Part 3

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