* * *
The nurse at the front regarded the wounded soldier with a puzzled look.
“Your face is familiar to me, but I can’t place you,” she said.
“Let bygones be bygones, baby,” replied the soldier, “I used to be a policeman.”
* * *
Where did you get that rose?
That isn’t a rose, that’s a geranium.
No, it isn’t. It’s a rose.
I said it’s a geranium.
How do you spell it?
It’s a rose all right.
* * *
My girl has Pullman teeth.
One upper and one lower.
* * *
Colorado Springs is sure some town. Had to go up to the city hall to get a permit from the mayor to play a game of dominoes.
* * *
This wash board is a hundred years old.
Yes, it surely is wrinkled.
* * *
“Men are naturally grammatical.”
“Yes?”
“When they see an abbreviated skirt they always look after it for a period.”
* * *
Chicago.—Mrs. R. Kelly sat watching a thrilling movie. Without taking her eyes off the film, she landed an uppercut on the jaw of the man sitting next to her. “I must have made a mistake,” Jake Cohen told the judge. “I didn’t know I put my hand on her knee!”
* * *
The first scene is that of a gambler,Who has lost all his money at play;Takes his dead mother’s ring from her fingerWhich she wore on her wedding day,His last earthly treasure he stakes itBows his head the shame he may hide.When they raised up his head,They found he was dead’Tis a picture from life’s other side.
The first scene is that of a gambler,Who has lost all his money at play;Takes his dead mother’s ring from her fingerWhich she wore on her wedding day,His last earthly treasure he stakes itBows his head the shame he may hide.When they raised up his head,They found he was dead’Tis a picture from life’s other side.
The first scene is that of a gambler,Who has lost all his money at play;Takes his dead mother’s ring from her fingerWhich she wore on her wedding day,His last earthly treasure he stakes itBows his head the shame he may hide.When they raised up his head,They found he was dead’Tis a picture from life’s other side.
The first scene is that of a gambler,
Who has lost all his money at play;
Takes his dead mother’s ring from her finger
Which she wore on her wedding day,
His last earthly treasure he stakes it
Bows his head the shame he may hide.
When they raised up his head,
They found he was dead
’Tis a picture from life’s other side.
* * *
“Say, Mr. Jones, what do you want to get married for?”
“Because I don’t want my name to die out.”
* * *
“You don’t love me any more,”She sobbed and bowed her head.“What tuhel’s the difference,”The villainous rascal said.
“You don’t love me any more,”She sobbed and bowed her head.“What tuhel’s the difference,”The villainous rascal said.
“You don’t love me any more,”She sobbed and bowed her head.“What tuhel’s the difference,”The villainous rascal said.
“You don’t love me any more,”
She sobbed and bowed her head.
“What tuhel’s the difference,”
The villainous rascal said.
* * *
A cat, mistaking a ball of wool for a meat ball, swallowed it, and sure enough when she had kittens they had on sweaters.
* * *
Child’s is a great place to eat. Went in there yesterday and amongst the dirty dishes on the table I found thirty cents.
Movie Hot Stuff
These be dull days in the movie and even the stage world. The dark clouds of the Arbuckle case still hang over the two “arts,” thanks to the obdurate lady juror who caused a disagreement in the San Francisco trial. The pleasantly informal old days, when Wallie Reid could run up to ’Frisco and pelt eggs upon pedestrians from the fourteenth floor of the St. Francis Hotel, are long past. One simplyhasto be circumspect these days.
After Whiz Bang’s comments upon the way the New York stage was getting away with salaciousness came a police investigation of “The Demi-Virgin,” the gentle whimsy with the strip poker game. The farce was severely condemned by the police commissioner—but it is still running and to crowded houses. The risque plays have had one or two additions since we wrote last.
For instance, there’s David Belasco’s adaptation of the French farce, “Kiki,” with a little gutter gamin of the French music hall as its heroine. Mr. Belasco has substituted the word marriage for liaison throughout but the intent is there—and the lines, oh, boy! Once Kiki remarks“The men are like cats—they follows us as though our veins were full of catnip!” Then there is a whole act in which Kiki—posing as a rigid somnambulist—is carried and tossed about by the various members of the cast, all the time dressed only in a simple pair of open work pajamas.
We aren’t intimating that “Kiki” isn’t entertaining. It is. But, the latitude they get away with! Meanwhile the censors go on cutting out bathing girls from our films and making sure there is no indication ever shown that babies are born.
* * *
Charlie Ray, spats, cane, trick overcoat with its fur collar, et al., has been making his first visit to New York and not creating a ripple of interest. Of course, friend wife was along. We saw Ray strolling up Fifth Avenue the other day—and nobody knew the ornate pedestrian as the simple country boy of the films. They tell me that Ray takes himself very seriously and left the cynical New York reporters dizzy with his confessions about his “mission in life.”
* * *
Jack Pickford continues to loiter about New York. There are all sorts of rumors linking Jack up with pretty Marilyn Miller o’ the Follies. Marilyn lost her husband, Frank Carter, in an auto accident some time ago and is as pleasant a little widow as the WhiteLights possess. Maybe Marilyn has an eye towards the screen. By the way, those reports of an impending family event in the Fairbanks family still persists. What could be nicer?
* * *
Poor Eric von Stroheim! We sympathize with him despite his Junker physiognomy. He is telling sad tales of his treatment at the hands of Universal. After finishing “Foolish Wives,” they took the negative away from him, hired somebody or other to cut it—and Eric came on to New York to find out where he stood.
At last reports he is still trying to find out. Overheard him in a hotel recently telling his troubles. Now and then a tear splashed in the soup. You see, they have taken his brain child—his masterpiece—away and are letting some cruel inartistic outsider cut it any old way. It seems that Carl Laemmle, prexy of Universal, became irate over the way “Foolish Wives” cost money and never seemed to finish. Eric says they put all sorts of obstructions in his way. They locked cutting room doors, held up his pet plans, and all that, according to Eric. Finally—whisper, for it may only be a pipe dream—Eric organized and armed his army of extras after the fashion of Mr. William Hohenzollern and presented an ultimatum. He got what he wanted. Pause to consider the news story that nearly came out of Universal. Suppose Eric had cut the communication wires, tried militarygas on the officials and made the studio into an armed camp. It sounds fishy, of course, but have you ever met the tense Mr. Von Stroheim?
At that we feel awfully sorry for him. Hehasunusual directorial ability and he is—or was—the one able person at Universal. And now, after making “Foolish Wives,” which, if it doesn’t get barred by the censors, ought to be a whirlwind, he seems to be getting the gate.
* * *
Aren’t those morality clauses the high minded movie producers are inserting into their actor contracts the bunk? Imagine the nerve. Will Rogers gave the best summary when he declared, “Say, if any one hands me a contract with one of them clauses, I’ll say, you sign it first.” He is in New York doing a turn on the Ziegfeld roof. The best line of his act is: “I’m the only guy who ever went to California and came back with the same wife.”
* * *
One of the funniest kick backs from the Arbuckle case occurred at Vitagraph, where they had Maclyn Arbuckle (no relation to Fatty), under contract to be co-starred in “The Prodigal Judge,” which he had played for years on the stage. Just as the picture was completed, a little San Francisco scandal broke. Vitagraph decided that it couldn’t afford to feature Mr. MaclynArbuckleat this time. This despite the fact that Mr.Maclyn was a well known star before Fatty was ever heard of. But luckily he had a sense of humor. So he said, “Oh, well (maybe it wasn’t exactly that), you can’t buck such reasoning,” and let his name go into tiny type.
* * *
I said she’d made with me a hit—Very well.Perhaps I was a trifle lit—Very well.I told her that she was divine,She let me hold her hand in mine,In short—I handed out my lineVery well.I whispered softly in her ear,Very well.’Twas, how appropriately! dear—Very well.I drew her snugly to my breast,While she, not daring to protestCleaned out the pockets of my vest.Very well.
I said she’d made with me a hit—Very well.Perhaps I was a trifle lit—Very well.I told her that she was divine,She let me hold her hand in mine,In short—I handed out my lineVery well.I whispered softly in her ear,Very well.’Twas, how appropriately! dear—Very well.I drew her snugly to my breast,While she, not daring to protestCleaned out the pockets of my vest.Very well.
I said she’d made with me a hit—Very well.Perhaps I was a trifle lit—Very well.I told her that she was divine,She let me hold her hand in mine,In short—I handed out my lineVery well.
I said she’d made with me a hit—
Very well.
Perhaps I was a trifle lit—
Very well.
I told her that she was divine,
She let me hold her hand in mine,
In short—I handed out my line
Very well.
I whispered softly in her ear,Very well.’Twas, how appropriately! dear—Very well.I drew her snugly to my breast,While she, not daring to protestCleaned out the pockets of my vest.Very well.
I whispered softly in her ear,
Very well.
’Twas, how appropriately! dear—
Very well.
I drew her snugly to my breast,
While she, not daring to protest
Cleaned out the pockets of my vest.
Very well.
* * *
Cannibal No. 1—What makes the chief such a bunk spreader?
Cannibal No. 2—He just ate the editor of Whiz Bang.
* * *
“Is my wife forward?” asked the passenger on the Limited.
“She wasn’t to me sir,” answered the conductor politely.
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
Hats off to a real man of the cloth. The Rev. D. H. Jones has resigned the pulpit of Huntington Park, California, Baptist Church, because of the fanatical attempts of his flock to enforce Sunday closing.
“I prefer to dwell with the worldling and be true to my inner self than to live with the saint and betray it,” Reverend Jones says.“There is a way to make the church the super-attraction; but it will never be done by coercing the consciences of men. The Cross of Christ is proving to be the greatest magnet in the world, but use it as a club, and it will become a colossal failure.”“Killed professionally, yes. But, frankly, I would rather be a man than a minister. Character is greater than profession.”“I would just as soon believe that the perfume of the rose comes from the polecat as to believe that the spirit of the blue laws comes from God.”“Christ whipped men out of the church, but never into it. ‘Professional reformers’ and ‘Christian lobbyists’ at Washington may mean well, but most of them are misguided swivel-chair heroes of the Cross.”“‘Close every door except the church’s,’ cries the reformer, forgetting that open hearts are greater inducements than closed doors.”“The doctrine behind the blue laws is this: ‘I am inthe right and you are in the wrong. When you are stronger than I, you ought to tolerate; for it is your duty to tolerate truth. But when I am the stronger, I shall persecute you; for it is my duty to persecute error.’”“All the proposed Sunday legislation is simply a human attempt to whitewash what God designed to wash white. To condemn movies because some things may be objectionable is like refusing to eat fish because it contains bones.”“When human passion is subdued, when the turbulent tide ebbs, we see that the big thing that lies at the bottom of the opposition of theatre opening on Sunday, is simply bigotry.”“It is a wonder to me how many bad things good people see in the movies; fortunately, if you are so disposed, you need never be disappointed. The product of a legal religion has ever been and ever will be either hypocrisy or persecution.”
“I prefer to dwell with the worldling and be true to my inner self than to live with the saint and betray it,” Reverend Jones says.
“There is a way to make the church the super-attraction; but it will never be done by coercing the consciences of men. The Cross of Christ is proving to be the greatest magnet in the world, but use it as a club, and it will become a colossal failure.”
“Killed professionally, yes. But, frankly, I would rather be a man than a minister. Character is greater than profession.”
“I would just as soon believe that the perfume of the rose comes from the polecat as to believe that the spirit of the blue laws comes from God.”
“Christ whipped men out of the church, but never into it. ‘Professional reformers’ and ‘Christian lobbyists’ at Washington may mean well, but most of them are misguided swivel-chair heroes of the Cross.”
“‘Close every door except the church’s,’ cries the reformer, forgetting that open hearts are greater inducements than closed doors.”
“The doctrine behind the blue laws is this: ‘I am inthe right and you are in the wrong. When you are stronger than I, you ought to tolerate; for it is your duty to tolerate truth. But when I am the stronger, I shall persecute you; for it is my duty to persecute error.’”
“All the proposed Sunday legislation is simply a human attempt to whitewash what God designed to wash white. To condemn movies because some things may be objectionable is like refusing to eat fish because it contains bones.”
“When human passion is subdued, when the turbulent tide ebbs, we see that the big thing that lies at the bottom of the opposition of theatre opening on Sunday, is simply bigotry.”
“It is a wonder to me how many bad things good people see in the movies; fortunately, if you are so disposed, you need never be disappointed. The product of a legal religion has ever been and ever will be either hypocrisy or persecution.”
* * *
A little white coffin rested on a small table, covered with flowers white as the waxen face and fair hair of the baby child whose short life of thirteen months’ suffering was ended.
A small company of kind neighbors was present. The clergyman repeated the Saviour’s words, “Suffer the children to come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven,” and told how the little life had not paid in dollars and cents, but that judged by an immortal existence begun here, and to last forever, Death was gain. After the father, sisters and brothers said “Good-bye,” the mother took the last farewell kiss of her baby and baptized it anew with her hot falling tears. So smallwas the casket that the undertaker lifted it in his arms, just as the mother had the sick child, and carried it to the carriage and placed it on the seat.
We entered the beautiful green cemetery, and lowered the little flower-decked coffin in the grave to rest until God’s “Good morning” in the graveless, griefless home of heaven. As I looked back, the mound seemed so small that a child could step over it in his play, but I knew it was higher than a mountain top to the mother because in it was buried all her love and hope.
So we left the little casket and the little body in the little grave, feeling that this bud of promise would be transplanted to the Eternal Garden where the full flower would blossom and bloom without decay.
* * *
The Detroit Free-Press calls it the “Snoopers’ Brigade,” and we are inclined to think that is a well-fitting title for the aggregation of people who are urging the formation of a society that would compel all men to be spies upon neighbors and reporters upon their actions.
Sometime ago a federal prohibition commissioner announced plans for such an association, but he immediately discovered that the people of the United States are not ready to become investigators of their neighbors’ conduct, in anyparticular, and the project was squelched by higher authority.
The courts of the country are, very generally, excluding testimony obtained by men who lead others into the commission of crime, and properly; they regard such actions as a conspiracy to break the law, which makes the tempter a partner in the crime.
In a Mississippi case, where it appeared that a peace officer induced a man to purchase liquor for him and then arrested the man who succumbed to his blandishments, the judge ordered the accused discharged and the officer held. The official was subsequently convicted of his part in the crime, and the supreme court sustained the verdict against him.
There is a very general misapprehension on this subject and acts of the officials have been winked at because the public really did not know what was going on and did not realize the extent of the practice indulged in by what are very generally called stool pigeons.
The laws of this or any other state may be enforced without making all the people detectives, as the Snoopers’ League would have them, or without permitting the practice of certain classes of officials, who sometimes literally hire men to commit a crime, in order that that very crime may be suppressed.
* * *
Where did I get my education? Why, me dad used to take me over his knee. He made me smart.
* * *
Bully for the Chicago Tribune. That journal slips the prong into Bluenose Crafts in a recent issue:
It is beginning to appear that the movement led by Mr. Crafts is as bigoted and as savage in its purpose as those which we thought were buried in the semi-barbarous past. It must be held that no human uplift but maniacal desire to inflict physical punishment is the motive. Mr. Crafts and his followers wish to put as many of their fellow countrymen as possible in jail, and they are trying to wreck this republic in order to do so.
It is beginning to appear that the movement led by Mr. Crafts is as bigoted and as savage in its purpose as those which we thought were buried in the semi-barbarous past. It must be held that no human uplift but maniacal desire to inflict physical punishment is the motive. Mr. Crafts and his followers wish to put as many of their fellow countrymen as possible in jail, and they are trying to wreck this republic in order to do so.
* * *
Chickens get tough when they run around too much.
* * *
Be it ever so humble, there’s no flower like the cauli.
* * *
A bird in the oven is worth two in the bush and a berry in the bush is not worth two in the hand.
* * *
I wish I was cross-eyed, then I could stand on a windy day and gaze at a lady wearing a short skirt, right in the eye and still have a guilty conscience.
* * *
The potatoes eyes were full of tears,And the cabbage hung its head,For there was grief in the cellar that nite,For the vinegar’s mother was dead.
The potatoes eyes were full of tears,And the cabbage hung its head,For there was grief in the cellar that nite,For the vinegar’s mother was dead.
The potatoes eyes were full of tears,And the cabbage hung its head,For there was grief in the cellar that nite,For the vinegar’s mother was dead.
The potatoes eyes were full of tears,
And the cabbage hung its head,
For there was grief in the cellar that nite,
For the vinegar’s mother was dead.
* * *
You can lead a cow to water but the Bull—he must be herd.
* * *
“On East Houston Street is the lasagne or ravioli belt where the gay boys from out of town take the leading ladies of the jobber plants out for a wild evening,” writes O. O. McIntyre. “You know the gay out-of-town man. He carries a patent cigar lighter and has a sterling silver monogrammed belt buckle and, oh, yes, a handkerchief with a purple border. His eyes are blue and he wrinkles them in a merry twinkle, at least he thinks it is a merry twinkle, but it’s just the sap oozing out. The Leading Lady knows Broadway because she reads Broadway Brevities and her theory of life in the abstract is that Ladies Must Live. After the first quart of red ink, he whispers a story the boys told him in front of the Bon Ton Store before he left for the east. She pulls the two gun, hair-trigger Bill Hart stuff and says ‘Naughty Man.’ To complete the evening and display the ultimate in savoir faire he calls loudly to the waiter: ‘L’addition, s’il vous plait garcon.’ They ride to one of the Oranges in a quick-firing metered taxi and he returns to the McAlpin to write the wife and kiddies of his lonesomeness.”
* * *
This is the old famous New York poem, credited to a former collector of the port as author, but denied. However, you’ll note that every word carries a wallop and so we herewith, with your kind permission, republish it:
Vulgar of manner, overfed,Over dressed, and underbred,Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,Rude by day, lewd by night,Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute,Ruled by Jew and prostitutePurple robed and pauper cladRaving, rioting, money mad—A squirming herd of Mammon’s mesh,A wilderness of human flesh.Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—New York! Thy name’s “Delirium.”
Vulgar of manner, overfed,Over dressed, and underbred,Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,Rude by day, lewd by night,Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute,Ruled by Jew and prostitutePurple robed and pauper cladRaving, rioting, money mad—A squirming herd of Mammon’s mesh,A wilderness of human flesh.Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—New York! Thy name’s “Delirium.”
Vulgar of manner, overfed,Over dressed, and underbred,Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,Rude by day, lewd by night,Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute,Ruled by Jew and prostitutePurple robed and pauper cladRaving, rioting, money mad—A squirming herd of Mammon’s mesh,A wilderness of human flesh.Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—New York! Thy name’s “Delirium.”
Vulgar of manner, overfed,
Over dressed, and underbred,
Heartless, Godless, hell’s delight,
Rude by day, lewd by night,
Bedwarfed the man, enlarged the brute,
Ruled by Jew and prostitute
Purple robed and pauper clad
Raving, rioting, money mad—
A squirming herd of Mammon’s mesh,
A wilderness of human flesh.
Crazed by avarice, lust and rum—
New York! Thy name’s “Delirium.”
* * *
“I see you are keeping your hired man all right now, Ezra.”“Yep, keeping him all right.”“He seems satisfied, too. How’d you do it?”“Did everything he asked me to. Let him work only four hours and eat with the family. He got to complaining of dull evenings, so every night I give him the use of a car of his own, and the money to spend, to go to the movies in town.”“That ought to satisfy him.”“It didn’t, though. He complained of his room, and so I coaxed my son to trade rooms with him. Then he seemed more settled like.”“I notice you’ve cut off your whiskers, Ezra.”“Yeah. Some more of that hired man’s notions.”“How’s that?”“He complained they tickled him every time I kissed him good-night.”
“I see you are keeping your hired man all right now, Ezra.”
“Yep, keeping him all right.”
“He seems satisfied, too. How’d you do it?”
“Did everything he asked me to. Let him work only four hours and eat with the family. He got to complaining of dull evenings, so every night I give him the use of a car of his own, and the money to spend, to go to the movies in town.”
“That ought to satisfy him.”
“It didn’t, though. He complained of his room, and so I coaxed my son to trade rooms with him. Then he seemed more settled like.”
“I notice you’ve cut off your whiskers, Ezra.”
“Yeah. Some more of that hired man’s notions.”
“How’s that?”
“He complained they tickled him every time I kissed him good-night.”
* * *
“Golly, Moses! Dey got strawberries and cherries and all kinds o’ fruit covered wit candy. What kind shall ah git?”
“Git a choc’lat covered watermillion.”
* * *
“What you need is a tonic to sharpen your appetite,” said the Doctor. “By the way, what is your occupation?”
“I am a sword swallower in a circus side-show,” replied the caller.
* * *
Little Joe says, “They am jest as many sebbens on de dice as anything else, ony dey is bashfull.”
Smokehouse Poetry
The greatest poem of the squared circle ever brought to light is in store for March Whiz Bang readers, “The Kid’s Last Fight.” That noted recitation of years ago has been obtained by the Whiz Bang, reset to verse, and will hold the boards in the March issue.
The way he staggered made me sick,I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.
The way he staggered made me sick,I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.
The way he staggered made me sick,I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.
The way he staggered made me sick,
I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”
The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”
They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.
* * *
By J. Eugene Chrisman.
Author of “Poppies,” written exclusively for Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang.
By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her kneeThere’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stewAnd she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’dWasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bullFor the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far awaySince I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best betFor a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jellsAnd the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t cursedWith a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirstFor the winter snows are falling and its there that I would beEither Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!
By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her kneeThere’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stewAnd she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’dWasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bullFor the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far awaySince I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best betFor a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jellsAnd the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t cursedWith a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirstFor the winter snows are falling and its there that I would beEither Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!
By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her kneeThere’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”
By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her knee
There’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;
When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say
“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”
Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stewAnd she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’dWasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.
Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,
And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!
When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stew
And she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.
Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’d
Wasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.
When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bullFor the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!
When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,
Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.
With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,
She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!
How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bull
For the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!
But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far awaySince I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best betFor a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jellsAnd the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!
But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far away
Since I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.
But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best bet
For a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.
Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jells
And the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!
Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t cursedWith a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirstFor the winter snows are falling and its there that I would beEither Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!
Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t cursed
With a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirst
For the winter snows are falling and its there that I would be
Either Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!
* * *
Copyrighted. By permission of the Author, Green Room Club, New York.
By H. A. D’Arcy.
The west was pretty wild when Bill Durant and I went out,’Twer in ’59 or ’60, somewhar that about,Bill took his pretty wife along (they’d been wed about a year),A buxom kind of girl she war, that never thought o’ fear.And I don’t know that she needed to, for the miners one and all,Would have fought for her like devils if she’d ever made the call;And afore we’d fairly built a hut to keep her from the dampA little baby gal was born—the first one in the camp.And didn’t the boys keep Christmas? Well, I’m shoutin’ now they did;Why, they all got roarin’ full that night just in honor o’ the kid;And by the time that baby were a little tot o’ three years old,She had a big tomato can just filled with virgin gold.I built a cabin ’bout a quarter mile away from Bill’s,So we both had kinder cozy homes protected by the hills;And Charley Wong, the Chinaman, had opened handy byThe laundry o’ the canyon, and he washed for Bill and I.Now, Chinamen ain’t liked too well, and one day in a rowCharley got pretty badly used, I disremember nowJust what the trouble war about, but Bill war in the fray,And he helped to beat the Chinaman in a rather brutal way.Durant weren’t bad at heart, ye know, but like too many others,He didn’t like Mongolians, nor own ’um men and brothers;And I often heard him say that if the Chinamen wer nearHe’d cut the leper’s pigtail off and stick it through his ear.One evening Lizzie (Durant’s wife) and little Tot, the child,Were comin’ homeward down the hills when all at once a wildAnd fearful howl were heard behind—two wolves were on their track,Liz says she stopped and grabbed the child and threw it on her back.Then shrieking aloud for help, she ran, as swift as any hindToward the Chinese laundry hut—the wolves came fast behind;Nearer and nearer on they came; then reaching Charley’s door,The mother, with her precious load, fell prone upon the floor.Bill and I were talkin’ when we heard the fearful cries,And rushing to the laundry the sight that met our eyesWas far too horrible to tell, for thar was Charley WongDead, and a blood-stained knife in hand full fifteen inches long.He’d fought a fearful battle; one brute wer by his sideWith its entrails all hanging out, and blood stains on its hide;But t’ other had got its work in afore Bill and I got there,And wer gnawing Charley’s throat and face till the bones were laying bare.Wall, we made quick work o’ Mr. Wolf, we filled ’um full o’ lead,Then gathered child and mother up and took ’em home to bed,Next day when Lizzie told her tale, Bill’s eyes were full o’ tears,He didn’t brag much sentiment, and hadn’t wept for years.Poor “Washee!” when we packed him up the camp boys stood aroundEach one with hat in hand and tearful eyes cast on the ground;We shipped the corpse to ’Frisco, with a bag o’ the yellow dustTo pay the freight to Pekin—to “Rest In Peace,” I trust.But ever after that, if any man had got the faceTo say Chinese wer yallow dogs, he’d better quit the place;For thar ain’t a name more holy held in Canyon IdlewildThan Charley Wong, the Chinaman, that saved Bill’s wife and child.
The west was pretty wild when Bill Durant and I went out,’Twer in ’59 or ’60, somewhar that about,Bill took his pretty wife along (they’d been wed about a year),A buxom kind of girl she war, that never thought o’ fear.And I don’t know that she needed to, for the miners one and all,Would have fought for her like devils if she’d ever made the call;And afore we’d fairly built a hut to keep her from the dampA little baby gal was born—the first one in the camp.And didn’t the boys keep Christmas? Well, I’m shoutin’ now they did;Why, they all got roarin’ full that night just in honor o’ the kid;And by the time that baby were a little tot o’ three years old,She had a big tomato can just filled with virgin gold.I built a cabin ’bout a quarter mile away from Bill’s,So we both had kinder cozy homes protected by the hills;And Charley Wong, the Chinaman, had opened handy byThe laundry o’ the canyon, and he washed for Bill and I.Now, Chinamen ain’t liked too well, and one day in a rowCharley got pretty badly used, I disremember nowJust what the trouble war about, but Bill war in the fray,And he helped to beat the Chinaman in a rather brutal way.Durant weren’t bad at heart, ye know, but like too many others,He didn’t like Mongolians, nor own ’um men and brothers;And I often heard him say that if the Chinamen wer nearHe’d cut the leper’s pigtail off and stick it through his ear.One evening Lizzie (Durant’s wife) and little Tot, the child,Were comin’ homeward down the hills when all at once a wildAnd fearful howl were heard behind—two wolves were on their track,Liz says she stopped and grabbed the child and threw it on her back.Then shrieking aloud for help, she ran, as swift as any hindToward the Chinese laundry hut—the wolves came fast behind;Nearer and nearer on they came; then reaching Charley’s door,The mother, with her precious load, fell prone upon the floor.Bill and I were talkin’ when we heard the fearful cries,And rushing to the laundry the sight that met our eyesWas far too horrible to tell, for thar was Charley WongDead, and a blood-stained knife in hand full fifteen inches long.He’d fought a fearful battle; one brute wer by his sideWith its entrails all hanging out, and blood stains on its hide;But t’ other had got its work in afore Bill and I got there,And wer gnawing Charley’s throat and face till the bones were laying bare.Wall, we made quick work o’ Mr. Wolf, we filled ’um full o’ lead,Then gathered child and mother up and took ’em home to bed,Next day when Lizzie told her tale, Bill’s eyes were full o’ tears,He didn’t brag much sentiment, and hadn’t wept for years.Poor “Washee!” when we packed him up the camp boys stood aroundEach one with hat in hand and tearful eyes cast on the ground;We shipped the corpse to ’Frisco, with a bag o’ the yellow dustTo pay the freight to Pekin—to “Rest In Peace,” I trust.But ever after that, if any man had got the faceTo say Chinese wer yallow dogs, he’d better quit the place;For thar ain’t a name more holy held in Canyon IdlewildThan Charley Wong, the Chinaman, that saved Bill’s wife and child.
The west was pretty wild when Bill Durant and I went out,’Twer in ’59 or ’60, somewhar that about,Bill took his pretty wife along (they’d been wed about a year),A buxom kind of girl she war, that never thought o’ fear.
The west was pretty wild when Bill Durant and I went out,
’Twer in ’59 or ’60, somewhar that about,
Bill took his pretty wife along (they’d been wed about a year),
A buxom kind of girl she war, that never thought o’ fear.
And I don’t know that she needed to, for the miners one and all,Would have fought for her like devils if she’d ever made the call;And afore we’d fairly built a hut to keep her from the dampA little baby gal was born—the first one in the camp.
And I don’t know that she needed to, for the miners one and all,
Would have fought for her like devils if she’d ever made the call;
And afore we’d fairly built a hut to keep her from the damp
A little baby gal was born—the first one in the camp.
And didn’t the boys keep Christmas? Well, I’m shoutin’ now they did;Why, they all got roarin’ full that night just in honor o’ the kid;And by the time that baby were a little tot o’ three years old,She had a big tomato can just filled with virgin gold.
And didn’t the boys keep Christmas? Well, I’m shoutin’ now they did;
Why, they all got roarin’ full that night just in honor o’ the kid;
And by the time that baby were a little tot o’ three years old,
She had a big tomato can just filled with virgin gold.
I built a cabin ’bout a quarter mile away from Bill’s,So we both had kinder cozy homes protected by the hills;And Charley Wong, the Chinaman, had opened handy byThe laundry o’ the canyon, and he washed for Bill and I.
I built a cabin ’bout a quarter mile away from Bill’s,
So we both had kinder cozy homes protected by the hills;
And Charley Wong, the Chinaman, had opened handy by
The laundry o’ the canyon, and he washed for Bill and I.
Now, Chinamen ain’t liked too well, and one day in a rowCharley got pretty badly used, I disremember nowJust what the trouble war about, but Bill war in the fray,And he helped to beat the Chinaman in a rather brutal way.
Now, Chinamen ain’t liked too well, and one day in a row
Charley got pretty badly used, I disremember now
Just what the trouble war about, but Bill war in the fray,
And he helped to beat the Chinaman in a rather brutal way.
Durant weren’t bad at heart, ye know, but like too many others,He didn’t like Mongolians, nor own ’um men and brothers;And I often heard him say that if the Chinamen wer nearHe’d cut the leper’s pigtail off and stick it through his ear.
Durant weren’t bad at heart, ye know, but like too many others,
He didn’t like Mongolians, nor own ’um men and brothers;
And I often heard him say that if the Chinamen wer near
He’d cut the leper’s pigtail off and stick it through his ear.
One evening Lizzie (Durant’s wife) and little Tot, the child,Were comin’ homeward down the hills when all at once a wildAnd fearful howl were heard behind—two wolves were on their track,Liz says she stopped and grabbed the child and threw it on her back.
One evening Lizzie (Durant’s wife) and little Tot, the child,
Were comin’ homeward down the hills when all at once a wild
And fearful howl were heard behind—two wolves were on their track,
Liz says she stopped and grabbed the child and threw it on her back.
Then shrieking aloud for help, she ran, as swift as any hindToward the Chinese laundry hut—the wolves came fast behind;Nearer and nearer on they came; then reaching Charley’s door,The mother, with her precious load, fell prone upon the floor.
Then shrieking aloud for help, she ran, as swift as any hind
Toward the Chinese laundry hut—the wolves came fast behind;
Nearer and nearer on they came; then reaching Charley’s door,
The mother, with her precious load, fell prone upon the floor.
Bill and I were talkin’ when we heard the fearful cries,And rushing to the laundry the sight that met our eyesWas far too horrible to tell, for thar was Charley WongDead, and a blood-stained knife in hand full fifteen inches long.
Bill and I were talkin’ when we heard the fearful cries,
And rushing to the laundry the sight that met our eyes
Was far too horrible to tell, for thar was Charley Wong
Dead, and a blood-stained knife in hand full fifteen inches long.
He’d fought a fearful battle; one brute wer by his sideWith its entrails all hanging out, and blood stains on its hide;But t’ other had got its work in afore Bill and I got there,And wer gnawing Charley’s throat and face till the bones were laying bare.
He’d fought a fearful battle; one brute wer by his side
With its entrails all hanging out, and blood stains on its hide;
But t’ other had got its work in afore Bill and I got there,
And wer gnawing Charley’s throat and face till the bones were laying bare.
Wall, we made quick work o’ Mr. Wolf, we filled ’um full o’ lead,Then gathered child and mother up and took ’em home to bed,Next day when Lizzie told her tale, Bill’s eyes were full o’ tears,He didn’t brag much sentiment, and hadn’t wept for years.
Wall, we made quick work o’ Mr. Wolf, we filled ’um full o’ lead,
Then gathered child and mother up and took ’em home to bed,
Next day when Lizzie told her tale, Bill’s eyes were full o’ tears,
He didn’t brag much sentiment, and hadn’t wept for years.
Poor “Washee!” when we packed him up the camp boys stood aroundEach one with hat in hand and tearful eyes cast on the ground;We shipped the corpse to ’Frisco, with a bag o’ the yellow dustTo pay the freight to Pekin—to “Rest In Peace,” I trust.
Poor “Washee!” when we packed him up the camp boys stood around
Each one with hat in hand and tearful eyes cast on the ground;
We shipped the corpse to ’Frisco, with a bag o’ the yellow dust
To pay the freight to Pekin—to “Rest In Peace,” I trust.
But ever after that, if any man had got the faceTo say Chinese wer yallow dogs, he’d better quit the place;For thar ain’t a name more holy held in Canyon IdlewildThan Charley Wong, the Chinaman, that saved Bill’s wife and child.
But ever after that, if any man had got the face
To say Chinese wer yallow dogs, he’d better quit the place;
For thar ain’t a name more holy held in Canyon Idlewild
Than Charley Wong, the Chinaman, that saved Bill’s wife and child.
* * *
A horse fly eats whip crackers.
* * *
Sitting alone by my window,Watching the moonlit street,Bending my head to listen,To the well-known sound of your feetI have been wondering darlingHow I can bear the pain,When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes,And wait for your coming in vain.For I know that the day approaches,When your heart will tire of me,When by door and gate I must watch and wait,For a form I shall not see.For the love that is now my heavenThe kisses that make my life,You will bestow on another,And that other will be your wife.You will grow weary of sinning,Though you do not call it soYou will long for a love that is purerThan the love that we two know,God knows I love you dearlyWith a passion strong as true,But you will grow tired and leave meThough I gave up all for you.I was pure as the morningWhen I first looked on your face,I knew I could never reach youIn your high exalted place,But I looked and loved and worshippedAs a flower might worship a starAnd your eyes shown down upon meAnd you seemed so far, so far.And then? Well then you loved meLoved me with all your heart,But we could not stand at the altarWe were so far apart.If a star should wed with a flower,The star must drop from the skyOr the flower in trying to reach itWould droop on its stem and die.But you said that you loved me darling,And swore by the heavens aboveThat the Lord and all of his AngelsWould sanction and bless our love,And I? I was weak, not wicked,My love was as pure as true,And sin itself seemed a virtue,If only shared by you.We have been happy together,Though under the cloud of sinBut I know that the day approachesWhen my chastening must begin,You seem to think kindly of meBut you seem downhearted and blue,But you will not always beAnd I think I had better leave you.I know my beauty is fading,Sin furrows the fairest brow,And I know your heart will weary,Of the face you smile on now.You will take a bride on your bosom,After you turn from me,You will sit with your wife in the moon-lightAnd hold your babe on your knee.Oh! God I could not bear it,I would my brain I know,And while you love me dearly,I think I had better go.It is sweeter to feel my darlingAnd know as I fall asleepThat some would mourn me and miss meThat someone was left to weep.Though to die as I should in the future,To drop in the streets some day,Unknown, unwept and forgotten,After you passed me away.Perhaps the blood of the Savior,Can wash my garments clean,Perchance I may drift on the water,That flows in the pastures green.Perchance we may meet in heaven,And walk in the street above,With nothing to grieve us or part us,Since our sinning was all through love.God says, love one another,And down to the depths of Hell,Well he sent the soul of a woman,Because she loved—and fell.And so in the moon-light he found her,Or found her beautiful clay,Lifeless and pallid as marble,For the spirit had flown away.The farewell words she had written,She held to her cold white breast,And the buried blade of a dagger,Told how she had gone to rest.
Sitting alone by my window,Watching the moonlit street,Bending my head to listen,To the well-known sound of your feetI have been wondering darlingHow I can bear the pain,When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes,And wait for your coming in vain.For I know that the day approaches,When your heart will tire of me,When by door and gate I must watch and wait,For a form I shall not see.For the love that is now my heavenThe kisses that make my life,You will bestow on another,And that other will be your wife.You will grow weary of sinning,Though you do not call it soYou will long for a love that is purerThan the love that we two know,God knows I love you dearlyWith a passion strong as true,But you will grow tired and leave meThough I gave up all for you.I was pure as the morningWhen I first looked on your face,I knew I could never reach youIn your high exalted place,But I looked and loved and worshippedAs a flower might worship a starAnd your eyes shown down upon meAnd you seemed so far, so far.And then? Well then you loved meLoved me with all your heart,But we could not stand at the altarWe were so far apart.If a star should wed with a flower,The star must drop from the skyOr the flower in trying to reach itWould droop on its stem and die.But you said that you loved me darling,And swore by the heavens aboveThat the Lord and all of his AngelsWould sanction and bless our love,And I? I was weak, not wicked,My love was as pure as true,And sin itself seemed a virtue,If only shared by you.We have been happy together,Though under the cloud of sinBut I know that the day approachesWhen my chastening must begin,You seem to think kindly of meBut you seem downhearted and blue,But you will not always beAnd I think I had better leave you.I know my beauty is fading,Sin furrows the fairest brow,And I know your heart will weary,Of the face you smile on now.You will take a bride on your bosom,After you turn from me,You will sit with your wife in the moon-lightAnd hold your babe on your knee.Oh! God I could not bear it,I would my brain I know,And while you love me dearly,I think I had better go.It is sweeter to feel my darlingAnd know as I fall asleepThat some would mourn me and miss meThat someone was left to weep.Though to die as I should in the future,To drop in the streets some day,Unknown, unwept and forgotten,After you passed me away.Perhaps the blood of the Savior,Can wash my garments clean,Perchance I may drift on the water,That flows in the pastures green.Perchance we may meet in heaven,And walk in the street above,With nothing to grieve us or part us,Since our sinning was all through love.God says, love one another,And down to the depths of Hell,Well he sent the soul of a woman,Because she loved—and fell.And so in the moon-light he found her,Or found her beautiful clay,Lifeless and pallid as marble,For the spirit had flown away.The farewell words she had written,She held to her cold white breast,And the buried blade of a dagger,Told how she had gone to rest.
Sitting alone by my window,Watching the moonlit street,Bending my head to listen,To the well-known sound of your feetI have been wondering darlingHow I can bear the pain,When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes,And wait for your coming in vain.
Sitting alone by my window,
Watching the moonlit street,
Bending my head to listen,
To the well-known sound of your feet
I have been wondering darling
How I can bear the pain,
When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes,
And wait for your coming in vain.
For I know that the day approaches,When your heart will tire of me,When by door and gate I must watch and wait,For a form I shall not see.For the love that is now my heavenThe kisses that make my life,You will bestow on another,And that other will be your wife.
For I know that the day approaches,
When your heart will tire of me,
When by door and gate I must watch and wait,
For a form I shall not see.
For the love that is now my heaven
The kisses that make my life,
You will bestow on another,
And that other will be your wife.
You will grow weary of sinning,Though you do not call it soYou will long for a love that is purerThan the love that we two know,God knows I love you dearlyWith a passion strong as true,But you will grow tired and leave meThough I gave up all for you.
You will grow weary of sinning,
Though you do not call it so
You will long for a love that is purer
Than the love that we two know,
God knows I love you dearly
With a passion strong as true,
But you will grow tired and leave me
Though I gave up all for you.
I was pure as the morningWhen I first looked on your face,I knew I could never reach youIn your high exalted place,But I looked and loved and worshippedAs a flower might worship a starAnd your eyes shown down upon meAnd you seemed so far, so far.
I was pure as the morning
When I first looked on your face,
I knew I could never reach you
In your high exalted place,
But I looked and loved and worshipped
As a flower might worship a star
And your eyes shown down upon me
And you seemed so far, so far.
And then? Well then you loved meLoved me with all your heart,But we could not stand at the altarWe were so far apart.If a star should wed with a flower,The star must drop from the skyOr the flower in trying to reach itWould droop on its stem and die.
And then? Well then you loved me
Loved me with all your heart,
But we could not stand at the altar
We were so far apart.
If a star should wed with a flower,
The star must drop from the sky
Or the flower in trying to reach it
Would droop on its stem and die.
But you said that you loved me darling,And swore by the heavens aboveThat the Lord and all of his AngelsWould sanction and bless our love,And I? I was weak, not wicked,My love was as pure as true,And sin itself seemed a virtue,If only shared by you.
But you said that you loved me darling,
And swore by the heavens above
That the Lord and all of his Angels
Would sanction and bless our love,
And I? I was weak, not wicked,
My love was as pure as true,
And sin itself seemed a virtue,
If only shared by you.
We have been happy together,Though under the cloud of sinBut I know that the day approachesWhen my chastening must begin,You seem to think kindly of meBut you seem downhearted and blue,But you will not always beAnd I think I had better leave you.
We have been happy together,
Though under the cloud of sin
But I know that the day approaches
When my chastening must begin,
You seem to think kindly of me
But you seem downhearted and blue,
But you will not always be
And I think I had better leave you.
I know my beauty is fading,Sin furrows the fairest brow,And I know your heart will weary,Of the face you smile on now.You will take a bride on your bosom,After you turn from me,You will sit with your wife in the moon-lightAnd hold your babe on your knee.
I know my beauty is fading,
Sin furrows the fairest brow,
And I know your heart will weary,
Of the face you smile on now.
You will take a bride on your bosom,
After you turn from me,
You will sit with your wife in the moon-light
And hold your babe on your knee.
Oh! God I could not bear it,I would my brain I know,And while you love me dearly,I think I had better go.It is sweeter to feel my darlingAnd know as I fall asleepThat some would mourn me and miss meThat someone was left to weep.
Oh! God I could not bear it,
I would my brain I know,
And while you love me dearly,
I think I had better go.
It is sweeter to feel my darling
And know as I fall asleep
That some would mourn me and miss me
That someone was left to weep.
Though to die as I should in the future,To drop in the streets some day,Unknown, unwept and forgotten,After you passed me away.Perhaps the blood of the Savior,Can wash my garments clean,Perchance I may drift on the water,That flows in the pastures green.
Though to die as I should in the future,
To drop in the streets some day,
Unknown, unwept and forgotten,
After you passed me away.
Perhaps the blood of the Savior,
Can wash my garments clean,
Perchance I may drift on the water,
That flows in the pastures green.
Perchance we may meet in heaven,And walk in the street above,With nothing to grieve us or part us,Since our sinning was all through love.God says, love one another,And down to the depths of Hell,Well he sent the soul of a woman,Because she loved—and fell.
Perchance we may meet in heaven,
And walk in the street above,
With nothing to grieve us or part us,
Since our sinning was all through love.
God says, love one another,
And down to the depths of Hell,
Well he sent the soul of a woman,
Because she loved—and fell.
And so in the moon-light he found her,Or found her beautiful clay,Lifeless and pallid as marble,For the spirit had flown away.The farewell words she had written,She held to her cold white breast,And the buried blade of a dagger,Told how she had gone to rest.
And so in the moon-light he found her,
Or found her beautiful clay,
Lifeless and pallid as marble,
For the spirit had flown away.
The farewell words she had written,
She held to her cold white breast,
And the buried blade of a dagger,
Told how she had gone to rest.
* * *
By Frank B. Lindeman.
Yes I reckon God made yeHe’s blamed for rattlesnakes,And porcupines and woodchucks,And if they ain’t mistakesYe’re a crowin’ exampleOf carelessness divine,To nigh the danger line.Yer winkless eye in innocenceHides cunnin’ cussedness,And yer skin is full to bustin’With a longin’ to possessAll things that don’t belong to you,But when all’s said and doneThere’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal,And reputation’s one.
Yes I reckon God made yeHe’s blamed for rattlesnakes,And porcupines and woodchucks,And if they ain’t mistakesYe’re a crowin’ exampleOf carelessness divine,To nigh the danger line.Yer winkless eye in innocenceHides cunnin’ cussedness,And yer skin is full to bustin’With a longin’ to possessAll things that don’t belong to you,But when all’s said and doneThere’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal,And reputation’s one.
Yes I reckon God made yeHe’s blamed for rattlesnakes,And porcupines and woodchucks,And if they ain’t mistakesYe’re a crowin’ exampleOf carelessness divine,To nigh the danger line.
Yes I reckon God made ye
He’s blamed for rattlesnakes,
And porcupines and woodchucks,
And if they ain’t mistakes
Ye’re a crowin’ example
Of carelessness divine,
To nigh the danger line.
Yer winkless eye in innocenceHides cunnin’ cussedness,And yer skin is full to bustin’With a longin’ to possessAll things that don’t belong to you,But when all’s said and doneThere’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal,And reputation’s one.
Yer winkless eye in innocence
Hides cunnin’ cussedness,
And yer skin is full to bustin’
With a longin’ to possess
All things that don’t belong to you,
But when all’s said and done
There’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal,
And reputation’s one.
* * *
The real John Barleycorn of older days is gone, but not forgotten.
Those of us who knew him best, and loved him most,
Stuck with him ’til the last drop.
* * *
Pretty (looking over the new theatre down-town)—What do you think of the excavation?
Witty—Oh, it’s pretty good as a whole.
* * *
One fine day, in the month of May, a dirty old bum came hiking; He sat down by a pig pen, which was very much to his liking. On the very same day, in the month of May, a farmer’s son came piping; Said the bum to the son, “If you’ll only come, I will show you things to your liking. I will show you the bees, and the cigarette trees, and the gum drop heights, where they give away kites, and the big rock candy mountains; And the lemonade springs, where the blue bird sings, and marbles made of crystal; you can whiff the breeze from the mince pie trees, where the wind blows fine and frisky; and you can join the band of Rocky Mountain Sam, and get yourself a sword and a pistol.” The farmer’s son then went along, listening to the bum’s merry song; and for six months they did travel. Said the bum to the son, “When I get done, you’re going to be a little devil.” The punk looked up with his big blue eyes, and then he said to Sandy, “Now we’ve been a hiking all day long, now gosh darn where’s your candy? You put a brace on my leg, and showed me how to beg, and you told me you were my jocker; and you told me lies, when you promised me pies, and you called me an apple knocker; I’m a goin’ back home, no more to roam, I’m packing my junkerino; You can bet your lid, that this Hoosier kid, won’t be any bum’s punkerino.”
* * *
Misplaced Eyebrow—“There is a hair in my soup.”
Diplomatic Waiter—“Probably out of your mustache.”
“I never thought of that.”
* * *
“How do you like the Volstead Act?”
“I never did care for vaudeville.”
* * *
Johnny was late at school and explained that a wedding at his house was the cause of the delay.
“That’s nice,” replied teacher, “who gave the bride away?”
“Well,” Johnny answered, “I could have, but I kept my mouth shut.”
* * *
Her has gone, her has went,Her has left I all alone,Can her never come to me,Must me always go to she?It can never was.
Her has gone, her has went,Her has left I all alone,Can her never come to me,Must me always go to she?It can never was.
Her has gone, her has went,Her has left I all alone,Can her never come to me,Must me always go to she?It can never was.
Her has gone, her has went,
Her has left I all alone,
Can her never come to me,
Must me always go to she?
It can never was.
* * *
“I suppose your wife was tickled to death at your raise in salary?”
“She will be.”
“Haven’t you told her yet?”
“No, I thought I would enjoy myself for a couple of weeks first.”
* * *
Isaac Goldstein came home one evening, unexpectedly, and found a man sitting on his wife’s lap.
Next day he told his business partner about it. His partner asked Mr. Goldstein what he had said to the man.
Goldstein replied, “I didn’t even speak to him. He was a stranger.”