Part 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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=The Footpath of Peace=

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

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

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

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=Free Verse=

When a girl walks Down the street With hardly enough Clothes on to make A tail for a kite You can’t expect a fellow To have prayer meeting Thoughts.

* * * * *

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

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

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

=_Smokehouse Poetry_=

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

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

=The Worldly Way= By Monroe H. Rosenfeld.

“Come back, my child,” said the father fond To his boy who had gone astray Out in the bitter world of sin— Out in the sorrowed way; “Thou hast erred, my child, yet what of that? And Frailty’s name is mine, Thy path of sin is naught to me, For repentance is divine!”

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

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

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

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Ah! this was many years ago, When life was a youthful dream; And yester eve I saw two graves In a churchyard near a stream; The glittering waters rippled soft Their cadence for a song Of the sinner and sinned who buried lay Apart from the madding throng.

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

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“Here’s where I prove an artist Without a brush,” he cried, As he drew a lovely maiden Up closer to his side.

* * * * *

=Hell=

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

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

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

* * * * *

=Learning.=

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

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

* * * * *

=Maud Muller=

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

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

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

The Yudge come riding down big hill In nice red yumping ottomobill.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

=Girls! Read This One=

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

* * * * *

=Girls=

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

With girls you should not get too free, You’ll find my words are right; Tell her she is a bear, and she Will want to hug you tight. —Hastings (Neb.) Tribune.

With girls you should not get too free, And this thought don’t forget; Tell her she is a deer, and see Her run you dear in debt. —New York World.

With girls you should not get too free, Just that in mind please bear; Tell her she is a peach, and she Will grab you for a pair. —St. Paul Pioneer Press.

With girls you should not get too free, Be careful, don’t get rash; Tell her she is a lamb and she Will fleece you of your cash.

* * * * *

=In a Friendly Sort o’ Way=

When a man ain’t got a cent, and he’s feeling kind o’ blue, An’ the clouds hang dark an’ heavy, an’ won’t let the sunshine through, It’s a great thing, O, my brethren, for a feller just to lay His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way! It makes a man feel curious; it makes the teardrops start, An’ you sort o’ feel a flutter in the region of the heart: You can look up and meet his eyes: you don’t know what to say When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way. Oh, the world’s a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, With its care and bitter crosses, but a good worl’ after all; An’ a good God must have made it—leastways, that is what I say, When a hand is on my shoulder in a friendly sort o’ way. —James Whitcomb Riley.

* * * * *

=The Troop Train=

Higgledy, piggledy, we tumble in, Rats in a cage, fish in a tin, In evil dreams I travel again In a clanking, clattering French troop train, “Chevaux” eight, “Homme’s” two score Is the legend inscribed on the box-car door. All things considered, I cannot but feel That the horses get the best of the deal. We stop with a jerk and start with a wrench, And the driver gets cursed in both English and French. We start, we stop, we start once more And shunt back to where we were before; When it’s time to sleep down you flop With two men beneath you and three on top. Higgledy, piggledy, here we lie, Lice in a shirt, pigs in a sty. H. J. Smith.

* * * * *

=When I’m Among a Blaze of Lights=

When I’m among a blaze of lights, With tawdry music and cigars And women dawdling through delights, And officers at cocktail bars,— Sometimes I think of garden night And elm trees nodding at the stars.

I dream of a small firelit room With yellow candles burning straight, And glowing pictures in the gloom, And kindly books that hold me late. Of things like these I love to think When I can never be alone: Then some one says, “Another drink?” And turns my living heart to stone. —Sassoon.

* * * * *

When the whole blamed world Seems gone to pot And business on the bum, A two-cent grin and a lifted chin Helps some, my boy, helps some.

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=The Modern Version=

“Smile, and the world smiles with you; Weep, and you weep alone.” —Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Spend, and the world spends with you; Save, and you save alone. Tho’ fast be the race you’ve got to keep pace, Till you’ve spent every nickel you own.

Jazz, and the bunch jazz with you; Dance, and you’re by yourself; The mob thinks it’s “jake” to shimmy and shake, For the “old-fashioned stuff’s” on the shelf.

Have a “case,” and your friends will adore you; Have a thirst, and they all pass you by; For men want full measure of all your treasure, But never come ’round when you’re dry. V. V. M.

* * * * *

=The Longing Search=

I wonder if we’ll ever meet again.

Upon a golden day thou came’st to me, And beautyless were other maidens then, Nor was it night nor day when near to thee, But carefree floating through the yielding air.

Oft in the crowd, I’ve seen thee hurry on, With wistful smile and look so sadly fair, But when the head was turned, ’twas not the one. And my sad heart fed on its grief again.

So runs my song. The sea, in other days, Broke on the shores of time encircled men And maids, whose hearts, like ours, sang such sad lays. Are those souls happy there, who here found pain?

I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. —Norman McLeod.

* * * * *

=Ananias Outdone=

I’d rather drink water than beer; I’d rather drink milk than champagne, A “gingerale high” always makes me feel queer, A “claret cup” gives me a pain; I’m really a buttermilk fan, For whisky I don’t care a slam; Soft drinks are my joy, I’m so happy! Oh, Boy!! What a wonderful liar I am. —By Betty.

* * * * *

=So Touching= By John Bowen, Jr., S. T. C.

At first she touches up her hair To see if it’s in place, And then with manner debonair, She touches up her face; A touch of curls behind her ear, A touch of cuffs and collars And then she’s off to hubby dear To touch him for ten dollars.

* * * * *

When You Marry Her When You Marry Him

When you marry her, love After you marry him, her; study him;

After you marry her, If he is secretive, trust study her; him;

When she is blue, cheer If he is sad, cheer him; her;

When she is talkative, by When he is talkative, all means listen to listen to him; her;

If she dresses well, When he is quarrelsome, compliment her; ignore him;

When she is cross, humor If he is jealous, cure her; him;

If she does you a favor, If he cares naught for kiss her; pleasure, coax him;

When she is jealous, cure her;

If dinner is cold, eat If he favors society, it, not her; accompany him;

When she looks pretty, When he deserves it, kiss tell her so; him;

Let her feel how well you Let him think how well understand her— you understand him—

But never let her know But never let him know she isn’t boss. that you manage him.

=_Pasture Pot Pourri_=

I didn’t like her apartment so I knocked her flat.

* * * * *

A parson in London, England, has been unfrocked for kissing a servant girl. This smacks of intolerance.

* * * * *

=Give It Up=

If big feet, knock-knees and bow legs won’t make a girl wear long skirts, what chance has modesty?

* * * * *

=An Ambition=

_I’ve mortgaged the house and mortgaged the cow, And mortgaged the things that are, And all the things I expect to have, To purchase a motor car. And when I first roll out in it My joy will be sublime If I can run over my brother-in-law And get away in time._

* * * * *

A man in Brandon, the other day, was fined one thousand dollars for selling a bottle of whiskey, and a man in Humboldt, found guilty of seduction, was let off on suspended sentence. Uplift is making great advances.

* * * * *

Clothing dealers think that it’s all over with the overall.

* * * * *

The man who does not possess a private cellar is in a fair way to possess a private cell.

* * * * *

Bohemia! Bohemia! The world of hopes and fears, Of themes and dreams and cigarettes, free lunches, beers and tears.

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