Questions and Answers

Dear Captain Billy—How will I head a story about a prominent Boston society girl marrying a Providence socialist?—Cub Reporter.

Just say: “Plymouth Rock chicken marries Rhode Island Red.”

Old Wheezy Bill—My landlord has raised my rent because I have a case of whisky in my apartments. Now, I don’t like to move and I don’t like to pay rent and then again its against the law to move the whisky, so what the’ll shall I do?—Oberst.

Your “case” has undoubtedly been disposed of by this time.

Dear Bill—To settle a dispute, please tell me what disease is caused from the microbe of a kiss?—June Bugg.

Palpitation of the heart.

Dear Bill—The ocean side seems so different this year. Why does it seem to make me feel so blue?—Flo Waters.

I do not know, Flo, unless it’s the wind blowing the froth over the bar that reminds you of olden days.

Dear Captain Billy—Why won’t they allow army aviators to take up women passengers in airplanes?—May Wheat.

I am told that too many of the pilots went blind while looping the loop.

Dear Editor—Can you give me the technical name for snoring?—Al McGluek.

Sheet music.

Dear Billy—Don’t you think the short skirts the girls are wearing make us look lots shorter?—Daisy Fields.

Yes, Daisy, but they make us men look lots longer, so what’s the difference?

Dear Billy—As you were in the United States army during the recent war, I wish you would inform me as to the principal ailments the boys got from abroad.—Prophylactic Pete.

I am unable to answer your question, Peter, but have referred it to Private Iodine Ike of the Cotton Batting corps.

Dear Captain Billy—I am lame, halt, nearly blind and 85 years old. What job do you think I should work at?—R. J.

Would suggest you apply for the position of gardener in a young woman’s seminary.

Dear Cap.—I’ve just composed a song for my 1920-21 “Record Breakers” show, entitled “The Stockyards Rag.” I’m enclosing a copy to get your opinion of it.—Jack Read, the “Information Kid.”

Dear Jack: The words of your song are all right, but I don’t like the “air.” It doesn’t smell just right.

Dear Captain Billy—What is your opinion of regulated public dance halls and do you believe there is a cure for the alleged dance evil?—Ichabod Iliad.

I say, on with the dance, let joy be unconfined, there is gladness unabated since Maggie Murphy dined. Did you, my dear Ichabod, ever see a teakettle bubble, dance, sing and boiler over? Well, that was the effect. The pep, fire and energy underneath it was the cause. You can’t put out the fire by removing the teakettle to a cooler spot. Therefore you can’t cure evil thinking by doing away with dancing. Fire, pep, energy is the natural results we get from the disgusting habit we have of eating. Consequently if we remove the cause, which is eating, evil thinking or dancing, which is the effect, will cure themselves.

Dear Editor—Please help me. I was out with a young lady for the first time when she saw some jewelry. She said she wished to buy some but had left her pocketbook at home. What should I have done?—Troubled Tom.

You should have lent the lady five cents to go home and get her pocketbook. Always be a gentleman.

Dear Billy—Is it essential that a “movie vamp” have dark hair and eyes?—Blondie.

No, Blondie, you still have a chance. A vamp doesn’t have to have dark hair and eyes. I know of lots of blond ones, with big blue eyes, and several red-headed ones.

Dear Whiz Bang—Is there any truth in the rumor that Douglas Fairbanks is already considering getting a divorce from Mary Pickford?—Ima Darby.

I don’t believe it’s true but only an idle rumor gathered from the story that Doug was peeved because Mary talked in her sleep and cried out the name of her first husband too often.

Dear Editor Whiz Bang—I am a civics instructor at a high school, am 45 years of age, but act like any spry young man. I am deeply infatuated with the pretty young school secretary. I went with her a few months this year and then for a spell lost my liking for her. Now for some reason or other I am again in love with her, but am afraid to make any advances to her because she has recently purchased a car and I am afraid people will think that there is “method in my madness.” Remember that I love her and then tell me what to do.—Ad Noid.

You’re not acting like “any spry young man” if you’re withholding your declaration of love for fear of what people would think. Tell her and don’t lose any time about it.

Whiz BangEditorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

The Whiz Bang desires to call the attention of its readers to the latest book published by the Reverend “Golightly” Morrill, famous author-traveler-preacher, who has been a regular correspondent to this magazine. Mr. Morrill is one of America’s most forceful writers and his varied experiences as a social worker and globetrotter fits him to deal trenchantly on varied subjects. The editor is not personally acquainted with Mr. Morrill but has been an interested reader of all his works for the past 20 years. Read his ad on page 64 of this issue and add his latest book to your library.

Tangier Island, in Chesapeake Bay, is where the natives still vote for Andrew Jackson. The island is nothing if not religious in the narrowest and most reactionary sense of the word. Only one church is on the island, and those who run it think that hell’s hottest fires are burning specially for all who do not agree with each and every religious dogma they have. The minister is almost qualified to butt into the Trinity and make it a Quartette. It is against the law to hold or attend any religious service not under the auspices of the local church monopoly. It is also required by law that you attend the church every Sunday, and as if that is not enough, you are not allowed to be out of your house on Sunday, not even on your own porch, except to go to and from church services. It is frankly claimed by the powers that be, that without such stern compulsion the natives would desecrate the Sabbath by congregating at stores or elsewhere, and then, if the devil should happen to come to claim his own, he might scoop up the whole island population as a consequence.

Roland Parks, a young man 17 years old, a resident of Tangier Island, was wicked and audacious enough to cut church service one Sunday and to take the air on the porch of his house while the meeting was in progress. Officer Connorton got on the job and ordered him to come to church. Young Parks refused, Connorton tried to arrest him, Parks fled, Connorton drew his revolver and shot Parks, dangerously wounding him. The inhabitants of the island regret the shooting, but hold that it would be better for such as Parks to be shot and killed rather than the law, which they approve, should be violated.

Among the other Puritan blue laws of Tangier Island are those prohibiting music anywhere during church service, even though the instrument may be far away and no sound come through the walls; playing ball at any time on Sunday, etc.

It may be a shock to learn that such archaic conditions exist anywhere in the world, let alone in our own country. True enough, we are the most backward people on earth to control landlords and profiteers. But it seems that the same may be said of us in regard to religious tyrants and persecutors.

Admitting, for the sake of argument, that things taboo on Tangier Island displease God, why can’t his agents safely leave it to Him to enforce His will and punish those who violate His law? God needs no human avengers. It is an axiom that the only call for human legislation is tangible wrong or harm to some member or members of society.

Just here we stopped to look over some exchanges, and find that the ministers of Lynnbrook, near New York City, have forced the Sunday closing of a local amusement park. This will not be allowed to open on Sunday, not even at hours that do not conflict with any church services of the day. Give these reverend gentlemen credit. They did not find shooting necessary in the process. But give them debit for a senseless piece of business. With Coney Island and Rockaway Beach near by, the Lynnbrook people will simply take a short trolley ride and get what they want much better. What was accomplished, what could have been accomplished, to help keep the Sabbath day holy? A zero with the circle erased. Any sensible man could have seen this in advance. But who has less sense than a tyrannical religious fanatic? Only a man who expects one such to have any sense at all.

Woman is creation’s best and last work and should be the most attractive thing in the universe.

Clothes are the index of character. A woman is known by the dress she wears. A standard of a country’s or century’s mind and morals is known by its fashion-plate.

Some women are as long in dressing as Caesar was in marshalling his army. They go to church to show their clothes, spend more money for hacks than for Bibles, strut home like peacocks, forgetting that clothes are but the reminders of lost innocency and that to be proud of rustling silk is to be like the madman who laughs at the rattling of his fetters. They only think of dress, and were you to steal their clothes you would rob them of the only valuable thing they possessed.

Skirts have been bloated like a balloon and long as a crocodile’s tail, but now they are meagre as a mummy and docked like a horse’s tail, for Fashion is a foolish and freakish goddess.

A short skirt is said to be economical in material, sanitary because it is not a street or sidewalk cleaner, and comfortable for locomotion—but when art sacrifices utility in attempt to show the figure, as Venus before Anchises or Medea before Jason, it is a matter not only of comment but censure. Too often on leading thoroughfares we fine a godless model of fashion which is an insult to sex and an outrage on decency.

The first short skirt was made in the Garden of Eden of fig leaves because there were no Parisian dressmakers present.

Skirt styles today are going back to the original fig-leaf fashion.

Mother Eve ate the apple, became “wise” and her first thought was of dress, and that is all some of her daughters have thought of since.

American women are willing to wear any skirt that bears a Paris label, but would they if they knew it was a French fashion to advertise demimondaine charms?

If good women, who wear the suggestive short, close-fitting and diaphanous skirt, knew what bad men said when they went by, they would fall dead or call for a taxi and break the speed limit to get home and hide in the cellar.

Men are a bad lot and women should help them to be better and not worse.

There are men in hospitals and hell who owe their damnation in time and eternity to the skirts of some bad, beautiful woman.

Fashion is the world’s undertaker and often charges a woman a big bill for a body with diseased functions, a mind with dwarfed faculties, and a soul with a future damned.

Girls, whose altar is a looking-glass, and their Bible a fashion magazine, might well pause to ask themselves how they will look in their coffin-shroud when the prevaricating preacher tries to offer some word of comfort to the mourners, and what they will say to the great Judge when they stand “naked and ashamed,” because on earth they wore the skirts of sin instead of the robe of Christ’s righteousness.

With the October issue, Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang will start its second year. This little publication was created with the idea of giving the former service men in the vicinity of Robbinsdale and the Twin Cities a continuation of the pep and snap we got in the army. The first run of the press was 2,000 copies. They went like hot-cakes and “seconds” were necessary. For several successive months it was necessary to double our monthly press order. We sincerely tender our heartfelt thanks for your loyal support and shall endeavor more than ever to merit your patronage.

For the benefit of new readers, as well as the old, The Whiz Bang will publish its first annual year book with the October issue. This “Year Book” will contain in part the livest selections from all previous issues. The back copies of The Whiz Bank have been “mopped up” so that it is not possible to fill any orders for previous issues. The demand for back copies brought forth the idea of an annual review. The editor will aim to compile the choicest poems, jests, jingles and stories from the previous 12 issues into this October Year Book.

One often hears wonder expressed that reputable persons find apparent pleasure in visiting cafes, road houses, country clubs or other places of amusement of questionable character. Yet the psychology of the matter is not so far to seek. The “young person,” and many persons continue to remain immature in mind long beyond the normal period of unripeness, likes to feel that he is very wise in the ways of the world. A young man likes to have his actions show that he is “a man of the world,” even though he may not make the claim in words. The fact that he is nothing of the kind urges him on to become better acquainted with “the primrose paths.”

Hence it often results that an innocent young person will go with others to a restaurant with a shady reputation, either in the spirit of bravado or to discover what the secret is. Often enough the place, on the outside of the life shown there, seems innocent enough and the visitors wonder at the secrecy, innuendo and charm draped about the place.

The real “man of the world” knows the taste of the “dead sea fruit” well enough.

The Footpath of Peace

To be glad of life, because it gives you a chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars, to be satisfied with your possessions, but not contented with yourself until you have made the best of them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admirations rather than by your disgust. To covet nothing that is your neighbor’s except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends, and every day of Christ; and to spend as much time as you can, with body and with spirit, in God’s out-of-doors; these are little guide-posts on the footpath to peace.—Henry Van Dyke.

Why the Editor Left Town(From the Rochester, Minn., Bulletin.)

Why the Editor Left Town

(From the Rochester, Minn., Bulletin.)

Miss Isabel Jones returned yesterday from Chicago, where she visited her son, Dick, and attended the Republican convention. Miss Jones also visited at the National Kindergarten College, which she formerly attended.

Free Verse

When a girl walksDown the streetWith hardly enoughClothes on to makeA tail for a kiteYou can’t expect a fellowTo have prayer meetingThoughts.

When a girl walks

Down the street

With hardly enough

Clothes on to make

A tail for a kite

You can’t expect a fellow

To have prayer meeting

Thoughts.

Little Johnnie rushed home from school, through the house and into the yard where he had a pen of pet rabbits. Picking one up he began to shake it violently, repeating with each shake and in a rather rough tone: “Two and two; two and two.”

Johnnie’s mother heard the noise. She ran to the window and yelled at him to stop abusing the rabbit. “Stop that, Johnnie,” she admonished. “You’ll kill poor bunny.”

“I don’t care if I do,” Johnnie replied. “Teacher told me a lie today. She said rabbits multiplied faster than anything and this one can’t even add.”

Smokehouse Poetry

HAVE you ever sighed for the good old days before the Great Drought? I have—many, many times. Oh! Gentle Readers, how my mouth has filled with juicy cotton at the thought of a nice, large, cooling glass of lager. You know, the kind we got before the war—the amber fluid that would almost make you side-slip into a tail spin and flop on your fusilage. In the September issue, I want you to read “Sherry,” and then eat an egg so as to complete the illusion.

Oh, ’tis so. Don’t I know?You’re in for it, once you begin it.As with wine, so with love, you’d better go slow,For the devil himself is in it!She’s a “darby” poem for the old-fashioned Bohemian.—The Editor.

Oh, ’tis so. Don’t I know?

You’re in for it, once you begin it.

As with wine, so with love, you’d better go slow,

For the devil himself is in it!

She’s a “darby” poem for the old-fashioned Bohemian.—The Editor.

The Worldly WayBy Monroe H. Rosenfeld.

The Worldly Way

By Monroe H. Rosenfeld.

“Come back, my child,” said the father fondTo his boy who had gone astrayOut in the bitter world of sin—Out in the sorrowed way;“Thou hast erred, my child, yet what of that?And Frailty’s name is mine,Thy path of sin is naught to me,For repentance is divine!”And so it chanced that the lad returnedOne night, when the low’ring dayOf Life had cast its dark’ning gloomAnd lured him from his way;And wine and song and kindly hands,Like the dream of the prodigal son,Were lent in humble, sweet embraceTo welcome the erring one!––––––––A maiden fair in tattered gown,Aweary and sad at heart,Passed out in the rabble of the streetWith penance for a part.Hers was the fate of Passion’s love,And she a thing of scorn;“Thou hast erred and sinned,” cried the bitter world,“’Twere better to be unborn!”“Thou art not my child!” the father said,As he closed the mansion door—“Passion and sin go hand in hand,Seek thou another shore!”And the girl went forth forever, aye,A penitent child of shame—One of the millions wandering onFor woe and Death to claim.––––––––Ah! this was many years ago,When life was a youthful dream;And yester eve I saw two gravesIn a churchyard near a stream;The glittering waters rippled softTheir cadence for a songOf the sinner and sinned who buried layApart from the madding throng.The same sweet carol of the birdsOverhead, that sang their strain;The same sweet zephyrs lingering byMade dirges for the twain.One forgiven! The other spurned!Both in the depths of clay.Yet each again to rise, despiteThe cross of the worldly way!––––––––“Here’s where I prove an artistWithout a brush,” he cried,As he drew a lovely maidenUp closer to his side.

“Come back, my child,” said the father fond

To his boy who had gone astray

Out in the bitter world of sin—

Out in the sorrowed way;

“Thou hast erred, my child, yet what of that?

And Frailty’s name is mine,

Thy path of sin is naught to me,

For repentance is divine!”

And so it chanced that the lad returnedOne night, when the low’ring dayOf Life had cast its dark’ning gloomAnd lured him from his way;And wine and song and kindly hands,Like the dream of the prodigal son,Were lent in humble, sweet embraceTo welcome the erring one!

And so it chanced that the lad returned

One night, when the low’ring day

Of Life had cast its dark’ning gloom

And lured him from his way;

And wine and song and kindly hands,

Like the dream of the prodigal son,

Were lent in humble, sweet embrace

To welcome the erring one!

––––––––

A maiden fair in tattered gown,Aweary and sad at heart,Passed out in the rabble of the streetWith penance for a part.Hers was the fate of Passion’s love,And she a thing of scorn;“Thou hast erred and sinned,” cried the bitter world,“’Twere better to be unborn!”

A maiden fair in tattered gown,

Aweary and sad at heart,

Passed out in the rabble of the street

With penance for a part.

Hers was the fate of Passion’s love,

And she a thing of scorn;

“Thou hast erred and sinned,” cried the bitter world,

“’Twere better to be unborn!”

“Thou art not my child!” the father said,As he closed the mansion door—“Passion and sin go hand in hand,Seek thou another shore!”And the girl went forth forever, aye,A penitent child of shame—One of the millions wandering onFor woe and Death to claim.

“Thou art not my child!” the father said,

As he closed the mansion door—

“Passion and sin go hand in hand,

Seek thou another shore!”

And the girl went forth forever, aye,

A penitent child of shame—

One of the millions wandering on

For woe and Death to claim.

––––––––

Ah! this was many years ago,When life was a youthful dream;And yester eve I saw two gravesIn a churchyard near a stream;The glittering waters rippled softTheir cadence for a songOf the sinner and sinned who buried layApart from the madding throng.

Ah! this was many years ago,

When life was a youthful dream;

And yester eve I saw two graves

In a churchyard near a stream;

The glittering waters rippled soft

Their cadence for a song

Of the sinner and sinned who buried lay

Apart from the madding throng.

The same sweet carol of the birdsOverhead, that sang their strain;The same sweet zephyrs lingering byMade dirges for the twain.One forgiven! The other spurned!Both in the depths of clay.Yet each again to rise, despiteThe cross of the worldly way!

The same sweet carol of the birds

Overhead, that sang their strain;

The same sweet zephyrs lingering by

Made dirges for the twain.

One forgiven! The other spurned!

Both in the depths of clay.

Yet each again to rise, despite

The cross of the worldly way!

––––––––

“Here’s where I prove an artistWithout a brush,” he cried,As he drew a lovely maidenUp closer to his side.

“Here’s where I prove an artist

Without a brush,” he cried,

As he drew a lovely maiden

Up closer to his side.

Hell

Sometimes we say—It’s colde’r’n Hell;Sometimes we say—It’s hotter’n Hell,And when it rains,’Tis Hell we cry;It’s also HellWhen it is dry.Married life’s Hell—So they say;You get home late—There’s Hell to pay;I suppose it is HellIf babe cries all night,And doctor bills—They’re Hell all right.But still there’s “Hell, yes”; “Hell, no,”And “Oh, Hell,” too;“The Hell you don’t”And “The Hell you do.”Now, how in the HellCan anyone tell,What in the HellWe mean by Hell.—By Numatic, Akron, O.

Sometimes we say—It’s colde’r’n Hell;Sometimes we say—It’s hotter’n Hell,And when it rains,’Tis Hell we cry;It’s also HellWhen it is dry.

Sometimes we say—

It’s colde’r’n Hell;

Sometimes we say—

It’s hotter’n Hell,

And when it rains,

’Tis Hell we cry;

It’s also Hell

When it is dry.

Married life’s Hell—So they say;You get home late—There’s Hell to pay;I suppose it is HellIf babe cries all night,And doctor bills—They’re Hell all right.

Married life’s Hell—

So they say;

You get home late—

There’s Hell to pay;

I suppose it is Hell

If babe cries all night,

And doctor bills—

They’re Hell all right.

But still there’s “Hell, yes”; “Hell, no,”And “Oh, Hell,” too;“The Hell you don’t”And “The Hell you do.”Now, how in the HellCan anyone tell,What in the HellWe mean by Hell.—By Numatic, Akron, O.

But still there’s “Hell, yes”; “Hell, no,”

And “Oh, Hell,” too;

“The Hell you don’t”

And “The Hell you do.”

Now, how in the Hell

Can anyone tell,

What in the Hell

We mean by Hell.

—By Numatic, Akron, O.

Learning.

I used to be old-fashioned,I never came to town,But now, by gosh, I’m lickity-split,I love the girls around.I hug ’em, I kiss ’em,I’m a regular up to date.By gollys I’m getting wild,But you city ginks just wait.—Bill Bancroft.

I used to be old-fashioned,I never came to town,But now, by gosh, I’m lickity-split,I love the girls around.

I used to be old-fashioned,

I never came to town,

But now, by gosh, I’m lickity-split,

I love the girls around.

I hug ’em, I kiss ’em,I’m a regular up to date.By gollys I’m getting wild,But you city ginks just wait.—Bill Bancroft.

I hug ’em, I kiss ’em,

I’m a regular up to date.

By gollys I’m getting wild,

But you city ginks just wait.

—Bill Bancroft.

Maud Muller

Maud Muller, on nice summer day,Raked in meadows sveet vith hay.Her eyes ban sharp lak gude sharp knife;She ban nice girl, ay bet yure life.Before she ban dar wery long,She start to senging little song.The Yudge come riding down big hillIn nice red yumping ottomobill.Maude say, “Hello, Yudge,—how ban yu?”The Yudge say, “Maudie, how y’ du?”He say: “Skol yu tak little ride?Ef yu skol lak to, yump inside.”So Maude and Yudge ride ’bout sax miles,And Yudge skol bask in Maude’s sveet smiles.The Yudge say, “Skol yu be my pal?”Den ottomobill bust all to hal.Den Maude ban valking ’bout half vayBack to meadows sveet vith hay.“Ay luv yu still, dear,” said the Yudge;But Maude she only say, “O fudge!”Of all sad vords dat men skol talk,The saddest ban, “Valk, yu sucker, valk!”

Maud Muller, on nice summer day,Raked in meadows sveet vith hay.

Maud Muller, on nice summer day,

Raked in meadows sveet vith hay.

Her eyes ban sharp lak gude sharp knife;She ban nice girl, ay bet yure life.

Her eyes ban sharp lak gude sharp knife;

She ban nice girl, ay bet yure life.

Before she ban dar wery long,She start to senging little song.

Before she ban dar wery long,

She start to senging little song.

The Yudge come riding down big hillIn nice red yumping ottomobill.

The Yudge come riding down big hill

In nice red yumping ottomobill.

Maude say, “Hello, Yudge,—how ban yu?”The Yudge say, “Maudie, how y’ du?”

Maude say, “Hello, Yudge,—how ban yu?”

The Yudge say, “Maudie, how y’ du?”

He say: “Skol yu tak little ride?Ef yu skol lak to, yump inside.”

He say: “Skol yu tak little ride?

Ef yu skol lak to, yump inside.”

So Maude and Yudge ride ’bout sax miles,And Yudge skol bask in Maude’s sveet smiles.

So Maude and Yudge ride ’bout sax miles,

And Yudge skol bask in Maude’s sveet smiles.

The Yudge say, “Skol yu be my pal?”Den ottomobill bust all to hal.

The Yudge say, “Skol yu be my pal?”

Den ottomobill bust all to hal.

Den Maude ban valking ’bout half vayBack to meadows sveet vith hay.

Den Maude ban valking ’bout half vay

Back to meadows sveet vith hay.

“Ay luv yu still, dear,” said the Yudge;But Maude she only say, “O fudge!”

“Ay luv yu still, dear,” said the Yudge;

But Maude she only say, “O fudge!”

Of all sad vords dat men skol talk,The saddest ban, “Valk, yu sucker, valk!”

Of all sad vords dat men skol talk,

The saddest ban, “Valk, yu sucker, valk!”

Girls! Read This One

A girl may laugh, a girl may sing;A girl may knit and crochet,But she can’t scratch a matchOn the seat of her pants,Because she’s not built that way.

A girl may laugh, a girl may sing;

A girl may knit and crochet,

But she can’t scratch a match

On the seat of her pants,

Because she’s not built that way.

Girls

With girls you should not get too free,You’ll find my words are true;Tell her she is a bird, and sheWill want to fly with you.—Cincinnati Enquirer.With girls you should not get too free,You’ll find my words are right;Tell her she is a bear, and sheWill want to hug you tight.—Hastings (Neb.) Tribune.With girls you should not get too free,And this thought don’t forget;Tell her she is a deer, and seeHer run you dear in debt.—New York World.With girls you should not get too free,Just that in mind please bear;Tell her she is a peach, and sheWill grab you for a pair.—St. Paul Pioneer Press.With girls you should not get too free,Be careful, don’t get rash;Tell her she is a lamb and sheWill fleece you of your cash.

With girls you should not get too free,You’ll find my words are true;Tell her she is a bird, and sheWill want to fly with you.—Cincinnati Enquirer.