Part 2

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

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

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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.”

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

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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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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=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.

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

Walk fast; stop quick. Continue this motion.

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=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.

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=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.

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=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.

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

Old Crow.

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=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.

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=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.

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=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”?

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=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.

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=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.

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

Joe Latrine.

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=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.

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=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.

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=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.”

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=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.

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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._

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“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.”

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

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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.

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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.”

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