trotters! Paradise of palm trees, pyramids and postcard-venders! Desert domain of donkeys, dirt and dervishes—of tombs, temples, turbaned thieves and veiled vampires! Home of camel, crocodile, can-can and Cleopatra! Farewell, till we meet again!
* * *
Even cultivated girls sometimes grow wild.
Pasture Pot Pourri
Be sure you are right and then keep still about it.
* * *
I don’t like girls that bob their hair, use rouge or powder, wear short skirts or roll their socks.
I haven’t got a girl, either.
* * *
There’s only one thing I can’t understan’,How a bowlegged woman loves a knockkneed man.
There’s only one thing I can’t understan’,How a bowlegged woman loves a knockkneed man.
There’s only one thing I can’t understan’,How a bowlegged woman loves a knockkneed man.
There’s only one thing I can’t understan’,
How a bowlegged woman loves a knockkneed man.
* * *
I have a little calf,(The kind that eats the hay)It gets its ateLa tete a teteThrough the milky way.
I have a little calf,(The kind that eats the hay)It gets its ateLa tete a teteThrough the milky way.
I have a little calf,(The kind that eats the hay)It gets its ateLa tete a teteThrough the milky way.
I have a little calf,
(The kind that eats the hay)
It gets its ate
La tete a tete
Through the milky way.
* * *
Every right-minded woman is cheered by the thought of having pretty undies on—even if nobody sees them.
* * *
In the battle-scarred words of the cave-man: “I want my wine weak and my women strong.”
* * *
To eat your meals in front of a looking glass and think you are having twice as much.
* * *
If a corset cover covers a corset, what does a corset cover?
* * *
“Our buckles won’t hurt you.”
* * *
Our Robbinsdale bootlegger refused to sell me absinthe because he said it is against the law.
* * *
Hello, there, old fellow, where’d you get the new hat?
Oh, my wife didn’t expect me home until twelve last night and I got in a little earlier.
* * *
QUIVERS ran up and down her spine,When his STRING of bull he’d throw;For she was an ARROW minded kidAnd he was her loving BOW.
QUIVERS ran up and down her spine,When his STRING of bull he’d throw;For she was an ARROW minded kidAnd he was her loving BOW.
QUIVERS ran up and down her spine,When his STRING of bull he’d throw;For she was an ARROW minded kidAnd he was her loving BOW.
QUIVERS ran up and down her spine,
When his STRING of bull he’d throw;
For she was an ARROW minded kid
And he was her loving BOW.
* * *
In the immortal telegram of Ikey Goldstein: “Twins arrived; mine died.”
* * *
Hall Caine’s description of women:
“Women are like sheep’s broth. If there’s a head and a heart in them they’re good, and if there isn’t you might as well be supping hot water.”
* * *
Says the pail to the milk, “You look awfully pale.”Says the milk to the pail, “If you’d gone through what I have, you’d be pale, too!”
Says the pail to the milk, “You look awfully pale.”
Says the milk to the pail, “If you’d gone through what I have, you’d be pale, too!”
* * *
Our idea of nothing is a bung hole without a barrel.
* * *
Mamma’s in heaven,Papa’s in jail,Sister’s on Broadway,Earning papa’s bail.
Mamma’s in heaven,Papa’s in jail,Sister’s on Broadway,Earning papa’s bail.
Mamma’s in heaven,Papa’s in jail,Sister’s on Broadway,Earning papa’s bail.
Mamma’s in heaven,
Papa’s in jail,
Sister’s on Broadway,
Earning papa’s bail.
* * *
These shoes are too tight. Be jabbers, oi’ll have to wear them a couple of times before oi can get thim on.
* * *
Let us now sing the old familiar ballad, “When a goat is right behind you it’s no time to lace your shoe.”
* * *
A handkerchief and a sock, by chance met in a tub at the laundry.“How did you get in here?” asked the sock.“Oh, I was blown in,” replied the handkerchief.“I was scent,” said the sock.
A handkerchief and a sock, by chance met in a tub at the laundry.
“How did you get in here?” asked the sock.
“Oh, I was blown in,” replied the handkerchief.
“I was scent,” said the sock.
* * *
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” quavered the citizen as he passed over his pocketbook to the hold-up man.
* * *
Columbus was walking down the main street of Spain one day when he saw Queen Elizabeth riding along in her new Henry super four.
He called to her, saying, “Howd’y Bella.” She said, “Hello, Colum, hop in.” They were on pretty intimate terms, at the time, and there was quite a bit of scandal going around concerning them.
After a little Columbus said, “Say, Bella, I believe if I had a couple of schooners I could sail over and discover America.” She answered, “All right, Colum.”
Soon after, Columbus sailed away and sailed for years and years. One day one of his men hurried below and in an excited voice said, “Columbus, I see land.”
On landing, they found the Indians all lined up and down the shore waiting for them. Columbus stepped ahead and said, “Hello, is this the United States?” “Yes,” said the chief, “we got your cablegram and have been waiting here to be discovered.” Whereupon Columbus erected a post and put up a brass tablet giving date of discovery, etc.
After that, he moved to Ohio, and anyone passing can see Columbus in Ohio.
* * *
She—Did you get a commission in the army?
Private—No, I just got a straight salary.