Part 2

I was sorry I had not seen Brazil’s “men of war” because it was foggy when we entered the harbor, but I was more sorry to see most of them gambling, drinking, going in and out of the dives along these streets. Here vice was wholly evil and lost none of its grossness. It was dirty, dowdy and depraved. Jack Falstaff would have hurried away as fast as his fat legs could carry him, and not paused to pity, endure or embrace the poor, half-dressed, painted, powdered prostitutes. There is a sharpness of teeth hiding in their cruel kisses, poison in the honey of their lips, and many a deluded lover starts up terrified as if he heard snakes hissing in their hair. Rio de Janeiro is damned with a debauchery which the natural beauty of its harbor can not redeem.

On leaving Rio I met two young ladies on shipboard who told me a “white slave” story. A Buenos Aires agent for vaudeville had come to New York and booked them through his agency. He said conditions were better in South than North America; that they could each earn $50 a week, and have all expenses paid, if they would “just sing American songs.” But before landing they learned from some one who knew this agent, that gambling and wine rooms were run in connection with the theatre, and that it would be necessary for them to carry revolvers for protection. When they realized their danger and decided not to land, but board our ship for New York, they were nabbed by the police, who work hand in hand with the white slavers, and had it not been for the American consul and others interested who raised enough money for their return passage, and insisted that the contract of the agent’s false promises be broken, these two girls would have been placed in durance vile for two years, according to law.

South America is the white slave market of the world. She has black slaves in gold mines and rubber camps of the interior, and white slaves on the coast who have been brought from every country of the world with promises of marriage or respectable employment.

The white slaver is the Devil’s missionary who lays nets which Lucretia cannot avoid, and gives baits and bribes which move Penelope.

Babylon had a marriage market for her women; Rio has a girl’s slave pen, over whose portals is written Dante’s Hell motto.

“She has been in South America,” is the living epitaph of many a poor girl dead in trespasses and sins.

* * * * *

Suggested Motto for Newlyweds

“Another Good Man Gone Wrong.”

* * * * *

His Protecting Prayer

A celebrated revivalist came to address his flock, and before he began to speak, the pastor said: “Brother Jones, before you begins this discourse, there are some powerful bad negroes in this here congregation, and I want to pray for you,” which he did in this fashion:

“O Lord, gives Brother Jones the eye of the eagle, that he may see sin from afar. Glue his ear to the gospel telephone, and connect him with the central skies. Illuminate his brow with a brightness that will make the fires of hell look like a tallow candle. Nail his hands to the gospel plough, and bow his head in some lonesome valley, where prayer is much wanted to be said, and annoint him all over with the kerosene oil of Thy salvation and set him afire.”

* * * * *

Happy Though Married

A learner at golf was surrounded by a large and interested circle of friends.

After missing the ball several times, amid the laughter of his pals, he turned and said: “I must apologize for this rotten performance, but I can assure you that no one feels his misses more than I do.” And still they laughed.

* * * * *

“A worm may eat of a king, a man may eat of a fish that has fed on the worm. Thus a king may run a course through the guts of a beggar.”—Shakespeare.

_Questions and Answers_

=Dear Whiz Bang Bill=—I have been going with a red-headed girl, but as I am leaving school I want to get rid of her. I think, too, that she uses henna. I’m enclosing a further description. What would you advise me to do?—=Iowa Rah-Rah.=

I’d suggest that you publish a want ad in the Whiz Bang as follows:

To Whom It May Concern: I cheerfully recommend my old girl to any young man wanting a suitable dating companion for next year:

She is a good dancer physically and morally.

She is a good looker.

She is a good listener.

She isn’t too good.

She is an excellent pedestrian, in fact, she will always say she likes to walk, although she is not prejudiced against a car.

She is a woman of deep emotions whom only you will be able to thrill.

She has, to the best of my knowledge, absolutely no ideas of her own on any subject, except you.

My sole and simple reason for quitting her is that I am leaving school. Treat her right. She likes to be treated.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=—Why is Mary Pickford like castor oil?—=Hollywood Holly.=

I reckon it’s because both are “queen of the movies.”

* * * * *

=Dear Bill=—Women are generally referred to as the “weaker sex.” Is it because they are more cowardly than men? My experience as a hen-pecked husband has led to the belief that this expression is sadly misplaced.—=Palefaced Peter.=

Once again I referred a question to Mrs. Bill, which, at the outset, showed my weakness. Then the fight was on, but she got in the last word, or words, and here they are:

“Our moral courage is infinitely superior to man’s. No male being would dare go into a shop and pull everything off the shelves only to walk out and buy nothing. Men say they wouldn’t like to give the trouble for nothing. But it isn’t that at all. They haven’t the courage. We don’t pull things about to be spiteful, but to see if we can get what we want. If we don’t find it—how can we buy it? And to buy something else to make up is sheer cowardice.”

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=—I see in your Whiz Bang where you answer some puzzling questions. I have one. What is a gollywhopper?—=Rott N. Peaches.=

A gollywhopper, according to the Encyclopedia Bullconica, is a species of humdinger, descendant of the whangdoodle and cousin of an icthyosaurus.

* * * * *

=Dear Capt. Billy=—Why is the moon like a woman’s heart?—=Lovelorn.=

Because it’s always changing and it always has a man in it.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Fawcett=—If it takes an eight months old woodpecker with a rubber bill six months to peck through a cypress log big enough to make 300 shingles, how long would it take a six months old grasshopper with a corkscrew leg to kick the seeds out of a cucumber?—=Johnny Jumpup.=

Our hired man, Gus, says that he was told by Gus, our village butcher, that an Alabama black man had got a straight tip from the jockey’s bible that it would take just as long for the grasshopper to do the trick you mention as it would take a two-stripe member of the 27th Division to pick off 3,000,001 cooties with a pair of 16-ounce boxing gloves.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—If you had a girl out riding in your automobile, and she complained of being cold and said she would be all right if she only had something around her, would you drive back, as I did, and get her coat?—=Bashful Bob.=

No, but I wouldn’t do what you did, you cheerful prevaricator.

* * * * *

=Dear Capt. Whiz Bang=—I am about to attend a “dry” party, but would like your suggestion as to a good “wet” toast for dry days.—=Ike Atchum.=

How about this one? “Here’s to the little doggy that met a little tree. The little tree said: ‘Come, purp, have one on me.’ The little purp replied, as gentle as a mouse, ‘No, thank you, little treelet, I’ve had one on the house.’”

* * * * *

=Dear Skipper=—What’s the difference between old fashioned and new fashioned kisses?—=Movie Maid.=

About five minutes.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain of the Aft=—I see where you are taking a stand for personal liberty. Still, wouldn’t you be willing to admit that rum is your foe?—=Al K. Hall.=

I can’t help admitting, Al, that I’m disgusted with the way the coward Demon has gone into hiding.

* * * * *

=Dear Kernel Bill=—What is meant by the expression: “bones of contention?”—=Willie Wringlenut.=

It probably refers to cocked dice.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=—Unless I am too presumptuous, would you mind telling me what is your average income?—=Curious Pussy.=

I referred your question to Mrs. Bill, who insists it is after midnight and about a quart a day.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain=—What would make a good wedding anniversary present for Douglas Fairbanks?—=Madge Talma.=

Why not give him an autographed book on “How to be happy, though Mary’d.”

* * * * *

An angel of a girl generally plays the devil with a man.

_Pajama Parties ’n Everything_

Hollywood is still talking of the “wonderful” social season that surrounded Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s. Even away out here on the snow-covered Minnesota prairies there filters through a story or two. But the best one we’ve heard is the pajama affair tendered by one of the real picture queens. The party was probably not as rich as really painted, but it is known, however, that in the wee sma’ hours anyone in pajamas could glide into the festivities whether invited or not. The hostess, we are told, is such a grand little lady that we will not embarrass her by any undue publicity.

It appears that during the course of the evening one of our best actorinos struck up a friendly flirtation with a prim and very agreeable married woman. That is, it was friendly at first; becoming so lovely later on. For reasons best known to themselves, the pair decided to leave the storm and fret and booze behind and go and find—but that is the first part of the story.

Oh girls, before you risk a kiss, And tie up for your lives, Recall if singleness is bliss ’Tis folly to be wives.

Along about five in the morning, an hour or so after he had returned with his fair conquest, Mr. Man, now rather bibulous, was reciting some alleged woes and calling down his wrath upon the “long hairs.” “Long Hairs” is right in Los Angeles just now, except in high society. There isn’t a night but that the “morals squad” or “break-in cops” charge down on some rooming house and there do batter and probe, dragging out the unfortunate wights who cannot show a wedding license. It appears that the actor and his fair conquest, after leaving the pajama party, had experienced some embarrassment, at least such was the impression the man left by his startling conclusion. He said:

“It’s getting so you can’t take a decent married woman to a rooming house in this town without running into some cops looking for a bunch of painted dames.”

Needless to say the fair charmer, who had been listening somewhat nervously to the initial outbreak, all but collapsed when she heard the final denunciation. If her husband hasn’t heard the story, he’s the only one in town not laughing about it.

The midnight bathing parties in Los Angeles and Hollywood are a little passé just now, on account of the weather for one thing. Since one of our best known citizens was suddenly taken with cramps in one of the Romanesque pools without wearing even his B.V.D.’s, the sport has assumed a classification regarded as “dangerous indoor sports.” In this instance most of those who ran to the troubled man’s assistance are said to have been ladies with—well, the wife of one of our leading politicians was nervous for some weeks lest the newspapers print the names of those present, so we’ll pass her up this time.

The ladies who bathe in midnight pools, especially if considerable liquor has been provided, are not particular about their sea-going attire. They quite often prefer the no-piece bathing suit, although the shock of the water often arouses a sober moment. Then milady wonders with dismay how she can emerge amidst the highly interested group of lookers-on.

The cops who raid the little rooming houses and resorts of the less elite would reap a mighty harvest if they cared to intrude upon Wilshire or Hollywood. But what’s a little party of pajama-clad men and women bred in the purple if the copper gets a few choice jolts.

* * * * *

Talked Like a Tailor

The members of the choir were practicing the well known anthem “As the Hart Pants After the Water Brooks.”

The rendering of the opening stages was apparently not quite to the satisfaction of the gentleman who wielded the baton.

He considered it necessary, therefore, to tender some advice to the soprano section, and caused great consternation and not a little embarrassment among his flock by the following announcement:

“Ladies, your expression is simply splendid, but the time is very poor—really, your pants are far too long.”

* * * * *

How Perfectly Lovely

“Is this—can it be love?” sighed Angebella, as she sat on a seat in the park with MacCuthbert’s arm around her waist and his soft voice whispering fondly in her ear. Oh, it was lovely! “It is, my darling,” MacCuthbert assured her. “But tell me, sweet one, how do you feel?” “I feel,” cooed the lady, “as though my heart would leap from my throbbing breast! My parched throat contracts and then expands, while my breath comes in quick, choking sobs.”

There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them as a sleeping tramp crawled forth and glowered at them. “I’d take something for it, miss,” he growled. “That ain’t love you’ve got; it’s hiccups.”

* * * * *

Ruined Reputations

“Whisky has ruined the reputation of many men.”

“Yes,” replied Broncho Bob, “and at the same time, I ain’t so sure that a lot of naturally no-account men haven’t done their share to ruin the reputation of whisky.”

* * * * *

Do You Blame Them?

A “strong-man” actor, wishing to demonstrate his strength, made the following announcement from the stage:

“I would like to have three young ladies volunteer from the audience to come up on the stage, stand on my chest and I will then sing a song.”

Needless to say, none responded.

_Strolling With Jane Gaites_

To Love

Love, once you came to me, I laughed the long day through; For I was young, and happily I reveled in this love so new.

Oh, it was good to live and love! I vowed that I’d be true, And of the sob behind the smile I never dreamed—I never knew.

For every joy I’ve shed a tear; Love left me long ago. I’ve nothing now but memories— How could you hurt me so?

* * * * *

Outside the Movies

By JANE GAITES

After wrecking a dozen homes or more and crushing at least six or nine perfectly good hearts, the movie “vamp” quickly slipped into her street clothes and hurried away from the noisy studio to buy her baby a doll.

After completing the “Adventures of Nan,” the little “convent” girl rushed into her dressing room and was not surprised to find a note from her husband saying that business had called him out of town.

She smiled somewhat significantly and then, carefully powdering her saucy little nose and arching those two tiny perfect lips, she hurried away from the noisy studio to keep an appointment with the “vamp’s” husband.

* * * * *

Silly Sonnets

By JANE GAITES

“Where are you going, my pretty maid?” “I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said. “And may I go with you my pretty maid?” “If it so please you, sir,” she said.

“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?” “What is your income, sir?” she said. “Sunday morning, my pretty maid.” “Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.

* * * * *

Dickory, dickory dock, A mouse ran up the clock; But this clock, I find, Was a different kind, And her cries could be heard up the block.

* * * * *

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, Sharing her good curds and whey; They were hugging and kissing, When her Ma found her missing And frightened fond lover away.

* * * * *

The Lure

By JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY

“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil, “When you fish where the souls of men abound?” “Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil, “Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.” “But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,” Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men; And a thing I hate is to change my bait, So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”

Nature moves oftener to the time of “L’Allegro” than “Il Penseroso”—the major, not the minor chord, predominates. The carol of birds, hum of insects, rustle of leaves, ripple of water and chirrup of cricket are only sad to those whose natures are harsh. There is more of light than shadow, and we feel it as we look at matchless sunrise and sunset, glinting stars, deep green of forest, lighter color of meadow and grain field, and the sunbeams chased by the wind across hillside and valley.

The church is not a cemetery, the minister is not a death’s head, and his church members should not be mummies. The world was given us to cheer our hearts; religion was never designed to make our pleasures less, and when it does we have less of religion and more of something else. To be a child of God is to be a happy member of his family in a present Eden which thrills the brain, fills the heart, and makes us rejoice in the hope of a home where sin and sorrow shall never enter.

The historian Hume found that King Edward II had paid a jester a crown to make him laugh. That was a good investment. How much better it is to have a fool to make one merry than experience to make one sad. Why not have Christmas cheer fifty-two weeks in the year and let it brighten and bless spring, summer and autumn till winter comes again?

Shakespeare says, “One may smile and smile and be a villain,” but I think the man who does not smile is the villain “fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.”

A smile is the difference between a man and a brute, though a laughing hyena is preferable to a scowling misanthrope, and a heathen who only wears a smile to a Christian garbed in gloom.

Cheerfulness does more for health and holiness than pills and preaching. Why not smile in a good world with a gracious God?

The man ought to be arrested who comes downtown in the morning with an insulting scowl that curdles the milk of human kindness. One smile is worth a dozen snarls.

Horace, the Latin poet, taught truth by laughter; in politics a smile has controlled kings; and Swift and Heine did more by their smiles for freedom than swords. We can’t all be poets, painters and presidents, but we can all be end-men to Life’s minstrel show. Mark Tapley was always cheerful, and Sydney Smith said, “I have gout, asthma and seven other maladies, but otherwise, thank the Lord, I am very well.”

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

* * * * *

Pacific Coast physicians are conducting a campaign which has for its aims “the conservation of public health”—specifically, the elimination of the advertising doctors, whom they designate quacks, and the squelching of “cranks” who oppose vivisection.

The editor of the Whiz Bang may be put down by the doctors as among the “cranks” because he doesn’t like the idea of vivisection. I suppose I’m one of those sentimental birds, but any goop who tries to carve up my dog, my pony, or even Pedro, my pedigreed bull, will have a fight on his hands.

If surgeons must have live bodies upon which to experiment, it is suggested they utilize some of the less useful members of the medical profession. Most doctors are good citizens, and we include some advertising doctors, too. They have, it is true, a somewhat exaggerated idea of importance in the general scheme of things, but their delusion is honest. They regard the profession highly, and rightly so.

This being the case, nobody would object if a doctor showed the courage of his convictions by allowing his fellow “cut-ups” to strap him on an operating table and dissect his carburetor and other inside machinery.

But until doctors assume this attitude, most regular people will regard vivisectionists as a low species of bloodthirsty coward, pandering to a perverted taste for twisting entrails.

* * * * *

Puritans of the city of Spokane, Wash., are seeking to have a city ordinance regulating the length of skirts. Our correspondent in that neck of the woods says he sees no need for such an ordinance, and that the girls are wearing skirts now that are as long as the distance from Spokane to the Canadian border, 100 miles, and that anyway he would rather live on the border.

However, that’s neither here nor there. The big question in Spokane, now that the old maids and senile lawmakers have agreed that the skirts ought to stay below the knees, is to whom should authority to enforce such an ordinance be given?

Some seem to think the ordinance ought to be enforced by the commissioner of public health, while others want the commissioner of public safety. Therefore, the question seems to be whether short skirts are a menace to somebody’s health or whether they are dangerous to public safety.

We’ll say that it depends largely on circumstances. If a girl’s short skirts cause a crowd to gather in the street, and automobile drivers to look around while driving, then it’s a question of safety. Otherwise, and in certain other circumstances, it might bring about a danger to public health.

In any case we declare it to be interfering with the liberties of the subject. Our sympathies are with the fair sex all the time. If a girl has a shapely ankle, why should she hide it? It is part of her stock in trade—in fact, a show window for the male-and-female market, or marriage market, or whatever you want to call it. Frequently it enables a girl to obtain a good position, it is said.

You might just as well expect a girl to cover up her face if she is a good-looker, or place blinders or goggles on her eyes if they sparkle too much. Besides, we have the poor policemen to consider. Do we wish to take all the joy out of their lives? These cops virtually live on the streets. Their pleasures are few. Are we to deprive them of viewing shapely ankles, etc.? Do let us be a little broad-minded and give the girls liberty.

* * * * *

Roughly estimated, 14,000,000 microbes, scientists reported, gathered on our grandmother’s skirt. Now it would require a germ a foot high to catch on the hem of a damsel’s garment. Isn’t that some compensation?

* * * * *

If some married women would only realize the value of a chic robe de nuit en crepe de chine, and other dainty lingerie in retaining their hubby’s admiration, they’d never be found sleeping alone in flannelette while he entertained a bit of fluff outside the home circle.

* * * * *

Give Him a Little Time

“She says she has an ideal husband.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Three weeks.”

“Shucks, all husbands are ideal for the first three weeks.”

* * * * *

Sweet Essence of Prune Juice

He had known her for years. He had seen a good deal of her—in more ways than one.

He had sat across the parlor from her; she had, of course, crossed her legs; he had seen her trim ankles, her…

He had seen her at the seashore, wearing her tantalizing, silky bathing suit, with its short dress, with its cute little slippers, with its…