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Prissy, persnickety people there be,Fastidious, finical ones, we see;But the fussiest man in town by far,Is he who washes his little Ford car.
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PropinquityplusProximity, plusA littleEncouragement, dear,And havoc you'd playWith my heart. I'm awayTo the umbrageous dingles, through fear.
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Three things my nature cannot stand—I'll name them, if you please:TemptationandEncouragement;Neglect's the worst of these.
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Tell me, please, sir, Mr. Captain—It's advice I'm lookin' fer—Is it true carbolic acidIs good for cooties, sir?Are you serious, poor rookie,Or are you making fun?What you mention isn'tgoodat all—Itkills'em every one.
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"Look twice before you leap, son,"My mother oft told me.Each time I take a second look,A second girl I see.The only thing that's better—You'll think me quite a dunce—Would be to have diplopia,Then I'd see two at once.
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Napoleon was a wise old guy;A saying of his ranLike this: "To all who would be safe,Don't write, just send a man!"
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Following the Intermission the Jumbler unravels the difference between speech and talk and think and thought.
From time an infant draws first breathAnd 'gins its virgin squaking,Each mother proud, not saving one,Translates all goos as talking.This goo means this, a girr means that—A new word every minute—It yells! Says pa, "My dear, you're right,There's surely something in it." (A pin, perhaps).Milk-Latin talk lasts 'bout a year,And then, strict truth I'm telling,A plain "Mam-ma" may strike your ear—In interim of yelling.The next few years great strides are made;Mamma is fair ecstatic,For now it talks as good as dad—'Cept 'course, it's not grammatic.And then comes slang, and cussing, too—If it's a boy, the latter—But if a girl, the whole day throughIt's giggle, chatter, chatter.And now it's grown, and still it talks!But will somebody answer:How much is said that tends to helpDespondent fellow-man, sir?And words of comfort, love and cheerAre all not slow in giving?Yet it's the joy we scatter hereThat makes our lives worth living.From birth till death it's talk, talk, talk!But listen, please, and ponder:What would it mean if speech meant thought?Who would be dumb, I wonder?
Woman sitting on floor with baby
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If to Heaven you would go—Smile.
A god once was made and heathen had prayedTo him throughout many a year;His face was distort with a frown of the sortThat gave them all quakings of fear.The rulers in line, of whom there'd been nine,Each published this royal decree:The man who'll beguile our fierce god to smileMay claim the King's crown as his fee.From all the world o'er had come by the scoreThe jester, the fool and the clown;With quip and with jest had each tried his best,Yet not one displaced the god's frown.Joe Miller and Twain had been quoted in vain,(Each man as he failed was exiled.)But failures all scored, the god still looked bored,Then I appeared—and he smiled!When his visage had cleared, the heathen all cheeredAnd each wore a smile good to see;With shouting and song they bore me alongTill straight to the King they'd brought me.The King then stepped down, said"Sir, here's my crown,And gold you shall have by the pile,But tell me, I pray, just what did you sayThat made our god, Umph-ta-ta, smile?""Your crown and your pelf, Sire, keep for yourself,"I said, "but pray listen to me:I just made the trial—a smile for a smile—And succeeded, Good King, as you see.Of pomp, Noble Sire, and of power I should tire,And soon think them not worth my while,Contented I'll be if 't can be said of me:'He's the man who makes everyone smile'."Pray heed me, O King, a smile, Sire is the thingThat will win you a smile in return;Just try it and see, and I'm sure you'll agree'Tis a thing that all people should learn.Your wise pulpiteers may belabor your earsWith all the orthodox doctrines extant,But if t' Heaven you'd go, then you might as well know'Nless you smile throughout life—well, youcan't!There's nothing worth while can't be won with a smile—A maxim you prove when you try—I must now be gone to pass the word on;There're others who need it. Good-bye!"
———:———
My story you've heard—well, then, just one word:—Is anyone now within sight?Just smile on him, do—why,he's smiling at you!Your very first test proves I'm right.
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Unlike George Cohan, the Jumbler doesn't love himself.
'Tis torrid here and all have goneTo seashore on a trot;I'm left alone, alas! and I'mThe only friend I've got.I've walked with me and talked with meUntil I'm satiate;I'm sick and tired and bored with me;The thought of me I hate.Divorce I'd have 'tween self and me;For happiness I'd strike;We're surely incompatible'Cause too darned much alike.
Woman in bathing dress
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After throwing his friends into fits, the Jumbler decides his Soldier-French won't go.
There are some folks, alas! I knowWho Fletcherize the calicoAnd pull out wads of hairWhen now and then, as if by chance,I lapse into the speech of France.But—blame it onla guerre.My accent's not Parisian, yetIt'stres bien, so said Lizette—And surely she should know.She never frowned and saidnon, non!But she would smile and say, "Bon bon!"Oui, oui, I get you, Bo!JolieJeanne plays the Marseillaise!I ball myself in many waysWhen this I try to say.Buttres,merci,chere, andbeaucoupI say just like the Frenchies do—Admit it,s'il vous plait.Yet if each time Iparlez vousThese friends must throw a fit or twoAnd shock their systems so,I think I'll stick to plainAnglaisAnd sayadieuto allFrancais—My Soldier-French won't go!
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"Well, you may talkOf woman's wilesOf all these lat-Est skinny styles;Rave over girlsBuilt like a slat;But I must sayI like 'em fat!"A girl that's fat?Oh, no, no, No!No lap, no waistNor high nor low;An oozing massWhen weather's hot—You like this type?Well, I do not!For me, a girlThat's sylph-like made,Who's just the sameIn sun or shade;And as for me,And I'm no churl,Where there's no waist—Then there's no girl!No hefty bunchOf av'rdupois,No dray-horse girlShall share my joys;But pocket-size,A featherweight,Will find me mostAffectionate.
Three women in hats and long coats and skirts
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Ol' Miss Propri'ty up an' say:"Why will you chilluns ack this way?Whenever I go out to walkI see you two—an' people talk!"Miss Grundy says to me today:'They go to ride, an'stayan'stay.How come her pa don't take a handAn' call 'em down to beat the band?'"I've tol' you time an' time againA man should call butnow and then,Unless the priest has called the bannsAn' date's been set for jinin' han's."'Tain't proper, no, an' it ain't rightTo call or ride mos' ev'ry night.Hear now the last word that I'll say:You break my rules—then you must pay!"Ol' Miss Propri'ty, who are youThat you should tell us what to do?Your mammy was a prissy scold,Yer dad a crabbed "sis," I'm told.You stick to rules your grandma 'ranged,Despite the fac' that times have changed.Propriety, Convention—theseAre how determined, if you please?Ol' Miss, if true I love this maidShould I go slow and be afraidOf what the neighbor-folk will say?Nay, nay, a girl's not won that way!There're nine and ninety swains, they say,Who'd steal this maid. If I make hayI needs must work despite the fogs,And though it's raining cats and dogs.Ol' Miss, if you could see her eyesWith laughter lit, or in surprise,Or questioning, or looking grave,Or beckoning—just hear me rave—Could see the beauty of her face,Her winsome ways, her lissom grace—Ah, Miss, your rules you'd cast asideAnd daily beg, "Dear, please come ride."Then why not I? I'm human, too.It's right for me if right for you.You see I've got so much to sayI'vegottasee her ev'ry day.Ol' Miss she say, "My boy, you're right;I now see things in diff'rent light.My laws still rule the other guy,But to your case they don't apply.So tell hermypermission's gotTo call on her a nawful lot.You've found me easy, have you lad?All right, then try convincingDad."
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In a versatile manner the Jumbler approaches sundry themes, wherein is revealed his love for Home, Country and Eats.18TO45.You Never Can Tell.An Ounce of Prevention.Fear Not.Eat What's Set Before You.Show Me.Damfino Jones.Silent Bill.Buster Boy.Not Forgetting Dad.
In a versatile manner the Jumbler approaches sundry themes, wherein is revealed his love for Home, Country and Eats.
18TO45.You Never Can Tell.An Ounce of Prevention.Fear Not.Eat What's Set Before You.Show Me.Damfino Jones.Silent Bill.Buster Boy.Not Forgetting Dad.
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The Jumbler found the niche in which he fit—for just one day.
I'm something over eighteen, yetI'm under forty-five!I've no flat feet, no leaky valves,No wife and babes alive.So—With no dependent, no defect,Not e'en a near-sight eye,Methinks quite soon I'll hear you say:"So long! Good luck! Good-bye!"My putteed calves will look a sight—I'm long, but short on weight—My feet won't fit the Munson last,My rising hour is eight.But—The army is gwine ter git me,My name's done been enrolled.I'd like to be a baby galNot more'n one year old!I'm old enough, I'm young enoughTo do some thing, I guess;So I'll just stop my foolish talkAnd say, "I'm ready, yes!"ForThere's not a job, there's not a nicheBut needs some man to fit.For you and me there's just one thing:Go in and do our bit!They found a job, they found the nicheThey said that I would fit;And in Argonne one foggy mornThey said, "Now do your bit!"Wow!Old Jerry seemed to know I'd come;His shells all came my way!Ugh! Mustard gas! * * * Then mustered out—I didn't last one day!
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Man in uniform
Harry had two Munson feetThat grew like ice and snowAt bare suggestion of the thoughtThat he to War should go.But when the Draft got him one dayHis face grew stern and grim;And ere he'd been in camp a monthThey'd made amanof him.'Twas "Captain Harry" soon in France.Midst fighting over thereHe got two wounds, a D. S. C.,Also the Croix de Guerre.The moral in this simple taleYou've guessed, I have no doubt:You cannot tell whats in a manUntil he's tested out.
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When first the Flu our old town hitI said I'd keep from getting;So I went home and with great careI shut out drafts and shut out air.I sprinkled sulphur in my shoes,Then loaded up on blockade booze,Some calomel and "C.C." pills,Then castor oil up to my gills.Each hour on soda I did feast;I swallowed cakes of Fleischmann's yeast;I ate ten onions, mighty nigh,Then drank a slug of Good Old Rye;Some asafoet'da round my neck,Then took quinine, about a peck.To keep from feeling all forlornI fraternized with Barleycorn;Then aspirin, say twenty grains,And codeine to keep off pains.I chewed tobacco, smoked it, too,Then took a dip of Mountain Dew.I crawled in bed to get a rest,Vick's Vaporub smeared on my chest.I changed to woolen underdudsAnd carried 'round two Irish spuds;I sprayed and gargled, wore a mask,Snuffed Listerine, then tried my flask.I felt my pulse; at tongue a look,And then my temper'ture I took.But strange to say quite sick I grew—The doctor says I've got the Flu!I guess he's right, but this is sure:Right now I need the likker cure.
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I wonder if I'd stayed up town,Cut out the dope, kept worry down,Stayed right at work, not had a drink—Would I have Flu? What do you think?
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Death looking over a man's shoulder
Why will so many people nowGive way to frenzied fear?Why will they act as though they thoughtSwift Death were lurking near?E'en if Disease now stalks abroadAnd Death rides on the air,'Tis not the time for craven acts,But courage everywhere.I wonder if they stop to thinkHow soon the war'd be wonIf sons of theirs showed half the fearThat they of late have done?And why fear death—eternal life?I would not be the oneTo strive to stay on this poor earthWith sacred tasks undone.So, why not chirk up just a bitAnd say good-bye to fear?The world now needs much cheering up—Pray help supply the cheer.
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As children ofttimes we were wontTo criticise and fussAbout the victuals that were cookedAnd served by ma to us:"Too salty" this, and "too sweet" that;"You've had this twice since Sunday;You always have what others like,You might please me just one day."And so it went till pa would say:—'Twas meant you could not doubt it—"Just eat what's set before you andSay nothin' 'tall about it."Now we are grown and, seems to me,Too often we're inclinedTo criticise the things Fate gives,And think this life a grind.Some things may not just suit our taste,Some e'en be quite unpleasant;Someone may get the bigger shareAnd failure seem e'er present;But then, let's think of pa's advice:—It's sound, pray never doubt it—"Just eat what's set before you andSay nothin' 'tall about it."Life's road is rough—but what of that?The man who'll growls forswearWill top the hills ahead the crowdAll smiles, with breath to spare.And so it goes this wide world o'er—'Tis true for saint and sinner—The man who silently will "dig"Will always prove the winner.That's why I say take pa's advice:—Try once and you'll not doubt it—"Just eat what's set before you andSay nothin' 'tall about it."
Unhappy boy at table with parents
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There is a dame I know you know,Who'll make big talk, will brag and blowAbout the waffles that she makes,Also her corn and buckwheat cakes—But always my cake's dough.She tells of this or that one whoAt breakfast, once ate twenty-two!And when she feared that he would bustHe raved and railed and almost cussed,And said he wa'n't half through.I've hinted and I've begged this dameTo just for once treat me the same.But always she the question begs,Or's out of cream, or maybe eggs,Or some excuse as lame.Yet here am I, so thin and pale,While she, dear soul, is plump and hale.If she's the best cook in the South,Why let me stand with watering mouth?—She should be sent to jail!Now, I'm from out Missouri way,Where "Please show me," is what they say.I'm hungry and too weak to walk,So "Please feed me, or stop your talk!"I'll tell her this today.A pawfull and a mawfull IMust have or else I fear I'll die.Her talk does naught but aggravate;It does not help my famished stateNor hunger satisfy.Unless I get a waffle quick,Unless I get it awful quick,I'd better beat her up, I guess,And mar her beauty more or less—Unless I get it quick!
man sitting at table while woman brings his breakfast
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Damfino Jones, a mental drone,Had no opinion of his own;He grew to manhood meek and mild,But he was Indecision's child,It was the same in weal or woe:He "wasn't sure," or "didn't know."In business he would hesitateTo buy or sell until too late;So, naturally he ran in debt—But hasn't run back out as yet.When asked when he a debt would payHe "couldn't just exactly say."In romance he just "couldn't just exactly say."If he loved Blanche or Isabel—He married Jane, and, safe to say,'Twas she who kept the wolf at bay.And with religion, mixed he gotWhen asked if orthodox or not.In politics he'd weigh and weigh,And then not vote on 'lection day.And so he wavered till he diedAnd never did one thing decide.Now I don't know, but it is saidHe isn't now quite sure he's dead.Take note of men who've made success:They tell you "No" or tell you "Yes"Right off the bat, nor step asideWhen faced with questions to decide;While men like Jones just paw the airAnd never do get anywhere.This truth shines out like bright new tin:Think for yourself if you would win.
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I have a friend called "Silent Bill,"Aged ten, so says the Bible;To me, in years, no word he's said—Strange truth and not base libel.He seems quite bright, and sees and hears—In fact you'd think him normal;But not a sound comes from his lips,Not e'en to greeting formal.When he's at home, so I am told,It's talk, talk, talk, and chatter;When I'm around, why is he dumb?Explain, what is the matter?Am I an ogre fierce and wildWith looks and mien ferociousThat cause to cling unto its roofThe tongue of this precocious?"Oh, no!" says he, "you're not to blame."(The answer comes by proxy.)"The fault's not yours, but all guilt liesWith my dear mother, foxy.I'd like to talk of lots of things—But ain't my ma the limit?She starts her tongue—so what's the use?I'm out, 'less I butt-in it.""It's 'seen not heard,' so I've been told,Or else a strapping vi'lent.I fear the gad, and that's why IRemain still Bill-the-silent.Now, when you scrap about her sizeI'm mum, but try to figgerHow she could squeeze in through the doorIf she were any bigger.""But when she twits you 'bout the thatchYou've lost from off your attic,I'd like to reprimand her thenIn language quite emphatic.I've waited long and ground my teeth,And frowned upon her patter;But I'm convinced she'll ne'er run down—She's stuffed with ceaseless chatter."
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Dear Silent Bill, stay silent still;To change, pray do not bother;You're dearer far just as you are;I'd true not have you other.
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The Jumbler, like Foss, loses a boy.
I have a friend called "Buster"—A little child last Fall—But now he's grown so very bigI scarce know him at all.Almost a man! His folks are proudAnd fairly beam with joy;But I—I feel I'd rather cry;For I—I've lost myboy.No more he'll perch upon my kneeAnd ask me to relateHow Li Chi Fair and Chang-the-GoodWere saved from saddest fate.And Jelly Jar and Big Black BearHe'll treat with sneering scornAnd say, "Now please do stop and thinkHow long since I was born."Time flies so fast it takes my breath!Soon he'll forget it all—The rhymes we wrote, the games we played,None, none will he recall.The world may praise him as aMAN—God knows I wish him joy—But I—I'll brush away a tearAnd long for BusterBoy.
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A new kid's come to our house;A peach, I'm here to tell;And things are topsy-turvy like—Still—Father's doing well!'Twas 3A. M.this morningThat it began to squall;Some neighbors got excited—But Dad wa'n't feased at all.
Dad
Twas—oh, yes, quite expected—And welcome, I opine;And bibs and socks and—things are made,And—Daddy's feeling fine!Another Christmas present!Gee, that's hard luck for fair!The Old Man says, "Mere bagatelle,Why should a fawther care?"How's Mother? Oh, she's so-so!The Kid? Well, it will do.Of Papa we are glad to stateThat he will sure pull through.Then, here's a cheer for Mother;One for the Kid we give;Now ready—give a score of them:Doc says that Pa will live!
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We've got a nice red moo-cow-moo,But doesn't seem just right.She eats green grass the whole day throughThen gives us milk that's white."Red cows, when on blue-grass are fed,Give white milk." Is this true?I am so green, when this I readIt straightway made me blue.
A Flare Back:
We also, have a moo-cow-moo.She isn't red, but black;The milk she gives, it isn't white,But blue,—alas, alack!Methinks thatyou'dbe black and blueHad you your due, young fellow;But matters not the shade or hue,Just so you're never yellow!
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When "dis ol' waggin am done broke down,"I feel 'twould be a sinTo hold your love through Pity's sakeFor what I once had been."Yours till death!" is what they say;But isn't it enoughTo say, "Dear Girl, I sure am yoursUntil the wheels fall off?"
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And here the Jumbler entertains the children with a few Nursery rhymes:The Evening Bath(Apartment Next Door).The Dirty-Neck Policeman and the Black-Hand.Do You Believe in Santa Claus?Shaving Time.The Big Black Bear.
And here the Jumbler entertains the children with a few Nursery rhymes:
The Evening Bath(Apartment Next Door).The Dirty-Neck Policeman and the Black-Hand.Do You Believe in Santa Claus?Shaving Time.The Big Black Bear.
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(Apartment Next Door).
I try to read—but really, what's the use?You'd think, I swear, 'twas Bedlam broken loose;A scream! And then I hear, "Oh mercy! Ouch! My ear!I surely cannot stand all this abuse!You're gouging me and pulling out my hair;My skin's rubbed off—'tis more than I can bear!Now really you're not heeding or you'd see my nose is bleeding!I believe you would kill me if you dared!"I jump up from my chair and grab my gun;I must be quick or murder will be done;I rush across the hall and loudly 'gin to call:"Unnatural parent, wouldst thou slay thy son?",Upon the door I then begin to beat,And straightway hear the scamper of bare feet;Then "Mother" stood and laughed, said, "Surely you've gone daft—I'm only giving them their evening bath."She calmed herself and then she sweetly said,"I always scrub 'em 'fore they go to bed;But don't see why my daughter should have such fear of water;And Buster,—why, it simply drives him mad!I really don't see what I'm going to do,Despite the fact it greatly worries you;Of course it may seem mean but I'm going to keep them clean—And I don't know how unless I scrub 'em down."