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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 21, June, 1921




_It’s Coming!_


_A Laugh, a Sigh; a Smile, a Tear; a Giggle, a Sob; and full-page
reproductions of the greatest collection of Art—The Whiz Bang Girls, in
Sepia Colors._

                            THE WINTER ANNUAL
                                   of
                             Captain Billy’s
                                WHIZ BANG
                   “_Pedigreed Follies of 1921-1922_”
                           On Sale in October

All new jokes, jests and jingles; Captain Billy’s Advice to the Lovelorn;
and Smokehouse Poetry comprising a collection of the best red-blooded
poems in the world. Republication of “The Blue Velvet Band,” “The Face on
the Barroom Floor,” “Toledo Slim,” “Lasca,” “Evolution,” and “Johnnie and
Frankie.” Four times as large and four times as great. Only four months
to wait.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                 +-------------------------------
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    Filosophy and Foolishness, / R.R.2, Robbinsdale, Minn.
    fill in this coupon.      / Enclosed is money order (or
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                            _Captain Billy’s
                               Whiz Bang_

                             [Illustration]

                         _America’s Magazine of
                             Wit, Humor and
                               Filosophy_

                     June, 1921      Vol. II. No. 21

                            Published Monthly
                    W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
                        at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

     Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post-office
                  at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the
                          Act of March 3, 1879.

                   Price 25 cents      $2.50 per year

        Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication
             of any part permitted when properly credited to
                        Capt. Billy’s Whiz Bang.

           “We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is
          loyalty to the American People.”—Theodore Roosevelt.

                             Copyright 1921
                            By W. H. Fawcett

                             [Illustration]

              Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and
         dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States.




_Drippings From the Fawcett_


Oh, for a modern James Whitcomb Riley! Could the incomparable Hoosier
poet be with us today, what a masterpiece he could make out of the
ordinary news of the day. With such material at hand as this from the
columns of the Chicago Herald-Examiner, he could bring tears to the eyes
of those with fond reminiscences. Under a heading, “LAST ONE IN CHICAGO
DESTROYED BY FIRE,” the newspaper states:

    The last one in Chicago burned down last night. The fire engine
    got around to the back yard of 1102 Hastings st., too late.

Truly, brevity is the soul of wit!

       *       *       *       *       *

A news article in the daily papers say a Chicago woman has filed suit
against her husband on the ground that he refused to pare her toe nails,
and the husband comes back with the counter-charge that she smeared her
face with cold cream to such an extent that he’d get it tangled up in his
hair during the night.

To our mind, this suit opens up some wonderful possibilities, especially,
as Mr. Stillman would say, when the supply of Indian guides gives out.
Supposing, as our London co-scribe says, a woman wedded to a highlander
discovered after the nuptials that her husband refused to shave the hair
off his calves, might she not be able to file her divorce with reasonable
hope of success?

Again, we have the man who, when taking a bath, within earshot of his
wife’s bedroom, insists on singing unbearable songs of the type the Yanks
sang in France—

“She’s Mademoiselle from Armentieres, who hasn’t been kissed for forty
years. Hinky Pinky Parley Vouz.”

Surely a Chicago court would grant her a split from her spouse. And a
husband who would bite his wife’s mole also might be in danger of being
divorced by a woman who believed she was entitled to a less emotional
husband.

       *       *       *       *       *

Twice, by urgent requests from ardent defenders of the fair sex, Whiz
Bang has reproduced “The pedigreed Persian Cat” from its issue of May,
last year. You’ll remember it—the story prose of the perfumed kitty who
wandered out the back door for air and was lured away by an alley tom
cat, and who, upon her return later, told her kittens their Pa was a
traveling man.

We’ve been waiting patiently for some traveling man to register his
protest and step up with straight dope to refute intimation that a feline
member of the fraternity enticed the perfumed pussy over the primrose
path. And now we have it—a poem in answer, from the pen of one who signs
“Josh M. Allong.”

“I resent the intimation that a member of my profession was to blame,” he
writes. “The original poem is propaganda to whitewash the reputation of a
loose and unprincipled female, even if she is only a cat. Therefore, I am
writing the following true version.”

    _This Persian Kitty, perfumed and fair,_
    _Did not go out on the porch for air,_
    _But she saw that tom cat taking a stroll_
    _And she laid a plan to get his roll._

    _For she saw that he was a country swell_
    _Who would fall for any tale she’d tell,_
    _And, while acting so sweet and innocent,_
    _She was full of guile and devilment._

    _Then she led him along to a quiet spot_
    _Where they bring it along at a dollar a “Bot”_
    _And, while he spent his hard earned tin,_
    _She stole his watch and his diamond pin._

    _And, when she had him as clean as a bone,_
    _Sneaked off with her lover and left him alone,_
    _Hungry and footsore, to trod the way_
    _Back to the farm and the new mown hay._

       *       *       *       *       *

After reading the accounts in the Saturday Blade of the Stillman divorce
case, our hired man, Gus, asks me if he can have the job as “Indian”
guide at my Pequot, Minnesota, cabin resort this summer and fall. Gus,
however, is doomed to disappointment, because I have engaged a real half
breed Indian for the job.

       *       *       *       *       *

Although, as Gus, our hired man, says, Deacon Miller, my neighbor,
doesn’t like my Whiz Bang and claims he tears it up outside his door
and lets the wind scatter the pieces of paper all over his wheat field,
we’ll have to give the Deacon credit for rearing a bunch of ladylike
cows. One of the Deacon’s bossies broke through the barbed-wire fence
which separates his pasture from mine, while I was at Pequot. The cow
unceremoniously walked into my house through the open door, looked at the
pictures on the wall and then walked up to the mirror to see if her horns
were on straight.

Not finding anyone at home, the cow, as is the custom, left her card and
departed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Johnny Beaton, noted Minnesota Bohemian, told a rather good story the
other day while he and I were shopping for schnapps in Minneapolis.
During the inspection of our purchases, Johnny, who hails from Ranier,
Minn., on the Canadian boundary, said he had recently engaged in a
rip-roaring poker game. In this game were two Englishmen from the Canuck
side of the line. The Englishmen always referred to a five-dollar bill as
“a pound.” “I’ll raise you two pounds,” said the first Englishman. “I’ll
make it five bloody more pounds,” replied the second. About this time a
local bootlegger, who had been testing his own product, blurted out as he
pushed in his wad of money in the center of the table: “I’ll raise you
three tons.” The bootlegger hauled in the pot.




_Our Movie Gossips_

    _Elinor Glyn is pursued by the ghost of “Three Weeks” and the
    gossips are trying to catch her flirting! Mary and Doug aid
    Bennie Ziedman in courtship for Marjorie Daw! Rudolph Valentino
    turns the tables of his separation-wife, Jane Acker! Bill Hart
    and Jane Novak may get married and live in Spanish “duplex”!
    My, my, what morsels of gossip we hear from our bevy of
    Hollywood and Los Angeles correspondents!_


Pity Poor Elinor Glyn! Screen folk, suspicious because England’s
titian-haired authoress wrote “Three Weeks,” are reported sleuthing
around the Los Angeles hotels and cafes and the Lasky studio, trying
to catch Mrs. Glyn flirting! Leastwise, the gossips are busy, and the
dainty morsel upon which they are chewing is none other than Mrs. Glyn’s
purported fondness for dancing.

“Where’s Mrs. Glyn?” they ask around the Lasky studio.

“Oh, somewhere dancing, I suppose,” comes a reply in much the same tone
as was used during the war when the ladies danced while friend husband
dodged Whiz Bangs in France.

Mrs. Glyn’s famous novel, “Three Weeks,” might have been her worst
personal faux pas. At the great Navy ball in the Ambassador hotel, she
remained for the most part of the evening on the balcony overlooking the
ball-room floor, accompanied by one of her youthful actor admirers, and
as her gaze passed over the heads of mere ensigns, four-stripers looked
up, but feared to tread, maybe. At least, Mrs. Glyn did not dance with
many, according to the correspondent of this great family journal.

Mrs. Glyn is writing a new story for the Lasky company. Of course the
Lasky people aren’t telling around just yet what the story is to be
about, but the gossips whisper that it’s to be like this:

A girl, born of a Russian dancer mother, and a staid American father,
grows up into a beautiful woman. However, everyone who knew of her
mother’s wild, wild life, fear the girl will develop into the same sort
of female. But she never does, until, way out west, she is bitten by a
snake. Then she becomes so, so wild! Just what form her wildness takes,
has not yet been ascertained. At any rate, the hero is right there at the
climax wishing she wasn’t wild (?) so he heroically sucks the poison from
her wound and quiets her nerves again! It’s called “The Great Moment.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It seems that since “Mary” and “Doug.” have been married, they have
turned into regular old match-makers. They are working on all their
friends. Can it be they are just now concentrating on sweet, blonde
Marjorie Daw, who is one of Mary Pickford’s most intimate friends?

Marcel De Sano, the dark, handsome and entirely morose Universal director
is believed infatuated with the fair Marjorie just now. He recently
attended an informal little house dance in Hollywood and lurked in a
shadowy corner all evening because Marjorie was not with him. Mary
and Doug. are quietly and intensively working overtime to interest
Marjorie in Bennie Ziedman, business manager for “Doug.” Now, Bennie
is entirely cheerful, he’s a nice unaffected little chap whom everyone
likes and they say Doug. pays him some fat salary! Bennie hasn’t his
supposed rival’s mysterious South-of-Europe eyes and hair, but he’s an
enterprising, live-wire Yankee. Now, Mary and Doug. are a couple of sly,
old match-makers. Maybe they know they will spoil everything if they urge
Marjorie to choose Bennie, or if they knock any of her other suitors,
so they adroitly throw Bennie and Marjorie together on many occasions.
Whether Bennie and Marjorie are aware of this or not is a mystery.

Quite recently, Doug. was frightfully interested in purchasing a home
at Santa Barbara. Of course, it being a business matter, Ziedman, the
business manager, must needs go along to inspect the property. I think
they even kidded several hopeful real estate dealers into believing that
Mr. Fairbanks was really intending removing his famous family to Santa
Barbara. At any rate, it made it possible for them to take Marjorie and
Bennie to Santa Barbara for a week-end trip and throw them together for
three complete days.

Nothing has developed yet, but all know Bennie’s blush and his chronic
suffering from shyness. Perhaps he hasn’t yet roused his courage, or is
handsome De Sano getting in his quiet, intense deep stuff? All Hollywood
wonders!

       *       *       *       *       *

Rudolph Valentino, the handsome young Italian actor who plays the lead in
“The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” is the husband of Jane Acker, who
also plays leads in pictures. Valentino, it will be remembered, once was
Joan Sawyer’s dancing partner in vaudeville.

Well, anyhow, the Valentino family separated about a year ago. For a
time, Rudolph was heartbroken over the separation and urged his mutual
friends to help him make up the difference. Just then, Jane had offers
galore from film companies and she was believed upstage and independent,
and to have refused to consider Valentino for a second session. Now,
lately, the tables have turned. Valentino has made a great hit in the
Metro photoplay taken from the biggest seller of last year. He can just
about command his own salary in filmdom from now on. And, wife Janie
hasn’t had such an easy winner. With dozens of companies ceasing to
produce, offers haven’t come bounding in at an alarming rate. Or perhaps
Jane didn’t know husband was such a capable actor and could make such a
hit? Can it be she at last realizes what a precious jewel she has lost,
and that now it is Jane’s turn to hope they make up, and Valentino’s to
assert manly indifference toward the fair sex entirely? Hollywood wonders
how it will come out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Close friends of Bill Hart say he is to marry beautiful Jane Novak, who
has played so many leads in Hart pictures. All the evidence seems to
point that way. Bill declared through the press that April 2 last, was
his final day in motion pictures.

Jane will receive her final decree of divorce within a few weeks now.
Bill is building on to his lovely home in Hacienda Park. The Spanish
mansion now is divided into two sections with a long roofed corridor
running between. The new wing of rooms has lately been added to the
lovely mansion. Is Bill going to be a truly modern husband and keep his
own sanctum sanctorum at one end of the mansion for himself and allow his
wife to have a number of rooms in which she, of her own free will, may
roam as she pleases? Most wives would never be bored with the sort of
Bill who planned his romantic nest with such nicety!

       *       *       *       *       *

Only Four Months

“The Blue Velvet Band,” “The Face on the Barroom Floor,” “Johnnie and
Frankie” and scores of other red-blooded poems will appear in the Winter
Annual of Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, “Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22,”
which will be published in October. This year, Whiz Bang’s greatest
entertainer will appear four times the regular monthly’s size, and will
contain, for the most part, brand-new stuff, but for the benefit of new
readers, stories and verse from early issues will be reprinted. Only
four months to wait! Don’t write for last year’s Annual! It was sold out
within thirty days!

       *       *       *       *       *

A Short Story

His young wife laughed till she creaked as he slowly drank his iced tea.

“You are laughing,” he said, wiping his well-formed lips with the hem of
the tablecloth. “Why?”

“I just happened to remember,” she said between gasps, “that I put the
cyanide of potassium in the iced tea instead of the rat trap!”

It was too droll. He laughed heartily as he slid under the table.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Single Woman’s Geography

Cape of Good Hope—Sixteen.

Cape Flattery—Twenty.

Cape Lookout—Twenty-five.

Cape Fear—Thirty.

Cape Farewell—Forty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Men

Men are what women marry. They have two feet, two hands, and sometimes
two wives, but never more than one collar button, or one idea at a time.

Like Turkish cigarettes, men are all made of the same material, the only
difference being that some are a little better distinguished than others.

Generally speaking, they may be divided into three classes, husbands,
bachelors, and widowers. Bachelors are a commodity, husbands a necessity,
and widowers a luxury, especially when making love.




_Arthur Neale’s Page_


I took my girl out last night, but when I tried to kiss her she smacked
my face and carried on something terrible. When I got back to her house
with her again I said: “Katie, what’d you want to lose your head for like
that tonight?” She said: “Well, maybe I did lose my head. But I kept my
reputation, thank God!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Something to Worry About

In the new Folies Bergere show, Paris, the girlies are clad entirely in
paint, news dispatches state.

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Are your feet insured?” I asked
    A dancing girl from France.
    No answer. Then she said at last:
    “It’s not that kind of dance.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In any newspaper you can find pictures of charming women underneath which
it reads: “Miss So-and-So, 20 years of age.” (Why do those printers
always leave out that word “was”?)

       *       *       *       *       *

As I was toying with the N. Y. Coffee Cake in the Times Square Automat
the other day, I sighted an old friend I hadn’t seen for several years.
I went up to him and said: “Why, Billy, where have you been keeping
yourself all these years?” He said: “Well, early in 1914 I went to Paris
to study art.” “Is that so?” I said; “and did you get far with your
studies?” “Well,” he said, “it was like this. When I arrived there in
June, 1914, we began by taking studies from the head. In July it was head
and shoulders; and in August, in August that darned war started. Bad luck
to the Germans!”

       *       *       *       *       *

    _To make their dresses nowadays,_
    _Girls use a lot of cloth._
    _But looks as if in future days,_
    _It’s hardship for the moth._

       *       *       *       *       *

HE: “I’d be tickled to death to teach you to swim.”

SHE: “I’d be tickled to death if you did.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    _I saw a statue yesterday,_
    _And on the quiet between us,_
    _I think it’s quite correct to say_
    _The lady’s name was Venus._
    _Unveiled in such and such a year_
    _Was written at the base._
    _But those who took the veil, ’twas clear,_
    _Did not again replace._

       *       *       *       *       *

    _If she has a past, she needn’t tell—_
    _The girl in a musical show._
    _But if she possesses a birth-mark as well,_
    _It’s something the whole world will know._

       *       *       *       *       *

They say that for a smart, wise lot of lads the New York hotel clerks are
hard to beat. But not always. The other day I happened to be in the Astor
lobby when a pair of young newlyweds came in from the street. The rice
and confetti was still over them for all to see. The happy groom went up
to the desk to register. In the course of the conversation I overheard
this from the clerk: “Yes, sir; and do you want a room with twin beds?”
Can you beat it!

       *       *       *       *       *

    _“To follow horses isn’t right,”_
    _My father always said._
    _So what I follow every night_
    _Is chickens round instead._

       *       *       *       *       *

Reserved Seats

The Amorous One: Do you ever peep through the key-hole when I am sitting
in there with your sister?

Small Brother: Sometimes. When mother ain’t there.

       *       *       *       *       *

Tasty Stuff

“His lips moved lazily over her face. ‘You taste so good,’ he sighed,
and held her closer.”—From “This Side of Paradise.” There is a great
difference in tastes, however. No person of discrimination would compare
the taste of a sunkissed, flower scented maiden of the prairies with the
flavor of a sootladen damsel from Pittsburgh or South Chicago.

       *       *       *       *       *

Musings of a Bachelor

Don’t kiss him with a snap; be coy about it. Don’t let him see the
practice you’ve had.

Woman spends much time in thinking what she would do were she a man,
while man spends much time knowing what he would do if he were a woman.

Some folk take pleasure in seeing that others have none.

A married man fell in a vat of moonshine mash and drowned, but the papers
said he died in good spirits.

Love is an itching of the heart—a place where you can’t scratch.

Girls, you can always tell if a man really loves you. If he says, “I love
you,” and drawls it out as if it hurt him, he’s silver plated goods.
If he says it as if he were ordering a glass of beer, that shows he is
sizing up your dad’s pocket book, but if he says “I love you,” and hugs
as if he’d never let go, and flushes up like a lobster, nail him; he’s it.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Telephone Retort

“Operator, if you will give me this number I will give you a nice, sweet
kiss.”

“Go to it, kid, I am standing on the receiver.”

       *       *       *       *       *

High Explosive

We have received a report of a New Orleans newspaperman who took a big
swig of white mule hootch and then backed up against a bale of cotton and
said: “Come on, big boy, let’s go!”




_Adventures of Sven_


May Dear Uncle Billy: Ay taking may pen in hand with may arm in sling
from getting struck by lightning for $7.50. Ay bane working in gude
moving picture they call “FADED OVERALLS” an Ay bane nature nobleman
running ’round mountain ’bout saxteen mile an’ skol carry bull calf on
may back Ay skol pull out from landslide by hind feets. After while
it skol began to raining when faller turn fire hose on me. I skol be
standing under weeping willow tree somewhere in Montana yust back of
electric lights plant in Hollywood. When faller turn on hose, calf she
getting mad an’ start to kick an’ beller. Director he holler “Hold it,”
an’ By Golly! Ay bat your life Ay hold her lak Dickens so she aint yump
away. They got to getting tree struck by lightning in big storm so Ay
skol die hero after Ay bane cattle thief already so Director holler
“Ready,” an’ feller turn on yuice in wire that bane running from tree to
light plant. Bull calf she bane wet from hose lak me an’ yump round till
she skol getting her tail caught in crotch of weeping willow tree an’
short circuit, so when faller throw in switch juice she run down calf’s
tail an’ hit me in may neck so Ay see stars an’ moons an’ 670000.00
dollars worth moving pictures for two minutes an’ when Ay skol waking up
Ay bane in Mercenary Hospital with blondy nurse girl giving may big shot
home-made alcohol mixed with chile peppers. Ay swallowing quick an bane
be knock out ’gan for sax hour till Ay getting sober up.

Ay meeting faller hyer name Yoe Martin they call Chimpanzy. He looking
lak faller Ay used to know in St. Paul named Murphy. Yoe, he aint talk
much but he looking lak hal. He bane quiet faller an’ never going out an’
get fresh with girls. He bane in Hollywood two year an’ not skol getting
divorce yet.

Ay get introduction to girl name Sweet Patootie working on set in
Universal City. She skol kom from Fon du Lak Wisconsin because she
looking lak Theda Barrels an’ she aint skol making only nine dollar week
in laundry. Ay aint know her only ten minutes before she swiping may
watch an’ saxty cent lunch money so Ay got to walk back to Loose Angels
from Universal City. She making gude allright Ay bat your life.

Ay writing scenario called Viking Carlson, the Snus King from Stockholm.
Ay taking plot from may own life an’ Ay pay Scenario School $75.00 for
book telling how to getting rich writing play. After Ay write play faller
that running school say he skol sell him on commission. There bane more
ways to getting rich in Loose Angels than any other towns in United
States. If faller aint skol sal may play Ay skol beat hims up an’ making
may own picture. Ay play all parts an’ direct picture too. Ay can getting
gude camera from Sears Roebuck so Ay aint worry.

Work in pictures bane pretty slack yust now because most extra fallers
bane washing dishes in downtown restaurant to get fat for summer rush.
Film companies bane talking to cut down wages for actors because room
rent bane so high. Hotel keeper fallers lak to get actors out of town so
they getting more room for Nebraska farmers with money. Small room in
cellar with kitchen sink an’ towel with red fringe cost $185.00 first
month an’ $320.00 second.

Most actor fallers eating in Caffeteriá Lunch Room. Every faller march
round in line lak looking on corpse at funeral an grab yunk off counter
when you go by. After you skol eating you skol sneak out an not wash
dishes but everything else you skol do self. Some fallers name Booze
Brothers got lot of help yourself restaurants hyar an’ one day Ay go in
an’ ask for Booze and cashier girl getting mad an’ call police. She say
this bane decent place an’ we aint skol selling only orange cider made
from lemons.

Ay got offer to yoin Salvation Army hyar but tank Ay skol stay in Moving
picture business yust so long some may money hold out. The woman Ay meet
Ay told you bout in last letter that bane going to star me yust so soon
her husband go to Seattle she bane starring nother faller now so Ay get
stung.

Ay tal you more nax month about how Ay kom out in Scenario writing game.
Ay bat you when Mr. Griffith see may play he skol be surprised.

                              Yours truly,

                                                           SVENS PETERSON

       *       *       *       *       *

Some women learn school-teaching or dress-making. Others cultivate
natural assets!

       *       *       *       *       *

His Wires Were Crossed

A superintendent of a Sunday school who had got some new books, asked the
minister to make an announcement after the service about the books.

When the service was over the minister had an announcement of his own. He
said: “All those having children and wishing to have them baptized, will
bring them in the afternoon between three and four o’clock.”

The superintendent, who was hard of hearing, thinking the minister was
talking about the books, rose and said, “All those having none and
desiring some can be supplied by me. The ordinary ones at fifteen cents,
and the special ones with the red backs at twenty-five cents.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    _He gorged himself with sausages,_
        _Until he almost burst,_
    _Then said, they hurt my stomach some_
        _But hurt my liver worst._

       *       *       *       *       *

Kisses a la Carte

“I saw you kiss sister last night!”

“Did you, Bobby? Here’s a quarter for you.”

“Thanks. And then I saw you kiss the maid in the hall.”

“Great Scot! Here’s five dollars.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When a dog has fleas he doesn’t start drawing up an indictment against
the universe. He starts to scratch.




_Havana’s Passe Charms_

    _The author of this story, a Minneapolis preacher, recently
    returned from a tour of the West Indies for the Whiz Bang, and
    in this writing he depicts the gay carnival spirit which reigns
    in Havana because of America’s prohibition._

BY REV. “GOLIGHTLY” MORRILL

Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.


Many are the travelers, like Pantagruel, in search of the
_Dive Bouteille_—Holy Bottle, and who believe in its oracular
utterance—“Drink!” The man who holds in veneration the memory of Noah,
notices on entering Havana that the harbor entrance is “bottle-necked,”
and well “fortified”—with booze. The “Fountain of Youth” here is not
water, but “cask”ades of wine and beer, etc. However, one needs the purse
of Croesus, for if you want to drink you must pay what the bar wants to
charge—a price as exorbitant as smuggled liquor brings in the States.
If you remonstrate with the bartender, you may send for the manager, as
my friend did, and have him say, “Don’t bother me—tell your troubles to
a policeman.” If you are mad and tired of Cuba, go to Guadeloupe and
Martinique in the French West Indies where the rent-hog is unknown;
where a good room rents for $7 a month; where a course dinner, with a
bottle of wine, at the best hotel will cost you only 40 cents; where rum
punch is three cents a glass, wine five cents, and the best brands of
champagne, $1.50 to $2.00 a quart. In Cuba you pay $2.50 for a bottle of
wine, and $12 for a quart of champagne.

Pascal wrote that man was the “glory and scum of the universe.” Much
of the scum of the United States has floated to Havana. The lure of
“spiritual” elixirs (there is a vermouth in town known as “Vaticano”) has
brought a “bum” element to the island. Havana has become a convention
city for crooks who frequent the race-track, saloons and gambling
hells. Most appropriately has the outline of Cuba been compared to the
hammer-headed shark. Fights and brawls are common; city jails are full
of American drunks and toughs. Cuba has imported laborers from Haiti
to raise cane, but the worst “Cain-raisers” have come from the United
States. Sterne said, “An Englishman does not travel to see Englishmen”—an
American does not care to journey here to meet such Americans.

The tourist, robbed right and left, need have little fear of the Havana
señorita stealing away his heart. Her beauty is largely mythical. As
a rule, the Cuban woman looks as if she had used a barrel of flour to
powder her face, and her body is built on barrel-hoop lines. To powder
she adds paint—mamma and her daughters are about the only paintings one
finds in town. After viewing and reviewing these Spanish “beauties”
(so inferior to our American beauties in the garden of love), one does
not feel inclined to purchase the books sold here in the stores: “The
Art of Kissing in Twelve Lessons”; “The Art of Caressing in Twelve
Lessons.” Taken all in all, the Havana “angel” is an adorable, endurable
inutility—an expensive luxury on which to hang fine clothes and diamonds.
Pythagoras made it a rule to review every night what he had done during
the day. Were she to follow his example, I fear she would soon be
through, for she appears to be master of the art of doing nothing that is
important.

Havana harbors many “ladies” of that species one calls ladies only
between quotation marks. God made Cuba, but the Devil invented some of
Havana’s pastimes. The Cuban is “revolting” in his pleasures as well as
in his politics. Streets along the water-front are lined by open bars
and brothels brilliantly lighted—a mistake, because most of the inmates
resemble female Calibans.

The witchery of the old time wanton is no more. With Flaubert one
laments the passing of the _fille de joie_: “In olden times she was
beautiful when she walked up the steps leading to the temple, when on her
shell-like feet fell the golden fringe of her tunic, or when she lounged
among Persian cushions, twirling her collar of cameos and chatting with
the wise men and philosophers. She was beautiful when she stood naked on
the threshold of her _cella_ in the street of Suburra, under the rosin
torchlight that blazed in the night, slowly chanting her Campanian lay,
while from the Tiber came the refrains of the orgies. She was beautiful,
too, in her old house of the _Cité_ behind the Gothic windows, among the
noisy students, when without fear of the sergeants, they struck the oaken
tables with their pewter mugs. She was beautiful when she leaned over
the green cloth and coveted the gold of the provincials; then she wore
high-heels and had a small waist and a large wig which shed its perfumed
powder on her shoulders, a rose over her ear and a patch on her cheek.
Fear not that she will ever return, for she is dead, quite dead.”

Ten miles from town is situated the notorious “Casino” which is trying to
emulate Monte Carlo with its glare, gold and girls. If you win anything
there, you are lucky to get back to town with it without being murdered
or robbed. Recently a young man, who made a fortune over night here,
disappeared, and all they found of him was his leg. Not long ago a
stark-naked woman was found dead near the Casino. The mystery has not yet
been cleared up. At the gate entrance of this palatial gambling-hell, I
noticed policemen taking the license number of every auto that arrived,
to keep track of the chauffeurs, many of whom are crooks and cut-throats.
If you do survive, and reach Havana in safety, the size of your bill
makes you feel very “automobilious.” Sad but true, it is easier to locate
some of our United States diplomatic officials at the Casino at night,
than in their offices during the day.

The Havana Oriental race-track has a bad name even among sports. There
was no exhibition of fine, fast horses or fast time, simply a fast set
who threw the races to the bettors who gave the most graft. Boozing,
betting and profanity were the characteristics of the human race at the
horse-race. Yet foreign, literary, dramatic and musical reviews are
crowded out of newspaper columns for daily ads. and write-ups on the
elevating amusement of the Casino and race-track.

One cannot make an inventory of paradise in Havana without mentioning
the carnival. At the Malecon I watched the Señoritas throw kisses and
confetti—the confetti was six inches deep—and I wondered how it would
be cleared up till I remembered the number of “rakes” there were on the
boulvards. The Cuban’s idea of heaven is an endless Mardi Gras where he
may throw star-dust confetti and waltz with the angels. However, the
Havana carnival lacks the spontaneity and gayety of Nice, Venice and
Martinique, it being more of a fashion show.

The populace takes little note of time save in the dance. All society,
from A to Z, thronged the theatres and club-houses where they revolved
like automata on a music-box. I witnessed one ball in a small hall where
six policemen were stationed to keep the dancers within the bounds of
decency.

Cuba has declared a moratorium, yet the people are neither paying each
other nor the United States, and act as if sugar were up to 25 cents a
pound. They cry for financial aid, yet I witnessed a Sunday carnival
where $75,000 was foolishly thrown away like so much confetti.

The Havana youth is a dissipated dude who improves his mind by strutting
and staring on the piazzas, and accosting women with insulting looks and
words. With him cursing passes for rhetoric. His time and money are well
spent at race-track, cock-pit, roulette table and the harlot’s house. He
is familiar with all liquors except the stimulating wine of progress.

God has made Cuba beautiful with her altar-like mountains, smile of the
sea, waving palms, fragrant fruits and flowers and sweet cane-fields,
but Satan has entered this Eden and left his slimy trail. Cuba, “The
Pearl of the Antilles,” has been trampled under the hoofs of human swine.
Too often the C in Cuban character stands for cupidity, carnality,
crookedness, cabals, charlatanism, “Caramba” cursing, and contempt for
Americans.

Lot left Sodom and was saved. As I sailed away from Havana, I said with
Solomon, “Vanity, vanity, all is Havanaty.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The Garter

Consider the garter. It toileth not; neither doth it sin. It stretcheth
far, yet giveth not. When comes night it relaxeth, yet morn finds it
willing and ready, yea, happy to take, up its appointed task. It hath
no visible means of support; it upholds its end and other things; it is
the tie that binds. Without it our lives would indeed be loose lived.
It enters far into the career of woman, yet, blows no horn about it. It
hideth modestly. Once off the shelf of a blatant shop it retireth for
life and man sees it no more.

       *       *       *       *       *

All the world knocks a knocker.




_Questions and Answers_


=Dear Captain Billy=—I am writing a scenario on army life. Could you
suggest an appropriate title?—=Amy Tour.=

How about: “Rumors From the Seventh Pew.” All soldiers will appreciate
it, I am sure, and especially the Pugetites from Seattle who live on the
Sound.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—A friend and myself have an argument and we wish you
to settle it. Where hangs the sign: “Don’t leave your seat until the
machinery stops running”?—=Sultan of Kokomo.=

Well, your sultanic majesty, the only place I recall having seen such
a sign was on a merry-go-round, but it might also have appeared on our
Robbinsdale trolley.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—How can I become adept in the shimmy dance?—=Flora
Daw.=

Walk fast; stop quick. Continue this motion.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Why do girls roll their stockings?—=Noah Count.=

Because they are afraid the teddy bears will chew the tops off of them.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Uncle Billy=—While sitting in front of a bath house at Hot Springs
I fell asleep and soon found myself swinging in a hammock in a shaded
nook of the dells of Wisconsin. Nearby sat a young lady magnificently
gowned in a low neck and short skirt creation, with her feet on a sugar
barrel reading to me from the Whiz Bang. In the distance came a short,
fat man carrying two bottles of Hamm’s Export just off the ice. I was
about to reach for a bottle when the heavy hand of Friend Mac touched me
on the shoulder and awakened me. What I want to know is, what should I do
to Mac for shaking me out of my dream before the climax.—=Ham Spear.=

Your story reminds me of some of my dreams in the Islands, when someone
would always awaken me before the Colonel had time to hand me the
discharge papers I was dreaming about. I would suggest you pour hot water
on Mac next time he slumbers. He will then dream of entering the gates of
hell.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—I’m in love with a fat girl and she insists on sitting on
my lap. Advice, please.—=Kennett B. Goode.=

Suggest that you place an ironing board over the arms of a chair. You
could then hold her on your lap indefinitely and not get tired.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper Bill=—Can you give me the name of a rare and almost extinct
bird?—=School Johnnie.=

Old Crow.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper Billy=—Give me a definition of falling in love which “in
the spring turns a young man’s fancy,” etc.—=Bob Wire.=

Love is a feeling that you feel when you feel you’re going to feel a
feeling that you’ve never felt before.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—What is a Whiffem Poof?—=Geo. Logical.=

A Whiffem Poof, Geo., is a small fish that swims backward to keep the
water from running into its eyes.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Can you give us a new phrase or word to describe
the bedroom movies in which ladies are shown in the filmy robes du nuit,
etc.—=Screen Hound.=

How would it be to call such pictures “Filmies”?

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Would you recommend walking on an empty stomach as
an aid to digestion?—=Horace D’Oevers.=

Walking on an empty stomach is excellent for indigestion, but be careful
who you walk on.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper Billy=—What is your idea of the height of
imagination?—=Ross Field.=

To sit on a cake of ice and have someone throw limburger cheese in your
face and imagine you are having a sleigh ride.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Bill=—Who was the best known enlisted man in the United States
army?—=Count Lehman.=

Joe Latrine.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear W. B. Bill=—I’m a bashful young man. How can I have a girl?—=Busch
Wah.=

Wiser men than I have puzzled over this question and never found a
solution. However, I don’t see why you want one.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Who is it that attracts all the town girls to the
depot, and who always suspects the playing card manufacturers, and who
causes the farmer to load his shotgun?—=Watt Hoe.=

Traveling Men, of course, God bless ’em.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Skipper=—What is considered the safest place on a battleship?—=Otto
Know.=

I believe if I were a sailor during an engagement that I might find it
necessary to seek the seclusiveness of “the head.”

       *       *       *       *       *

=Dear Captain Bill=—Will you please tell me what is a Nymph?—=Farmer Boy.=

A Nymph, my boy, is a hasher with a good form who gets a job in a bathing
girls’ show exhibiting her Prowess.

       *       *       *       *       *

Democratic as he is, even the bootlegger treats his friend, the cop, from
the bottle reserved “For Officers Only.”




_Limber Kicks_


    _Of sweethearts she has quite a few,_
        _They come from near and far;_
    _But the sailor who comes there each night_
        _She calls her evening’s tar._

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Won’t you step into the parlor?”
    Said the spider to the fly.
    “You bet your life I’ll not,” she said.
    And winked her other eye.
    “You must think I’m easy,
    And that you are very sly,
    No knock-out drops in mine, sir,
    For I’m a Spanish fly.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    Mary had a little lamb,
      A joyous, youthful mutton;
    And when they played at parlor games
      ’Twas Mary got the butt’n.

       *       *       *       *       *

    Little Mary had a monkey
      On a painted stick,
    She sucked the paint all off one day,
      It made poor Mary sick.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The boy sat on the moon-lit deck,
      His head was in a whirl;
    His eyes and mouth were full of hair,
      And his arms were full of girl.




_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”


“Life is a jest and all things show it; I thought so once but now I know
it,” is Gay’s gloomy epitaph in Westminster Abbey. Did he receive this
impression when he walked the streets of London? In his poem, “Trivia,”
he tells us how to walk the streets, what to wear, the good people to
address, the industrious ones to encourage, and the bad folks to pass by.

Poe, in his “Man in the Crowd,” writes of the mass of people, and of
beggar, tramp and peddler; of the modest, pretty girl; of the women of
the town like the statue in Lucian “with a surface of Parian marble and
with interior filled with filth”; and of a man who walked all the crowded
streets of London to get away from himself.

De Quincy visits the Strand and says: “There one feels like a single
wave in the total Atlantic—like one plant in the forest of America.”
The loneliness of his heart oppresses him among the crowd of unending
faces which have no friendly word for him, and he stands “among hurrying
figures of men weaving to and fro, seeming like a masque of maniacs or a
pageant of phantoms.”

Stand on the corners, walk the streets of our own big cities, the
capitals of the Old World, or far-away countries, and behold the extremes
of work and idleness, vice and virtue, sickness and health, innocent
mirth and mad amusement. The people follow each other like the waves of
a storm-tossed sea, and long after you have returned to your room their
walking, talking, laughing and crying comes to you like the sad moan of
the sea trying to be at peace.

Nature is the place to study God in the book of field, mountain and
ocean. City streets are the place to study man in the sham, struggle and
sin of life.

In the afternoon and evening, work gives way to play. All classes meet
and mingle on the street; silk and cotton, glove and hard hand, auto and
carriage, revel in a democracy of delight. It is as necessary and natural
to play as to work, and we must have rest, recreation and rejoicing.

At night good people say an early “Good night,” read their Bible, pray,
put out the light, and snore. The Devil begins just then to light his
red lamp and lead his votaries into paths that too often end in disease
of body, darkness of mind, and death of soul. Next morning high society
may hush up the disgrace and infamy, but guilty hearts know their own
bitterness and that evening’s comedy has turned to morning’s tragedy.

Cities resemble a Demon’s brain, and the women of the night are its evil
thoughts. There are too many wantons with powdered face, brazen look and
leering laughter; too many giddy girls with bare necks and shoulders,
abbreviated skirts and hobbled feet walking the streets.

If there were no girls,—but there are more girls than boys, and
necessarily for wives and mothers to fill the vacancies caused by war,
vice and death. If there were no streets,—but streets are essential as
arteries of commerce, avenues of friendly meeting and public parade.

Morning, noon and night we walk the street and see dishonesty, impurity,
poverty and disease,—old and young jostling each other in seeming joy;
but their tell-tale faces speak of a heart with a secret grave of shame,
where they fear they may stumble over a ghastly grinning skull that will
mock their joy.

It will take more than Art Galleries, Symphony Concerts, Parks, Vice
Commissions and Grand Jury reports to make the streets of city life clean
and its boys and girls good citizens. The cure for sin is not a piece of
court-plaster to cover over wrong, but the Gospel of hand, head and heart
that trains a child’s soul, mind and will in the way he should go so that
when he is old his steps will not depart from it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The merits and demerits of prohibition and the lawful consumption of the
grand old hootch of the good old days have been subject to warm debates
as far back as history can be traced. Here’s one from Hollinshed’s
Chronicles of 1577:

    We distinguisheth three sortes thereof—Simplex, Composita,
    Perfectissima—Beying Moderately taken, sayeth he, it sloweth
    age, it strengthen youth; it helpeth digestion; it cutteth
    fleume; it abandoneth melancholie; it relisheth the taste; it
    lighteneth the mynd; it quickeneth the spirites; it cureth the
    hydropsie; it healeth the strangury; it pounceth the stone;
    it repelleth gravel; it puffeth away ventositie; it kepyth
    and preserveth the bed from whyrlyng, the eyes from dazelyng,
    the tongue from lispyng, the mouth from snafflyng, the teethe
    from chatteryng, the throte from ratlyng, the reason from
    stieflyng, the stomach from womblyng, the harte from swellyng,
    the bellie from wirtchyng, the guts from rumblyng, the hands
    from shiveryng, the sinoews from shrinkyng, the veynes from
    crumplyng, the bones from akyng, the marrow from soakyng—and
    trulie it is a sovereign liquor if it be orderlie taken.

Sir Walter Scott brought out the point that prohibition is as intemperate
as drunkenness, when he wrote:

    “Know, foolish Saracen,” replied the Christian without
    hesitation, “that thou blasphemest the gifts of God....

    “The juice of the grape is given to him that will use it
    wisely, as that which cheers the heart of man after toil,
    refreshes him in sickness and comforts him in sorrow. He who
    so enjoyeth it may thank God for His wine cup as for His daily
    bread; and he who abuseth the gift of Heaven is not a greater
    fool in his intoxication than thou in thine abstinence.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Literary criticism is prone to make a great deal of bother about
something that nobody cares two pins for, but sometimes, after the fabric
of discussion has been thoroughly masticated, literary criticism does
come down to bed rock and agree on one point which is incontrovertible.
Among the subjects in which there is at present a universal agreement
is the declaration that the American short story is the highest in
perfection of any form of fiction that is put out in the world. Even the
French, artists as they are, must take a back seat when it comes to the
writing of tales that are brief and effective.

It was the coruscating Ouida who emphasized the fact that flowers of the
most exquisite beauty have their origin in the backyard heaps—wonderful
passion blossoms bloom gorgeously in surroundings that are the worst.
The connection has never been established, but the coincidence is
indisputable, that the vaunted American short story, so clean morally and
so harmless that the most modest virgin may read it without fear of being
corrupted, is modeled upon the naughty story, conspicuously American in
its construction, which would paralyze with horror any virgin who should
happen to lend to its recital an attentive ear.

If one could but divest himself of his moral pulchritude, what paeans of
praise would be poured forth in honor of that sinful and abhorrent thing,
the naughty story! It is so brilliant, so forceful, so perfectly filed
down and sharpened and polished until its edge is like the edge of a
Damascus blade and its point is finer than a needle’s! Instinctively the
teller of such a tale flings aside every detail which is not absolutely
essential to the narrative. There is not a word too much. There is
not a trace of description which, could be dispensed with. All—all is
sacrificed to the exigency of brevity and to the final effect.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Song Without Music

My sweetheart’s a mule in the mine; I drive her without any line; on the
bumper I sit, and tobacco I spit, all over my sweet Jenny’s spine.

       *       *       *       *       *

Our Monthly Motto

Wine, women and song are the ruination of man, so I’ve cut out singing.

       *       *       *       *       *

Baseball Extra

The game opened with Molasses at the stick and Smallpox catching. Cigar
was in the box with plenty of smoke. Horn played first base and Fiddle
on second base. Backed by Corn in the field made it hot for the umpire.
Apple, who was rotten. Axe came to bat and chopped. Cigars let Brick walk
and Sawdust filled the bases. Song made a hit and Twenty scored. Cigar
went out and Balloon started to pitch, but went straight up. Then Cherry
tried, but went wild. Old Ice kept cool in the game until he was hit by a
pitched ball, then you ought to have heard Ice scream. Cabbage had a good
head and kept quiet. Grass covered lots of ground and the crowd cheered
when Spider caught a fly. Bread loafed on third base and bumped. Organ,
who played a fast game, put out Lightning. In the fifth inning Wind began
to blow what he could do. Hammer began to knock and Trees began to leave.
The way they roasted Peanuts was a fright. Knife was put out for cutting
first base. Lightning finished pitching and struck out six men. In the
ninth Apple told Fiddle to take first base and then Song made a hit.
Trombone made a slide and Meat was put out on the plate. There was a lot
of betting on the game. But Soap cleaned up. The score was 1-0. Door said
if he had pitched he would have shut them out.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jonah to the whale: How far are we from land?

Whale: Three thousand miles.

Jonah: Don’t leave me, big boy!




_Smokehouse Poetry_


_Introducing, in our July issue, George J. Liebst, alias “The Hobo Jungle
Poet of the West!” Swing under Number Nine of the Santa Fe line with our
knight of the bumpers and beams next issue and attend, in verse, Mr.
Liebst’s “Hobo Convention” at Portland, Oregon! The author explains that
the clickitty-clack of the wheels on the rails, as he hears them from a
swinging position on the rods of Number Nine, furnish the metre of his
jungle poem. He tells you who was at the great convention—_

    _“Texas Slim from Lone Star,_
    _”And Jack, the Katydid;_
    _“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,_
    _“And the San Diego Kid.”_

_Put on your hobo clothes and travel with the Whiz Bang to the
“convention” in the July issue!_

_Next month we’re to witness a great ball game, in which the Mighty
Casey, who, as you may recall, struck out in the famous ninth and lost
the same for Mudville, stages a comeback! Get ready for this “curve.”
It’s a home-run winner!_

       *       *       *       *       *

    Way down in the Garden of Eden
    Was Adam with Eve on his knee.
      They never sat down,
      But just laid around,
    In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Island By the Sea

_The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army
while under restriction and confinement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz
Island, California. There has been a dread about this military citadel
which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of
Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular
soldier._

By An Alcatraz Prisoner

    Only a short ride from ’Frisco,
      On a rock resting out in the sea;
    A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”
      The home of the U. S. D. B.

    There we lay on our bed of hard metal,
      And think of our life among men,
    Ever wishing our life was far distant,
      Or could be lived over again.

    The death-colored chambers of madness,
      Where all rights are evermore gone;
    Oh, is there no chance for freedom,
      Will we never again see the dawn?

    To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,
      Where the eyes of mankind are blind;
    To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,
      Eternally losing your mind.

    So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”
      From the souls who go down in the strife,
    Where souls are evermore striving
      And thrown by the wayside of life.

    Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;
      Assist in this hour that is blue,
    For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad
      Are as good or as bad as you.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,_
    _But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul._

       *       *       *       *       *

Dusty Holden’s Filosophy

    This life is but a game of cards,
      Which every one must learn.
    Each shuffles, deals and cuts the deck
      And then a trump does turn;
    Some show up a high card,
      While others make it low,
    And many turn no cards at all—
      In fact, they cannot show.

    When hearts are up, we play for love
      And pleasure rules the hour,
    Each day goes pleasantly along,
      In sunshine’s rosy bower.
    When diamonds chance to crown the pack,
      That’s when men stake their gold,
    And thousands then are lost and won,
      By gamblers, young and old.

    When clubs are trump, look out for war,
      On ocean and on land,
    For bloody deeds are often done,
      When clubs are held in hand.
    At last up turns the darkened spade,
      Held by the toiling slave,
    And a spade will turn up trump at last,
      And dig each player’s grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

Department Store Gossip

    “Lizzie went out with that floorwalker clown,
      She said he was filled full of booze
    And made her get out and walk back to town,
      But there wasn’t no mud on her shoes.

    “Far be it from me to run a girl down,
      Mistakes I will always excuse,
    But when one declares she walked back to town
      I look for the mud on her shoes.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Fifi” Stillman’s Lullaby

    Rock-a-bye baby, little Jay Leeds,
    Daddy has women more than he needs;
    Through a divorce I’ll get lots of cash,
    Because your dear daddy was a little too rash.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Poppy’s Answer

_Publication in the May issue of the Whiz Bang of “In Flanders Fields”
has brought many requests for “The Poppy’s Answer,” and thus, by special
permission of the author, we offer it herein._

By D. H. Winget

    In Flanders fields we poppies grow,
    That all the passing world may know
    We herald peace—surcease of pain,
    For those who fought now live again,
    Not in cold stone or mortal arts,
    But in the depth of loving hearts,
    We bloom afresh above our dead,
    Our blossoms deck our hero’s bed
          In Flanders fields.

    Our Father called us into bloom,
    To deck and shield each soldier’s tomb
    To bask and glint in glory’s stream,
    And fashion every soldier’s dream,
    As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,
    Each poppy true her vigil keeps,
    And gently to the breeze she yields
    Her soothing breath
          In Flanders fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Girl In the Garden

    She lifts her skirts from danger,
      With her left hand, while her right
    Grasps the nozzle, and the stranger
      Gets a very shocking sight.

    The neighbors gaze with rapture,
      And their interest daily grows,
    For they like to see her sprinkle,
      And they like to watch the hose.

       *       *       *       *       *

    His eyelids closed, his breath came fast,
        His eager lips met hers;
    They parted ere the week had passed—
        She had a set of furs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Past, Present and Future

    You’ve heard the tale of Daphne of a hundred years ago?
    You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a thing you ought to know.
    Though pretty smart at most things (for her age was seventeen)
    She didn’t know the proper way to wear a crinoline.
    For instance, when the winter winds came tearing through the town
    She made the most ridiculous attempts to hold it down;
    And thus it was that often as she tacked across the street
    The people got a view of her that wasn’t only feet.

    You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today?
    You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way.
    In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims,
    She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs.
    For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more,
    She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before.
    And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose,
    The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes.

    I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate,
    But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait;
    And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint,
    The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint;
    And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude,
    And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude—
    Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves,
    And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves!

                                                               —A. B. M.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Pleasure Pier

(Ocean Park, California)

    One night as I strolled on the sand,
      The hour of twelve was near,
    By chance my wandering footsteps led
      Me underneath the pier.
    Ye Gods! the people I saw that night,
      As I strolled along my way;
    Behind each piling they ’rose like ghosts
      And silently faded away.
    I saw there men, and women, too;
    And friends I held most dear,
      And I turned and fled (for I wasn’t alone),
    As I strolled beneath the pier.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jeu D’Amour

By Enid R. Clay

    March winds were blowing when we met—
        (And so the game was started)
    You blew a breath of love to me
        That left me broken-hearted.

    June roses scented all the air—
        (The game seemed so worth winning).
    Their glory mingled with your kiss,
        And never thought it sinning.

    And still for some the March winds blow,
        And roses perish never;
    For all my play—and some must lose—
        Forever and forever.

       *       *       *       *       *

Christmas at the Workhouse

    It was Christmas at the workhouse,
      And the convicts gathered there.
    They were sitting at the table,
      Partaking of their fare,
    When the warden quietly entered,
      And he shouted through the cells,
    “Merry Christmas, good old convicts,”
      And the convicts answered “Bells.”

    Now this made the warden angry,
      And he swore by all the Gods,
    “You shall have no Christmas pudding.
      You’re a dang big bunch of slobs.”
    Then spoke the oldest convict,
      With a voice that was not pure,
    “Just take that Christmas pudding,
      And shove it in the sewer.”

                                 —By Dan Moriarty.

       *       *       *       *       *

Underneath the Barroom Floor

    ’Twas a balmy summer evening
      And a goodly crowd was there
    But it wasn’t in the barroom
      For the barrooms now are bare.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Maiden’s Lament

    _That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow_
          _Parley vou._
    _That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow_
          _Parley vou._

    _That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow_
    _He believes me when I tell him “no.”_
        _Hinkey dinkey parley vou._

       *       *       *       *       *

A Lady’s Query

By W. D. Nesbit

            Is it ladylike to giggle?
            Is it ladylike to wink?
    Is it ladylike to ride a horse a-straddle?
            Is it ladylike to wiggle?
            Is it ladylike to drink?
    Is it ladylike upon the beach to paddle?

            Is it ladylike to mutter?
            Is it ladylike to stare?
    Is it ladylike to do those fancy dances?
            Is it ladylike to sputter?
            Is it ladylike to swear?
    Is it ladylike to use expressive glances?

            Is it ladylike to gurgle?
            Is it ladylike to joke?
    Is it ladylike to boast of being wealthy?
            Is it ladylike to burgle?
            Is it ladylike to smoke?
    Is it ladylike to know that you are healthy?

            Is it ladylike to shiver?
            Is it ladylike to weep?
    Is it ladylike to walk through forests shady?
            Is it ladylike to quiver?
            Is it ladylike to peep?
    Is it ladylike to be a little lady?




_Budd’s Bundle of Bunk_

BY BUDD L. McKILLIPS


“My,” said the old lady after her first night auto ride into the country,
“the people who fix automobiles will make a lot of money tomorrow. Every
few blocks there was a car standing with nobody around it. It was so dark
that I couldn’t see if they were smashed up, but I guess the people must
have walked back to town.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Omar Up To Date

    What is it the bootlegger buys
    One-half so vicious as the stuff he sells?

       *       *       *       *       *

Blank Verse

    EMIL ASKED CLARA
    TO TAKE
    A WALK WITH HIM
    AND PICK FLOWERS,
    BUT
    CLARA’S BROTHER
    CAME ALONG,
    AND SO
    THEY PICKED FLOWERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Bloolaw laid down her newspaper with an angry snort. “I see where
they are talking about reviving the ‘Passion Play’; another of those
disgraceful shows, I suppose.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“How much,” asked John Burroughs in his daily Nature column, “does it
cost to set a tree out in the street?”

Some festive friends of ours set a bartender out in the street in the
days B. P. and if memory is correct it cost them $10 and costs.

       *       *       *       *       *

“People Who Ride in Our Car Never Have to Walk Back Home” advertises a
St. Louis automobile agency. The girl in the house next door says a hat
pin gives her the same assurance.

       *       *       *       *       *

    If there’s one secluded spot
      That I would like to own
    And fence about, ’tis that small plot
      Where my wild oats were sown.

       *       *       *       *       *

    She asked him if he’d take a seat,
      But he, his blushes hiding,
    Replied that he preferred to stand,
      For he’d been horseback riding.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The porcupine may have his quills,
      The elephant his trunk,
    But when it comes to common scents
      My money’s on the skunk.




_Film Feast Fights_

    _Ah! Now the dainty damsels of the screen have the excitement
    for which their artistic temperaments crave! For the
    edification of the filmland folk, Los Angeles hotels have
    introduced the prize fight as a dinner attraction, partly
    supplanting the dinner dansant, and here we have diminutive
    Bebe Daniels cavorting at one of these film fight feasts,
    rubbing elbows with effete Kid McCoy, whose barefoot partner,
    as Richmond states, put on her shoes and walked out._


Society prize fights are the latest in Los Angeles and Pasadena. The
winter tourists, society people and so on have fallen. Didn’t Anne Morgan
set the example in New York? Main dining rooms have been turned into
prize rings, where, during a lull in the supper dance, the fighters,
their seconds, water bottles, cuspidors and other necessary adjuncts are
led forth.

No, prizefighters don’t generally have cuspidors; they generally spit in
the water bucket or on the floor; anyhow, they spit. They can’t help it.

The swell hotels of Pasadena and Los Angeles already have staged their
preliminary fistic functions. There is no bunc about the fights, at
least so far as appearance and appurtenances are concerned. The men wear
regulation ring clothes and, as everyone knows, this means they can’t
wear much more than most of the women present, who shriek with delight
and false alarm at the thud of brawny fists on hairy breasts and bloody
noses.

Whiz Bang is not long-haired, consequently can’t be against a good boxing
contest or a fight, whatever it is they call them. But one may entertain
an opinion that some things were meant for men and if there is anything a
man is better fitted for, or can do better, than women, for heaven’s sake
let him do it.

The Alexandria-Alec, as it popularly is known, initiated the fad in this
burg. The society editors must have been there for one thing, judging
from elite galaxy of names which appeared next day.

Kid McCoy also was there, appearing somewhat better in his tux than most
of the non-athletic looking gentlemen present. The Kid emerged recently
from his ninth (or was it his fifteenth?) matrimonial experiment. He
married a dancer of the films, a bare-footed one. But evidently she put
on her shoes and walked out.

The literary lights were somewhat in evidence. Guy Price, Eddie Moriarity
and H. M. Walker, with the assumed or naturally bored air that seems
to mark the popular newspaper sporting writers, were taking in the
innovation or being innovated in the taking in, whichever it was.
Moriarity and Walker said who won the fights and from their dour looks
one would never judge they write funny titles for Semon and Lloyd.

Tom Mix jumped into the ring as referee. Those who watched paid well for
it. But there was dinner, of course, and a dance, thrown in.

Bebe Daniels was one of the first on the floor. Not that Bebe seemed
overly excited about it. But the proud looking young man who trotted her
out seemed not without fear that his appearance with the fair Bebe might
be overlooked if he didn’t get an early start upon the ball room boards.

But Bebe was worth looking at; incidentally, one of the few modest
looking women on the floor. They say she is stuck up. They say that
about most of the really stellar female attractions of the screen. But
the insider opines that Bebe’s bored look combines a sense of humor and
the common sense of a young girl who finds that the glitter and night
adulation are mostly 18 carat bunc. Yet Bebe danced and danced.

As we have said before, society doesn’t know what to do about the picture
stars, especially if they are starettes. But to miss seeing them, so one
can talk about what they wore and whom they were with, that would be
ultra ignoramus, as one might aptly say. Just what a bunch of supposedly
high bred society women, Miss Morgan to the contrary, can see in the
spectacle of two men slamming each other around the ring passeth, no
doubt, some portion of the male element.

Sounds like we are getting sermony. Far be it from us. There are worse
things than women in evening garb gushing over mostly naked men fighting
in the main dining room of our swell hotels.

One thing about Mary and Doug.; they are fairly exclusive. Some of the
younger stars might do well to emulate them. Yet, perhaps before a star
becomes a luminous planet it must do its sparkle; cast its lesser light,
until the fact that it does not glow at every gay party can cause more
comment than the mere presence, thereat, would cause.

Mary and Doug. are becoming more talked of because they stay home than
because they step out. Of course, Mary and Doug. have something to chat
of among themselves again, now that Nevada is talking marriage annulment
again.

We still remain firm in our predictions of months ago that Nevada has
more talk than annulment in her system, so far as the Fairbanks family is
concerned.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Arkansas Honeymoon

A young, newly married couple boarded a through train, bound for Little
Rock to spend the honeymoon. The young man at once began looking for the
Pullman conductor, it being a night train. Finally he found that official
and began: “Say, Mister, me an’ my wife here just got married an’ we want
the best ’commodations you’ve got on this train.”

“You are looking for a berth, I presume?” queried the conductor.

“Thunderation! No!” shouted the irate groom. “Didn’t I tell you that me
an’ my wife just got married?”

       *       *       *       *       *

A London man who went to Dublin to join the Royal Irish Constabulary
was arrested as insane. In view of the present condition of Ireland the
evidence against him seems conclusive.




_Pasture Pot Pourri_


Yoo-Hoo! Skinny! C’mon over, ’n bring your own bottle.

       *       *       *       *       *

    There was an old man from Trenton,
    Who gnashed his false teeth till he Bentem;
    When asked what he’d lost, and what they had cost,
    He replied: “I don’t know, I just Rentem.”

       *       *       *       *       *

OPEN YOUR MOUTH AND LET THE MOONSHINE IN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Never miss anything that’s been saved.

       *       *       *       *       *

It’s better to be brought up on a bottle than to be brought down by one.

       *       *       *       *       *

A small boy’s idea of greatness is to be able to lick another boy a size
larger.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _Lip to lip_
    _Nose to nose,_
    _Flippety flop,_
    _Away she goes._

       *       *       *       *       *

    When your good home brew is old and cold,
    Call me up and revive my soul.

       *       *       *       *       *

Story for the Children

    Oh, chase me, kid, I’m a lollypop!
    Aw, g’wan, d’yuh think I’m an all-day sucker.

       *       *       *       *       *

Would You?

    _I would if I could, but I can’t;_
    _I wish I could, but I can’t;_
    _’Twill do me no good to think_
    _What I’d do if I could;_
    _I might, but I probably shan’t._

       *       *       *       *       *

Irate Father: Dorothy, has that young man gone yet?

No, but I’ve got him going.

       *       *       *       *       *

Second Stanza

    Getting married:
        Meet me at eleven and by twelve we’ll be one.
    Getting divorced:
        Meet me at twelve and by one we’ll be two.

       *       *       *       *       *

A raisin in wine saves time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Famous Army Songs

The Larger the Spoon the Louder the Noise.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gus, our hired man, says he was engaged to a girl who had a wooden
leg, but he broke it off.

       *       *       *       *       *

Latest Popular Song

“Babes in the Wood,” by James A. Stillman.




_Classified Ads_


Want One, Girls?

(From Minneapolis Journal.)

“For Sale—1920 Mormon chummy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

There Must Be a Reason

(From the Warren, Ohio, Tribune.)

Wanted—Gentleman I spent Sunday evening with to write me at my address
in the office where I am employed. I couldn’t act different from what I
did.—Dot.

       *       *       *       *       *

Chicago Has Preferences

(From Chicago Tribune)

To Rent—Studio apartment with private bath; married couple preferred. 58
E. Elm Street.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oak Cliff’s Secret

(From Dallas Dispatch)

Lost—Monday, in Oak Cliff, one Spencer corset, slightly used. Suitable
reward.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here’s An Easy Job!

(From Tampa Times)

Wanted—Gas engine man on twin party boat. Little pay, lots of fun, no
work. Phone 71-042.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sodaeye, Do You?

“Give me a plain soda without any flavor.”

“What kind of flavor would you like it without?”

“Oh! I’d like it without vanilla flavor.”

“Sorry, sir! I’m out of vanilla. You will have to have it without
chocolate, sir.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Where They Rattle

Two little girls were playing on the street and a well-dressed lady
passed them with swish and a whirl. By the noise it was evident that she
wore a silk petticoat. “What makes that noise?” whispered one little
girl, with a wondering look. “Sh!” said the other child, in a low voice,
“don’t you know she’s got money? Rich folks always rattle and smell good.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Frank Lynn’s Dope

    When skirts and waist lines meet as one,
    ’Twill be as when the world begun,
    And in fig leaves again we’ll roam,
    And wonder still why the men leave home.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Anti-Cigarette Crusaders

“I can’t understand how men can put those nasty pipes and cigarettes to
their lips,” she mourned, and then bent to kiss the little bundle of life
in her lap. And the poodle dog, sympathizing, snuggled closer against its
mistress’ swan-like neck and wagged its little tail.




_Our Rural Mail Box_


=Smokehouse Friends=—Ye editor has received many calls for the following
poems, and would appreciate receipt of correct copies of them: “Johnnie
and Frankie,” “Arkansaw” and the prose of the Irishman lecturing with
lantern slides the story of Cleopatra.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Anna Dine=—Snow again, Anna, I don’t get your drift.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Mickey Finn=—There is nothing to the rumor that the girls will wear
blacksmiths’ aprons for bathing suits this summer.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Howe Hevah=—“The Skin Game” is not the name of a play. It is a
profession indulged in by beauty doctors.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Mac=—If the brass finger bowls are not large enough, would suggest that
bushel baskets be used.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Shimmy Dancer=—If you do, we’ll take off our jumper and overhalls.

       *       *       *       *       *

=Kitty Korn=—I can’t place you, but I knew your father, Pop Korn.

       *       *       *       *       *

He Led in Prayer

An old railroad man was converted, as the story goes, and was asked to
lead in prayer. Here is the way he worked it: “Oh, Lord, now that I have
flagged Thee, lift my feet off the rough road of life and plant them
safely on the deck of the train of salvation. Let me use the safety lamp
known as prudence; make all couplings in the train with the strong link
of Thy love. And, Heavenly Father, keep all switches closed that lead
off to sidings, especially those with a blind end. Oh, Lord, if it be
Thy pleasure, have every semaphore block along the line show the white
line of hope, that I may make the run of life without stopping. And,
Lord, give us the Ten Commandments as a schedule time, and when my train
shall have pulled into the great, dark station of Death, may Thou, the
Superintendent of the Universe, say with a smile: ‘Well done, thou good
and faithful servant; come up and sign the payroll and receive your check
for eternal happiness.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Robbinsdale Salad

A young chicken, undressed; a little pep; lettuce.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just Like Old Crow

Once again the husband came staggering home late.

“Oh, John, have you been drinking again?” sobbed his wife as she caught a
whiff of beer.

“No, dearie; you wronged me; I’ve been eatin’ frogsh’ legsh, and you
smell the hops.”




_It Pays to Advertise_

BY OXNARD PETE


It isn’t necessary to read magazine stories any more. The editor tells
you all about them in “eye catchers” at the beginning. They read like
this:

“_Mary’s Garter_,” by R. Ubberneck. A snappy and re-elastic love story
that stretches the imagination to the breaking point. No “honi soit”
stuff here.

“_100 to 1_,” by N. O. Chance. A race track story. Like a gambler’s watch
chain, it has a “charm” that holds the eye.

“_Frozen Tears_,” by P. North Poole. Returning, after years spent in
the far north, John Snow’s wife gives him a cold welcome. He finds that
Eskimo maidens may have cold feet, but warm hearts. A tale of polar
bears, whale blubber, seal blubber and plain blubber.

Don’t fail to read “_Way Down Yeast_,” by Holmes Brewer, in our next
issue. Mr. Brewer’s stories are as funny as a barrel of monkey wrenches;
his wit as spontaneous as a fire sale in Goldstein’s clothing store. And
as unique as a drink of real whiskey.

“_Down in the Deep_,” by Professor U. Drinkwater. A scientific article on
the peculiarities of the Zoanatharia actina, mesembryanthemum, tealia
crassicornis and other anemones. Too deep for any one but a highbrow to
wade through.

“_Lucy’s Looseness_,” by E. Strong Onion. A story with a smile, some
tears, and seeming to breathe throughout, the fragrance of old Bermuda.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Way with Men

By Warford Frederick.

            A sweet
            Conceit
        Is its own excuse,
              I think, don’t you?
              I hope you do.
            Two neat,
            Small feet
        And a shoestring loose.
              I bend, don’t you,
              Before that shoe?
    One glance at the shoe and two at the silk,
    And an ankle showing as white as milk;
    And I tie a knot that will slip again!
    For that is ever the way with men.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is a rare man, girls, who shakes the furnace as he shakes his
shoulders.

       *       *       *       *       *

Verily much Mazuma goeth over the bar the cash register knoweth not of.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are lots of men who treat tomorrow and treat yesterday, but never
treat today.




_Jest Jokes and Jingles_


That Girl You Lost!

Long though a man recalls the achievements of his life, yet it is quite
often the little things he failed to achieve that linger longest in his
memory; even after he has forgotten her name and whether her eyes were
brown or blue.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Garbage Blues

    _Rocks in the mountains,_
    _Fish in the sea,_
    _A garbage man’s daughter_
    _Made a dump out of me._

       *       *       *       *       *

Remorse

    Those dry martinis were too much for me.
    Last night at twelve I felt immense,
    Today, I feel like thirty cents.
    But it is a poor time for mirth and laughter,
    The cold, gray dawn of the morning after.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _I went to a dance with a girl named Nora,_
    _We danced and we danced on the floor-a,_
    _I heard a rip, and I knew by chance_
    _That Nora had lost her desire to dance._

       *       *       *       *       *

A Modern Man’s Prayer

Oh, please, give me a woman who can make real beer.

       *       *       *       *       *

It’s all right to shoot the bull provided you don’t give a bum steer.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Sun Dodger

    They sat in the park, out there in the dark,
      And the chaperone thought it quite shocking;
    She found ’em all right, for she saw in the night,
      The radium clock on each stocking.

       *       *       *       *       *

We Clipped This

(From Fayetteville Press.)

Shore is tough these days, to try to tell a girl a good joke and have her
say: “Never mind, I read Whiz Bang myself.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    It wasn’t the drink that killed poor John,
      Nor a sight that took his breath,
    But he read a Whiz Bang, so ’tis said,
      And laughed himself to death.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Alabam’ Ad

Wanted—Boy for bakery. Must come well bred, an early riser, born in the
yeast, a good mixer and will get his dough every Saturday night.

       *       *       *       *       *

    _When Phyllis lets me tie her shoe_
        _My glad heart sings. Indeed,_
    _I do declare, I wouldn’t care_
        _Were she a centipede._

       *       *       *       *       *

Rosy Roses of Army Daze

A Camp Dix, N. J., “shave-tail” was giving his men a talk on personal
hygiene. Finishing his verbal exploitation, he said: “ ... and men,
profit by my example; when I finish drilling in the afternoon, the first
thing I do is to take a bath and shave; then, when I retire I feel rosy
and cheerful.” Whereupon one of his disciples emerged from the ranks with
his hand raised to a salute, saying: “Beg pardon, lieutenant, but we
ain’t got any Rosy.”

       *       *       *       *       *

    There was a young person named Willy
    Whose actions were what you’d call silly;
        He went to a ball,
        Dressed in nothing at all,
    Pretending to represent Chili.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prohibition Proverbs

No brew venture, no brew have.

Empty flask never won fair lady.

A case in the cellar is worth two in the brewery.

Much falls between the hip and the lip.

He that reckons without his cellar must reckon again.

A fool’s flask is soon empty.

As you brew so shall you be respected.

One good sip deserves another.

If you drink before you try, you may repent before you die.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some Female Types

The Alarm Clock Type—Shrill voice, large hands and a plain face.

The Wrist Watch Type—Small framed, handsomely embellished; very erratic.

The Mantel-piece Type—Pretty features, with nothing reliable behind them.

The Big Ben Type—Hardest to face in the morning.

The Wall Type—Very fancy, having a good swing, and goes “Cuckoo” without
attention.

The Eight-day Type—Steady and reliable, but, once started, stops for
nothing less than an axe.

The Ingersoll Type—Goes through fire, flood, famine and earthquake
without changing in constancy, yet, once lost, its owner doesn’t think it
worth the price of an advertisement.

       *       *       *       *       *

    The big girls who have little brothers,
    Who always run and tell their mothers
    Whate’er they hear and see, know well
    In life ’tis little things that tell.

       *       *       *       *       *

A pretty girl jumps to the conclusion that every man she meets wants to
kiss her. And the wonder of it all is that she is right.

       *       *       *       *       *

Circumstantial

Hattie—Do you think he loves her?

Mattie—My dear, I know it. I saw them come out of the study after the
last dance, and her hair was a sight!—Williams Purple Cow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sweethearts a la Carte

By Jane Gaites.

    Tommy was a butcher,
    He had a cutting way.
    Johnny was a burglar,
    For he stole my heart away.
    Jimmie was a cowboy,
    He roped me in for fair.
    Dick was an aviator,
    So I bade him take the air.
    Teddy was a sailor,
    He bought my ring on sale.
    Jerry was a beer fiend,
    It makes me turn quite pale.
    A tennis champ was Nicky,
    But his racket made me sick.
    Then came red-haired Georgie,
    And he surely was a brick.
    Jackie was a card sharp,
    He often held my hand.
    But give me Bill,
    He’s just a bear—
    Oh, boy, he hugs so grand!

       *       *       *       *       *

    Eat less, breathe more.
    Talk less, think more.
    Ride less, walk more.
    Worry less, work more.
    Clothe less, bathe more.
    Waste less, give more.
    Preach less, practice more.

       *       *       *       *       *

World Famous Art Pictures

=“WORLD FAMOUS ART PICTURES”= in book album, size 8 × 11, handsomely
cloth bound, containing 350 photographic reproductions of masterpieces
by the world’s greatest artists. The various pictures of the nude,
semi-nude, single figures, and groups comprise the largest collection of
nude female, male and child subjects ever published in a single volume,
and the most complete work of its kind in existence. Printed on heavy
enamel paper, in double toned gravures. Weight five pounds. Price =$7.50=
per copy. Shipped by express only.

=“STUDIES OF THE HUMAN FIGURE.”= A beautiful imported book, size 6 × 9,
containing 78 full page plates, comprising 108 photographic studies from
life of the female, male and child subjects, in the nude, with Anatomical
Diagrams and Artists’ Studies in all mediums. In artistic ornamental
binding. Price =$10.00= per copy. Shipped by express.

=“ALO STUDIES.”= The first edition of Alo Nude Studies published in
book form, size 5 × 8, just off the press. Printed in an edition de
luxe, with thirty-two full page illustrations and forepiece in elaborate
color plates. In these compositions the purity and charm of the nude has
been blended amid the luxuriant settings of nature, imparting a divine
expression of beauty. A collection of beautiful nudes in book form. Price
=$2.00= per copy.

=“WHO’S WHO ON THE SCREEN.”= For Motion Picture Fans. Contains 424 pages
of beautiful photographs and complete biographies of all the Stars in
Screenland. A full page is devoted to each star! Artistically printed on
finest coated paper; handsomely bound in Navy Blue Shantung cloth with
splendid three-color jacket. Postpaid to any address in the world for
=$3.50=.

=“MOVIE”= Souvenir Playing Cards. This pack is a veritable picture
gallery of the celebrities of the “Movie Stage.” The faces show
fifty-three beautiful half-tone portraits of the “WORLD’S GREATEST MOTION
PICTURE STARS.” The pack has regular Playing Card Indexes, 52 Cards and
Joker. Highly enameled, flexible, with a high slip and beautiful ivory
finish, which makes it a delight to handle. Gold edged cards in handsome
telescope cases. Price =$1.00= per pack, prepaid.

Remit by money order or bank draft. Shipment made within twenty-four
hours after receipt of order.

                        THE AMERICAN ART COMPANY
                          Wholesale and Retail
                     JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN, U. S. A.

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GENUINE PHOTOGRAPHS

We are headquarters for photographs and pictures of all kinds, offering
the most complete line in the country.

    Catalogue “A,” 1921 edition, now ready. Contains illustrations
    of 409 Nude and Semi-Nude, 304 Bathing Girl, 192 Movie Star and
    49 Statuary Photographs. More than 1,000 illustrations in all.
    Shipped by PREPAID EXPRESS. Price =$1.00= per copy.

     25 Art Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             $2.00
     25 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             2.00
     50 Art Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike              3.00
     50 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike             3.00
    100 Art Nude and Semi-Nude, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            5.00

     12 Semi-Nude Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            $1.00
     16 Statuary Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike              1.00
     20 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          1.00
     20 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            1.00
     50 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          2.50
     50 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            2.50
    100 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike          4.00
    100 Movie Star Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike            4.00
    250 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike         10.00
    500 Bathing Girl Photographs, size 3½ × 5½, no two alike         20.00

     12 Art Nudes, size 8 × 10, excellent poses, all different      $10.00
     25 Art Nudes, size 8 × 10, excellent poses, all different       15.00
     50 Art Nudes, size 7½ × 9½, our leading sellers, no two alike   25.00
    100 Art Nudes, size 7½ × 9½, excellent poses, all different      50.00

     25 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                         $10.00
     50 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                          20.00
    100 Art Nudes, size 5 × 7, no two alike                          35.00

SPECIAL ASSORTMENT

In order that you may become acquainted with our line of beautiful nudes,
we will forward, upon receipt of =Ten Dollars=, a special assortment of
twelve genuine photographs, comprising four each of the following sizes:
7½ × 9½, 8 × 10 and 11 × 14. If the selection does not prove entirely
satisfactory upon receipt, you may return the same to us intact, and we
will immediately refund your money.

Art Nudes are shipped by sealed express. Remit by money order or bank
draft. All orders shipped promptly.

                        THE AMERICAN ART COMPANY
                          Wholesale and Retail
                     JANESVILLE, WISCONSIN, U. S. A.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Everywhere!_

_Whiz Bang_ is on sale at all leading hotels, news stands, 25 cents
single copies; on trains 30 cents, or may be ordered direct from the
publisher at 25 cents single copies; two-fifty a year.

[Illustration]