Days of Real Sport

* * *

(From the Menominee Herald-Leader.)

Ten Years Ago Today: Henry Albright is in serious danger of losing one eye as the result of being cut by a beer glass in a rumpus last evening in Michael Bottkol’s saloon.

Questions and Answers

Dear Bill—How does moonshine affect you?—June Meadows.

It usually puts me in a daze for days and days.

* * *

Dear Skipper Bill—How can I remove stains from linen so they will not return?—Aggie Vayting.

Use a pair of scissors.

* * *

Dear Whiz Bang Bill—A friend of mine wants to know if you were a captain in the army or the navy, as he was a seaman in the navy. He is wondering what part of the ship you were captain of, if you were in the navy.—Navy Beehne.

I would probably have been captain of the head in the navy.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I saw this in your Mail Bag section of the Whiz Bang: “Dot—A is right. Get out and walk.” Could you give me Dot’s address, Bill, so that through her I can get in touch with “B”?—Dolly Varden.

You will find Dot at the end of this sentence, old dear.

* * *

Dear Skipper Bill—You’ve been in the army, so perhaps you could give me a good idea of a brave man.—May Wheat.

A goop who can drink prohibition whiskey and wash it down with near beer.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—We are a couple of hallroom boys and would like to know how we can stop the odor of our cooking from being detected by the landlady.—Percy and Hal.

Apply a coat of rubber to the top of your stove. This is sure to destroy cooking odors.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—What’s your idea of an absent-minded man?—Kureous Kwizsky.

One who forgets his watch and then takes it out of his pocket to see if he has time to go back for it.

* * *

Dear Billy—What do you think is meant by “The shades of night were falling fast?”—Alice Blue.

When people are pulling down their curtains.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I am appearing soon in a home talent show and would like to know how I can get a Salome costume. Can you help me?—Doris Doughnut.

Tie two brass fingerbowls together with a shoe-string.

* * *

Dear Bill—I went out riding with a young man the other night and drank some champagne. Did I do wrong?—Mother’s Daughter.

Don’t you remember?

* * *

Dear Skipper—What’s your idea of a non-essential industry?—May Hogany.

A corkscrew factory.

* * *

Dear Snappy Skipper—How many miles do you get from a gallon of hooch?—U. Kisser.

It depends on the thinness of the mixture before it goes through my carburetor.

* * *

Dear Captain Billy—I’m in love with a Spanish Beauty, but she’s jealous of me. How can I cure her?—Will B. Schott.

No, Will, I can’t tell you how to cure her. Better stay away from her or you might wake up some morning with a stick in your gizzard.

* * *

Dear Captainovich—Vot’s a gude name for a Yiddish baby born in an Irisher neighborhood?—Tuda Banke.

Isaac Murphy would be safest.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—What is good to take grass stains out of a white dress?—Helen Earth.

Damfino—Wear a green dress hereafter.

* * *

Dear Whiz Bang Bill—Why do people insist on telling liquor jokes?—’Gus Ted.

Probably because they’re the only kind that have spirit in them.

* * *

Dear Farmer Billy—Would you please give me a suggestion for an evening dress? I am about to make my debut in society.—Arrah Bella.

Wind two yards of ribbon around the waist and tie in a huge bow.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—You say, in your March issue, that Eve was entered in the human race. I wish she’d never been entered in any race. Then I wouldn’t have to put up with henpeckery now. What in the deuce was she put on earth for, anyway?—Tis Tuff.

Eve was made, my friend, for Adam’s express company.

* * *

Dear Skipper—Please give me a definition of joy.—Minnie Mumm.

Joy is the peculiar feeling experienced by a man after a drunk when he counts his money and discovers that he has all the cash he thought he had and a few dollars more.

* * *

Dear Captain Bill—Why is a landlord like a poker player?—Tom Nolan.

Because he always raises when he gets a full house.

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

“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

A pal is in the diamond-pearl-ruby class—very rare and very precious. But different in this way—fine and scarce as a real pal is, intrinsic value does not enter into his possession.

A pal loves, forgives, forgets, sympathizes, understands—above all, understands. You don’t have to explain or excuse to the one who is your pal.

A pal always comes to you when you need him most, and he isn’t scared away a bit, if the whole world deserts you. He is there to stay because, don’t you see, he is your pal, and you want him and he wants you. And that explains everything.

There is something infinitely wonderful about one’s pal that you can’t even express or explain. A pal doesn’t keep things back. A pal is honest, above-board, open, and expressive. A pal can make mistakes and they are just mistakes; but if he isn’t your pal, then they are blunders instead, and you may resent and be unhappy and sadly sorry—but, somehow, with a pal you love right through everything and are the stronger bound for the very weaknesses that sometimes hide strong feeling unexpressed.

A pal is always around—in spirit and in feeling. He doesn’t understand the fair weather quality. If it rains, he is still your pal. If it cyclones, he is just the same as when the sun is brightest and warmest. A pal hovers about.

My pal is always around when I am most in need, and I am inspired and spurred ahead. I shall win all things worth while because I have a pal; and there will be no secrets except for the utter freedom and frankness of expression between us, back and forth, which, in itself, becomes a double secret to the world, but no secret at all as far as we are concerned.

If you have a pal you have the world—and no one can take it from you.

* * *

In this day and age of hair dyes and henna, women who are beautiful but unwise, wise but not beautiful, virtuous but neither wise nor beautiful, of good discourse and good music, but neither virtuous, wise nor beautiful, Benedict of “Much Ado About Nothing” would be sorely put to find a wife, it occurs to me. From this Shakespearean play we unearth the following statement of the finical Benedict:

“One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well. But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.

“Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse and excellentmusician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God.”

* * *

To hear the common run of comment on the dress of women, it might be supposed that morals grow short with skirts. Of course, if one believes that the human body is nasty, then the more of it covered the better. But if one does not have such an extraordinary view, it is hard to take seriously the arguments of those who would lengthen skirts to preserve virtue.

It needs but very little looking and thinking to reach the conviction that the best cure for curiosity about legs is to see legs.

Since health and comfort are so markedly conserved by the short skirt, one hopes never to see again on our streets the skirt that sweeps the filth of the sidewalk.

* * *

Some bunk historian claims that Pocahontas never saved John Smith’s life; that Miles Standish never talked with Priscilla; and knocks a lot of other Colonial traditions, including the one about Columbus making an egg stand up. Some of these days we will be told that Jack Horner never stuck his thumb in a pie; that the old woman never lived in a shoe; or that Jack never jumped over a candlestick. We need a Society for the Prevention of Agnostic Historical Writers.

* * *

The Zion City ruler orders young men not to give diamond engagement rings but to save the money for baby buggies. He is practical rather than romantic.

* * *

Honor the chief. There must be a head to everything.

Have confidence in yourself and make yourself fit.

Harmonize your work. Let sunshine radiate and penetrate.

Handle the hardest job first each day. Easy ones are a pleasure.

Do not be afraid of criticism—criticize yourself often.

Be glad and rejoice in the other fellow’s success—study his methods.

Do not be misled by dislikes. Acid ruins the finest fabrics.

Be enthusiastic—it is contagious.

Do not have the notion that success means money making.

Be fair and do at least one decent act every day in the year.

* * *

Says Ernest Thompson Seton, who is described as a naturalist:

“Sex morality has no relation to clothing, as is proved by the naked tribes of East Africa, who are the most moral people in the world in their natural state, but who always take a downward step morally when compelled by missionaries to wear clothing. The shorter the dress of the female and the lower the neck of her bodice, the greater her moral influence and the greater her tendency to health.”

Oh, Adam, why did you ever wear that fig leaf?

Smokehouse Poetry

When the world was in babyhood, woman was the slave for man’s satisfaction. Today man is the slave to serve woman. William Ernest Henley’s poem, “Or Ever the Knightly Years Were Gone,” inspired the book from which the picture drama, “Male and Female,” was written. Going back to biblical days, the throwing of the beautiful woman to the lions for her refusal to satisfy the lust of the King of Babylon, is compared with woman’s present punishment upon man for Babylon’s offense. This poem will be given a leading place in Smokehouse Poetry in the May issue, and it goes something like this:I saw, I took, I cast you by,I bent and broke your pride;You loved me well, or I heard them lie,But your longing was denied;Surely I knew that by and byYou cursed your gods and died.The Whiz Bang also will publish for the first time in any national magazine “Toledo Slim,” a parallel to “The Blue Velvet Band,” and it winds up with this:One foggy day on Market Street, I met him sure as fate,He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late;I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,And then I made my getaway, and glommed an eastbound train.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,I bent and broke your pride;You loved me well, or I heard them lie,But your longing was denied;Surely I knew that by and byYou cursed your gods and died.

I saw, I took, I cast you by,

I bent and broke your pride;

You loved me well, or I heard them lie,

But your longing was denied;

Surely I knew that by and by

You cursed your gods and died.

The Whiz Bang also will publish for the first time in any national magazine “Toledo Slim,” a parallel to “The Blue Velvet Band,” and it winds up with this:

One foggy day on Market Street, I met him sure as fate,He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late;I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,And then I made my getaway, and glommed an eastbound train.

One foggy day on Market Street, I met him sure as fate,

He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late;

I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain,

And then I made my getaway, and glommed an eastbound train.

* * *

By PAUL DESPREZ

It’s all very well to write reviews,And carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes,And say what everyone’s saying here,And wear what everyone else must wear,But tonight I’m sick of the whole affair.For I want free life and I want fresh air,And I long for the canter after the cattle,For the crack of the whip, like shots in battle,For the meelee of hoofs and horns, and headsThat wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads,For the green beneath and the blue aboveAnd dash, and danger, and life and love, and Lasca.Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustangClose to my side,With blue serape and bright belled spur,I laughed with joy when I looked at her;Little knew she of books or creeds,An Ave Marie sufficed her needs,Little cared she, save to be by my side,To ride with me and ever to rideFrom San Sabas shore to Lavatoes tide.The air was heavy and the night was hot,I sat by her side and forgot, forgot,Forgot that the air was close, oppressed,That a Texas northern comes sudden and soonIn the dead of night or the blaze of noon,And once let a herd in its rest take fright,There’s nothing on earth can stop its flight,And woe to the rider and woe to the steedThat falls in front of a mad stampede.Was that thunder?I sprang to the saddle, she clung behindAnd away on a hot race down the wind,And never was steed so little sparedAnd never was foxhunt half so hard,For we rode for our lives,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.The mustang flew, but we urged him on.You have one chance leftAnd you have but one halt,Jump to earth and shoot your horse,Crouch under his carcass and take your chance,And if those steers in their maddening courseDon’t batter you both to pieces at onceYou may thank your stars, if not good-bye,With a quickened kiss and a long-drawn sighTo the opened air and the open skyOf Texas, down by the Rio Grande.The cattle were gaining and just as I feltFor my good six-shooter behind in my belt,Down came the mustang, and down we clinging together.What is the rest? A body has spread itself on my breast,Two lips so close to my lips were pressed.And then came thunder into my earsAnd over us surged “a sea of steers,”Blows that beat blood into my eyes,Two arms are shielding my dizzy head,And when I could rise, Lasca was dead.I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep.And there she is lying and no one knows,And the summer shines and the winter snows.For many a year the flowers have spreadA pall of petals over her head.And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone.Stately and still like a ship at sea.And I wonder why I do not careFor the things that are like the things that wereDoes half the heart lie buried thereIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

It’s all very well to write reviews,

And carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes,

And say what everyone’s saying here,

And wear what everyone else must wear,

But tonight I’m sick of the whole affair.

For I want free life and I want fresh air,

And I long for the canter after the cattle,

For the crack of the whip, like shots in battle,

For the meelee of hoofs and horns, and heads

That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads,

For the green beneath and the blue above

And dash, and danger, and life and love, and Lasca.

Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustangClose to my side,With blue serape and bright belled spur,I laughed with joy when I looked at her;Little knew she of books or creeds,An Ave Marie sufficed her needs,Little cared she, save to be by my side,To ride with me and ever to rideFrom San Sabas shore to Lavatoes tide.

Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang

Close to my side,

With blue serape and bright belled spur,

I laughed with joy when I looked at her;

Little knew she of books or creeds,

An Ave Marie sufficed her needs,

Little cared she, save to be by my side,

To ride with me and ever to ride

From San Sabas shore to Lavatoes tide.

The air was heavy and the night was hot,I sat by her side and forgot, forgot,Forgot that the air was close, oppressed,That a Texas northern comes sudden and soonIn the dead of night or the blaze of noon,And once let a herd in its rest take fright,There’s nothing on earth can stop its flight,And woe to the rider and woe to the steedThat falls in front of a mad stampede.

The air was heavy and the night was hot,

I sat by her side and forgot, forgot,

Forgot that the air was close, oppressed,

That a Texas northern comes sudden and soon

In the dead of night or the blaze of noon,

And once let a herd in its rest take fright,

There’s nothing on earth can stop its flight,

And woe to the rider and woe to the steed

That falls in front of a mad stampede.

Was that thunder?I sprang to the saddle, she clung behindAnd away on a hot race down the wind,And never was steed so little sparedAnd never was foxhunt half so hard,For we rode for our lives,In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

Was that thunder?

I sprang to the saddle, she clung behind

And away on a hot race down the wind,

And never was steed so little spared

And never was foxhunt half so hard,

For we rode for our lives,

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, but we urged him on.You have one chance leftAnd you have but one halt,Jump to earth and shoot your horse,Crouch under his carcass and take your chance,And if those steers in their maddening courseDon’t batter you both to pieces at onceYou may thank your stars, if not good-bye,With a quickened kiss and a long-drawn sighTo the opened air and the open skyOf Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The mustang flew, but we urged him on.

You have one chance left

And you have but one halt,

Jump to earth and shoot your horse,

Crouch under his carcass and take your chance,

And if those steers in their maddening course

Don’t batter you both to pieces at once

You may thank your stars, if not good-bye,

With a quickened kiss and a long-drawn sigh

To the opened air and the open sky

Of Texas, down by the Rio Grande.

The cattle were gaining and just as I feltFor my good six-shooter behind in my belt,Down came the mustang, and down we clinging together.What is the rest? A body has spread itself on my breast,Two lips so close to my lips were pressed.And then came thunder into my earsAnd over us surged “a sea of steers,”Blows that beat blood into my eyes,Two arms are shielding my dizzy head,And when I could rise, Lasca was dead.

The cattle were gaining and just as I felt

For my good six-shooter behind in my belt,

Down came the mustang, and down we clinging together.

What is the rest? A body has spread itself on my breast,

Two lips so close to my lips were pressed.

And then came thunder into my ears

And over us surged “a sea of steers,”

Blows that beat blood into my eyes,

Two arms are shielding my dizzy head,

And when I could rise, Lasca was dead.

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep.And there she is lying and no one knows,And the summer shines and the winter snows.For many a year the flowers have spreadA pall of petals over her head.And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone.Stately and still like a ship at sea.And I wonder why I do not careFor the things that are like the things that wereDoes half the heart lie buried thereIn Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,

And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep.

And there she is lying and no one knows,

And the summer shines and the winter snows.

For many a year the flowers have spread

A pall of petals over her head.

And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone.

Stately and still like a ship at sea.

And I wonder why I do not care

For the things that are like the things that were

Does half the heart lie buried there

In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?

* * *

Weddings and rice, old maids and advice,And the world rocks on just the same.You may win the pot, and again you may not,But remember, it’s all in the game.

Weddings and rice, old maids and advice,

And the world rocks on just the same.

You may win the pot, and again you may not,

But remember, it’s all in the game.

* * *

The author of this poem, John McCrae, B.A., M.D., M.R.C.P., was born in Guelph, Canada, son of Colonel and Mrs. David McCrae, who still survive him, and for several years he was professor of pathology at the University of Vermont. In 1899 and 1900 he served with the artillery in South Africa and rose to the rank of commanding officer of his battery. Lieutenant-Colonel McCrae died in France from pneumonia January 28, 1918, in his forty-sixth year. His other masterpiece, The Anxious Dead, will be published in the May issue of the Whiz Bang, together with Poppies, J. Eugene Chrisman’s poem of Flanders, and America’s Answer to In Flanders Fields, the work of R. W. Lillard.

By LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE

In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,Between the crosses, row on row;That mark our place, and in the sky,The larks, still bravely singing, fly;Scarce heard, amidst the guns below.We are the Dead; short days we Lived,Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow;Loved and were loved, and now we lie.In Flanders Fields.Take up our quarrel with the foe,To You, from falling hands we throwThe Torch; be yours to hold it high;If Ye break faith, with those who die,We shall not sleep—though poppies growIn Flanders Fields.

In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,Between the crosses, row on row;That mark our place, and in the sky,The larks, still bravely singing, fly;Scarce heard, amidst the guns below.

In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,

Between the crosses, row on row;

That mark our place, and in the sky,

The larks, still bravely singing, fly;

Scarce heard, amidst the guns below.

We are the Dead; short days we Lived,Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow;Loved and were loved, and now we lie.In Flanders Fields.

We are the Dead; short days we Lived,

Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow;

Loved and were loved, and now we lie.

In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe,To You, from falling hands we throwThe Torch; be yours to hold it high;If Ye break faith, with those who die,We shall not sleep—though poppies growIn Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe,

To You, from falling hands we throw

The Torch; be yours to hold it high;

If Ye break faith, with those who die,

We shall not sleep—though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

* * *

Here’s to the rose of brilliant hue,Pluck it and call it your own.The rose will fade,And so will the maidIf she’s left too long alone.

Here’s to the rose of brilliant hue,

Pluck it and call it your own.

The rose will fade,

And so will the maid

If she’s left too long alone.

* * *

Many requests from Whiz Bang readers for the publication of “Life’s a Funny Proposition After All,” the famous recitation by George M. Cohan, are answered herein. The Whiz Bang has obtained the original recitation and permission to publish it from the author.

By GEORGE M. COHAN

Did you ever sit and ponderSit and wonderSit and thinkWhy we’re here and what this life is all about?It’s a problem that has driven many brainy men to drink,It’s the weirdest thing they’ve tried to figure out,About a thousand theories all the scientists can showBut never yet have proved a reason whyWith all we’ve thought and all we’re taughtWhy, all we seem to know is we’re bornAnd live a little whileAnd then we die.Life’s a very funny proposition after all.Three meals a dayA whole lot to say,When you haven’t got the coinYou’re always in the way.Everybody’s fighting as we wend our way along,Every fellow claims the other fellow’s in the wrong.Hurried and worried until we’re buriedAnd there’s no curtain call,Life’s a funny proposition, after all.When all things are coming easy and when luck is with a man,Why, then life to him is sunshine everywhere;Then the Fates blow rather breezy and they quite upset a plan,Then he’ll cry that life’s a burden hard to bear.Though today may be a day of smiles,Tomorrow’s still in doubtAnd what brings me joy may bring you care and woe.We’re born to dieBut we don’t know whyOr what it’s all about,And the more we try to learn the less we knowAnd no one’s ever solved the problem properly as yet.Young for a day, then old and gray,Like the rose that buds and bloomsAnd fades—and falls away.Losing health to gain our wealthAs through this dream we tour,Everything’s a guess and nothing’s absolutely sure.Battles exciting and fates we’re fightingUntil the curtains fall,Life’s a funny proposition, after all.

Did you ever sit and ponder

Sit and wonder

Sit and think

Why we’re here and what this life is all about?

It’s a problem that has driven many brainy men to drink,

It’s the weirdest thing they’ve tried to figure out,

About a thousand theories all the scientists can show

But never yet have proved a reason why

With all we’ve thought and all we’re taught

Why, all we seem to know is we’re born

And live a little while

And then we die.

Life’s a very funny proposition after all.

Three meals a day

A whole lot to say,

When you haven’t got the coin

You’re always in the way.

Everybody’s fighting as we wend our way along,

Every fellow claims the other fellow’s in the wrong.

Hurried and worried until we’re buried

And there’s no curtain call,

Life’s a funny proposition, after all.

When all things are coming easy and when luck is with a man,

Why, then life to him is sunshine everywhere;

Then the Fates blow rather breezy and they quite upset a plan,

Then he’ll cry that life’s a burden hard to bear.

Though today may be a day of smiles,

Tomorrow’s still in doubt

And what brings me joy may bring you care and woe.

We’re born to die

But we don’t know why

Or what it’s all about,

And the more we try to learn the less we know

And no one’s ever solved the problem properly as yet.

Young for a day, then old and gray,

Like the rose that buds and blooms

And fades—and falls away.

Losing health to gain our wealth

As through this dream we tour,

Everything’s a guess and nothing’s absolutely sure.

Battles exciting and fates we’re fighting

Until the curtains fall,

Life’s a funny proposition, after all.

* * *

Tom drank until he could drink no more,Then went to sleep on the barroom floor;Where he slumbered with a troubled brain,To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.Wilder and wilder the country grew,Faster and faster the engine flew,Louder and louder the thunder crashed,Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed.And out in the distance there rose a yell,“Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.”Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in painAnd begged of the devil to stop the train.“You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor,The starving brother you turned from your door,You have laid up gold where canker rusts,And given free use of your fleshly lusts.“So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire,Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.”Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry,His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high.And he prayed as he never prayed before,To be saved from drink and the devil’s power,And his vow and prayers were not in vain,For he never more rode on the hell-bound train.

Tom drank until he could drink no more,Then went to sleep on the barroom floor;Where he slumbered with a troubled brain,To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

Tom drank until he could drink no more,

Then went to sleep on the barroom floor;

Where he slumbered with a troubled brain,

To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

Wilder and wilder the country grew,Faster and faster the engine flew,Louder and louder the thunder crashed,Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed.

Wilder and wilder the country grew,

Faster and faster the engine flew,

Louder and louder the thunder crashed,

Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed.

And out in the distance there rose a yell,“Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.”Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in painAnd begged of the devil to stop the train.

And out in the distance there rose a yell,

“Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.”

Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in pain

And begged of the devil to stop the train.

“You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor,The starving brother you turned from your door,You have laid up gold where canker rusts,And given free use of your fleshly lusts.

“You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor,

The starving brother you turned from your door,

You have laid up gold where canker rusts,

And given free use of your fleshly lusts.

“So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire,Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.”Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry,His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high.

“So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire,

Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.”

Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry,

His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high.

And he prayed as he never prayed before,To be saved from drink and the devil’s power,And his vow and prayers were not in vain,For he never more rode on the hell-bound train.

And he prayed as he never prayed before,

To be saved from drink and the devil’s power,

And his vow and prayers were not in vain,

For he never more rode on the hell-bound train.

* * *

Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer.Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser.

Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer.

Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser.

* * *

A raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amid a crashing of hip-pocket glassware, inspired Mr. McKillips to write this poetic story.

By BUDD L. McKILLIPS

Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell;Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’;Oh, I know it’s simply hell.Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer,Won’t make him unlock the door;Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler;I’ve been in these raids before.Dozen times, I guess, they nailed meWhen they used to have a line;Ward boss always came and bailed me—Sometimes even paid my fine.Never mind that “Press” sob-sister,Dry your eyes and play the game—Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister;Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey;Hush now, dear, I know your tale;Just like me you needed moneyAnd stepped out to grab the kale.Lost your job, maybe slack season;Didn’t have the price to eat—Maybe not, but that’s the reasonMost girls start to hit the street.Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’,Soon you found the business paid,And there wasn’t no slack seasonOr no lay-offs in our trade.Conscience hurt when long-faced preachersSaid as how you’d go to hell?Dear, the sons of those same teachersCame to buy the thing you sell.Just forget those sal’ried prayersWhen they tell you all those things,Tell them that the low-wage payersDon’t help grow no angel wings.Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er,Cut the weeps and be a sport,Fix your hair, here comes a copperFor to take us into court.See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’Out all night—he’s got the jerks;We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’?Holy Gee, we got the works!

Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell;Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’;Oh, I know it’s simply hell.

Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’

’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell;

Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’;

Oh, I know it’s simply hell.

Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer,Won’t make him unlock the door;Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler;I’ve been in these raids before.

Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer,

Won’t make him unlock the door;

Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler;

I’ve been in these raids before.

Dozen times, I guess, they nailed meWhen they used to have a line;Ward boss always came and bailed me—Sometimes even paid my fine.

Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me

When they used to have a line;

Ward boss always came and bailed me—

Sometimes even paid my fine.

Never mind that “Press” sob-sister,Dry your eyes and play the game—Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister;Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.

Never mind that “Press” sob-sister,

Dry your eyes and play the game—

Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister;

Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.

Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey;Hush now, dear, I know your tale;Just like me you needed moneyAnd stepped out to grab the kale.

Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey;

Hush now, dear, I know your tale;

Just like me you needed money

And stepped out to grab the kale.

Lost your job, maybe slack season;Didn’t have the price to eat—Maybe not, but that’s the reasonMost girls start to hit the street.

Lost your job, maybe slack season;

Didn’t have the price to eat—

Maybe not, but that’s the reason

Most girls start to hit the street.

Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’,Soon you found the business paid,And there wasn’t no slack seasonOr no lay-offs in our trade.

Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’,

Soon you found the business paid,

And there wasn’t no slack season

Or no lay-offs in our trade.

Conscience hurt when long-faced preachersSaid as how you’d go to hell?Dear, the sons of those same teachersCame to buy the thing you sell.

Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers

Said as how you’d go to hell?

Dear, the sons of those same teachers

Came to buy the thing you sell.

Just forget those sal’ried prayersWhen they tell you all those things,Tell them that the low-wage payersDon’t help grow no angel wings.

Just forget those sal’ried prayers

When they tell you all those things,

Tell them that the low-wage payers

Don’t help grow no angel wings.

Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er,Cut the weeps and be a sport,Fix your hair, here comes a copperFor to take us into court.

Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er,

Cut the weeps and be a sport,

Fix your hair, here comes a copper

For to take us into court.

See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’Out all night—he’s got the jerks;We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’?Holy Gee, we got the works!

See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’

Out all night—he’s got the jerks;

We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’?

Holy Gee, we got the works!

* * *

Of all the insidious temptations invidiousContrived by the Devil to put a man down,There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive,Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town.He feels such delightfulness,Stay-out-all-nightfulness,Be sure to get tightfulness,’Tis one without pain.A bachelor’s rakishness,What won’t you takishness,None can explain.His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful,’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight,But the grand opportunity,The baleful immunity,Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.

Of all the insidious temptations invidiousContrived by the Devil to put a man down,There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive,Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town.

Of all the insidious temptations invidious

Contrived by the Devil to put a man down,

There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive,

Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town.

He feels such delightfulness,Stay-out-all-nightfulness,Be sure to get tightfulness,’Tis one without pain.A bachelor’s rakishness,What won’t you takishness,None can explain.

He feels such delightfulness,

Stay-out-all-nightfulness,

Be sure to get tightfulness,

’Tis one without pain.

A bachelor’s rakishness,

What won’t you takishness,

None can explain.

His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful,’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight,But the grand opportunity,The baleful immunity,Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.

His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful,

’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight,

But the grand opportunity,

The baleful immunity,

Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.

* * *

There was a young man named Whiteside,He always slept on his rightside.When the “cooties” would crawl,You could hear the boob bawl,As he made a quick dash for the outside.

There was a young man named Whiteside,

He always slept on his rightside.

When the “cooties” would crawl,

You could hear the boob bawl,

As he made a quick dash for the outside.

* * *

By C. P. CIPIUS

Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and wearyOver many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore,While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tappingAs of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door;Only this and nothing more.They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing,Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er,Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver,Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that boreSorrow for them, evermore.All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping,And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before;Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving,These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore.Happiness? No, nevermore.Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people piningFor the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before;Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and bummingIs to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor,On the Sabbath, evermore.Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing,Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore.They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of winingOr they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore:Wooden stocks, forevermore.Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorningAll the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door;Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lyingOn its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore;Freedom’s fled, forevermore.

Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and weary

Over many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore,

While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door;

Only this and nothing more.

They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing,Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er,Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver,Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that boreSorrow for them, evermore.

They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing,

Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er,

Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver,

Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that bore

Sorrow for them, evermore.

All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping,And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before;Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving,These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore.Happiness? No, nevermore.

All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping,

And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before;

Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving,

These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore.

Happiness? No, nevermore.

Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people piningFor the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before;Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and bummingIs to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor,On the Sabbath, evermore.

Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people pining

For the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before;

Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and bumming

Is to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor,

On the Sabbath, evermore.

Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing,Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore.They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of winingOr they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore:Wooden stocks, forevermore.

Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing,

Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore.

They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of wining

Or they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore:

Wooden stocks, forevermore.

Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorningAll the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door;Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lyingOn its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore;Freedom’s fled, forevermore.

Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning

All the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door;

Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lying

On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore;

Freedom’s fled, forevermore.

* * *

I saw a barefoot lady dip,And kneel and rise and poise and hover,As if to pin a pillow slipUpon the line stretched high above her.“This must be comedy,” I said,“Some esoteric highbrow joshing,This nymph who moves with classic treadIs hanging out the family washing.”The program told me I was wrong—The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.”I saw a maid with flying feet,Whose clothes were singularly airy,Go running through a field of wheat,With all the fleetness of a fairy.When I had gazed awhile askanceAt her abbreviated habit,I thought “The title of this danceIs ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’”My guess was wrong—the program said:“A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.”Six damsels, very sparsely cladIn white diaphanous confections,Came tearing in and ran like madIn many different directions.“Aha!” I cried, “I think I getThe meaning of this scene before us;The title of it, I will bet,Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’”But my conjecture went astray—The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.”

I saw a barefoot lady dip,

And kneel and rise and poise and hover,

As if to pin a pillow slip

Upon the line stretched high above her.

“This must be comedy,” I said,

“Some esoteric highbrow joshing,

This nymph who moves with classic tread

Is hanging out the family washing.”

The program told me I was wrong—The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.”

The program told me I was wrong—

The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.”

I saw a maid with flying feet,Whose clothes were singularly airy,Go running through a field of wheat,With all the fleetness of a fairy.When I had gazed awhile askanceAt her abbreviated habit,I thought “The title of this danceIs ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’”

I saw a maid with flying feet,

Whose clothes were singularly airy,

Go running through a field of wheat,

With all the fleetness of a fairy.

When I had gazed awhile askance

At her abbreviated habit,

I thought “The title of this dance

Is ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’”

My guess was wrong—the program said:“A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.”

My guess was wrong—the program said:

“A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.”

Six damsels, very sparsely cladIn white diaphanous confections,Came tearing in and ran like madIn many different directions.“Aha!” I cried, “I think I getThe meaning of this scene before us;The title of it, I will bet,Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’”

Six damsels, very sparsely clad

In white diaphanous confections,

Came tearing in and ran like mad

In many different directions.

“Aha!” I cried, “I think I get

The meaning of this scene before us;

The title of it, I will bet,

Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’”

But my conjecture went astray—The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.”

But my conjecture went astray—

The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.”

* * *

Miss “Pabst,” young and fair,With a “Blue Ribbon” in her hair,Sat under a “Busch” of “Anheuser,”When a “Bohemian,” by plan,Rushed some “Schlitz” in a canAnd she went home “Extra Pale”“Budweiser.”

Miss “Pabst,” young and fair,

With a “Blue Ribbon” in her hair,

Sat under a “Busch” of “Anheuser,”

When a “Bohemian,” by plan,

Rushed some “Schlitz” in a can

And she went home “Extra Pale”

“Budweiser.”

* * *

Last night I dreamed—I never can forget;I saw my son a prisoner at the bar.A stripling with the honest eyes of Youth,My baby strayed away from me so far.And I, his mother, had to standAnd see him there so helpless and so dear;God knows I thought I had done right,But there stood leering Crime, and Shame, and Fear.Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning brightAnd give my child his need of help and love.Help me keep faith with him, as Thee with me,And guard this life entrusted from above.—Nellie Putnam Chapman.

Last night I dreamed—I never can forget;

I saw my son a prisoner at the bar.

A stripling with the honest eyes of Youth,

My baby strayed away from me so far.

And I, his mother, had to stand

And see him there so helpless and so dear;

God knows I thought I had done right,

But there stood leering Crime, and Shame, and Fear.

Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning bright

And give my child his need of help and love.

Help me keep faith with him, as Thee with me,

And guard this life entrusted from above.

—Nellie Putnam Chapman.

* * *

By CLEM YORE

I want to be square to the underworldAnd even a dog that is down.I’d rather be a painter of smilesThan to carve a grewsome frown.So sit you down by my bungalowAnd we will enjoy the sky,For brothers and sisters, pals of woe,You’re just as immortal as I.

I want to be square to the underworld

And even a dog that is down.

I’d rather be a painter of smiles

Than to carve a grewsome frown.

So sit you down by my bungalow

And we will enjoy the sky,

For brothers and sisters, pals of woe,

You’re just as immortal as I.

* * *

If blue were red and red were blueAnd you were I and I were you,And you loved me and I loved youAnd all alone were just we two,And you were sure nobody knew,Would you kiss me?If I were you and you were IAnd you so near I could hear you sigh,And then providing no one was nigh,And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye.Wouldn’t I?

If blue were red and red were blueAnd you were I and I were you,And you loved me and I loved youAnd all alone were just we two,And you were sure nobody knew,Would you kiss me?

If blue were red and red were blue

And you were I and I were you,

And you loved me and I loved you

And all alone were just we two,

And you were sure nobody knew,

Would you kiss me?

If I were you and you were IAnd you so near I could hear you sigh,And then providing no one was nigh,And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye.Wouldn’t I?

If I were you and you were I

And you so near I could hear you sigh,

And then providing no one was nigh,

And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye.

Wouldn’t I?

* * *

By M. V. Sumner.

Bring me a dry Martini, waiter, and chase it with something that’s wet.I went to a pink tea yesterday and I haven’t got over it yet.I heard they’ve discovered the North Pole, waiter, Gee, I wish I had it here now,They couldn’t come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow.’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high,Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry.Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think,But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink.The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock.Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the dock,Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine,The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine.Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero should;Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood.Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I hope,Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap.

Bring me a dry Martini, waiter, and chase it with something that’s wet.

I went to a pink tea yesterday and I haven’t got over it yet.

I heard they’ve discovered the North Pole, waiter, Gee, I wish I had it here now,

They couldn’t come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow.

’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high,Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry.Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think,But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink.

’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high,

Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry.

Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think,

But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink.

The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock.Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the dock,Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine,The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine.

The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock.

Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the dock,

Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine,

The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine.

Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero should;Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood.Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I hope,Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap.

Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero should;

Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood.

Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I hope,

Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap.

* * *

Who puts me in my little bedAnd spanks me till my face is red?My Mother.

Who puts me in my little bed

And spanks me till my face is red?

My Mother.

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