Part 3

And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red” Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,” “Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang, “Big Mac” from Mackinack.

I saw some boys I’d never met; A bo called “New York Spike,” “Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek, And “Mississippi Ike.”

Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke, Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”; And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul” Fixed up a jungle stew, While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim” Croaked gumps for our menu.

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song Along with “Desp’rate Sam”; And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park Clog-danced with “Alabam.”

We gathered ’round the jungle fire, The night was passing fast; We’d all done time for every crime, And talk was of the past.

All night we flopped around the fire Until the morning sun; Then from the town the cops came down— We beat it on the run.

We scattered to the railroad yards, And left the “bulls” behind; Some hit the freights for other states, And many rode the “blind.”

Well, here I am in Denver town, A hungry, tired-out bo; The flier’s due, when she pulls through, I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block— I’ll make her on the fly; It’s number nine—Santa Fe line, I’m off again—Good Bye!

* * * * *

Mushy Stuff, Eh?

He blushed a fiery red, Her heart went pittypat; She gently hung her head, And looked down, at the mat.

* * * * *

Mary Jane

_Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium ditty_:

Oh, she promised to meet me When the clock struck seventeen, At the stockyards, just three miles out of town, Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the Tough old Texas steers Sell for sirloin steak at Eighteen cents a pound.

CHORUS:

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby, She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy, She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame. Although her lower teeth are phoney From eating Swift’s bologna, She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

* * * * *

Casey’s Revenge

_Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?” Here’s a baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition. He replies to the old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own Mudville nine. Heave ho to this “Curve”_—

—By James Wilson.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more; There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore. “Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat, And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.” All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,” They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line. And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men. And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown; The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town. All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum; And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild, He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began; But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.” The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score; But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar. The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game, A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame; But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,” A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face— When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place; His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away; There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day. They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.” But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout. The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped; Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said. Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee— “Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot. But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot? A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew— A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue. About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight, The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight. Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit; But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun; And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall; But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

* * * * *

Expurgated

By a Former Acting-assistant Buck Private, Budd L. McKillipps.

Last night I was at a party And some fellow sang a song, A song I’d heard, But this poor bird Had half the words all wrong.

He sang a soldier ballad, But it lacked the army tang; It sounded strange To hear the change, These were the songs he sang:

_Mademoiselle from Armentieres;_ _Parley Vouz,_ _Mademoiselle from Armentieres;_ _Parley Vouz,_ _Mademoiselle from Armentieres,_ _She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,_ _Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz._

I’d tell you the way we sang it Around the cafes in France, (The words grow worse With every verse), I don’t dare take a chance.

_Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,_ _With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,_ _And the non-commissioned officers in the tool house_ _While the privates in the mess hall running wild;_ _The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,_ _They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks._ _Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—_ _The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;_ _Then it’s home boys, home;_ _That’s where we ought to be,_ _Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;_ _We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the pole_ _And we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold._

That wasn’t the way we sang it, To comrades garbed in O.D.; There’s some may tell The real song, well— You’ll not find out from me.

_I want to go home, I want to go home,_ _The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;_ _They certainly all feel sorry for me;_ _I want to go home_ _I’m here with a busted knee._ _Oh, hell, I wish I was well,_ _I want to go home._

I cried when I heard him sing that, ’Twas a song we sang in Brest; When long days crept And boys were kept In stockades under arrest.

Oh, why do they change those ballads, Till nothing’s left but the air? They’re made for men So sing them when There’s no darned women there.

* * * * *

Tribute to the Painted Girl

By Grayce Moody.

There are girly girls and whirly girls, And girls who are bashful and shy; There are gay brunettes and dizzy blondes, And the girl with the wicked eye. There’s the haughty girl who sits on the world, As the honey from life she sips, But give me the girl the world calls bad, The girl with the painted lips.

She’s there with a smile and a friendly word, When the world is going wrong, She will jolly you and cheer you up And tell you life’s a song. She will stick by you and play you square, No odds if you’re down and out, She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend, I’ll say she’s a regular scout.

Her life is not all sunshine and roses This painted little maid, But she hides her hurts behind a smile And faces the world unafraid; Little she minds what the world says Or the “goody girls’” caustic quips, She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes” My girl with the painted lips.

* * * * *

Monkey Shines

Two young men were riding on a street car which I chanced to squeeze onto with some 249 other adults.

“I took my first drink last night, Algernon,” said one of the pair.

“Did you, Clarence? Honestly, where did you get it?” queried the other.

“Down at a near beer parlor. It was real near beer, too, with one-half of one per cent alcohol and everything.”

“I’ve been drinking, too,” said the other; “I had two whole glasses of near beer the other night. I was going to a party, you know, and wanted to get plenty of pep.”

“Did you drink your near beer straight, or did you dilute it with water?” asked Clarence.

“I drank it straight. I wanted to get the full kick. Straight, you know, with a coupla chasers.”

“I certainly went crazy after I took that drink, though. I thought I was going to try to sing at first,” said Clarence.

“I hope none of my friends saw the way I acted after I took that near beer the other night,” Algernon put in. “I went batty right away. I started telling all sorts of funny jokes and laughing ridiculously. Went to see my girl immediately after, and she said she could tell I had been drinking after I told her. She promised not to tell it, though.”

The two young men got off the car about this time, and a grizzled old dog sitting in front of me bit the neck off a bottle of turpentine he carried and drank the contents of the bottle. “I heard that pair talking,” he said.

* * * * *

Liberty’s Love Lights

A young colored couple were sitting at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. Henry was holding Mandy’s hand.

“Henry,” said Mandy, “Does you-all know why dey has such small lights on de Statue o’ Liberty?”

“Ah dunno,” replied the Ethiopian swain, “unless it’s because de less light, de mo’ liberty.”

* * * * *

Ashes to ashes, And fire to fire; He’s a weak old man, She’s a foxy vampire.

* * * * *

Rasping Rastus’ Roost

“What am de matter, Rastus? Ketch cold?”

“Yeah, purty bad, too.”

“How come?”

“Ya know, I put mah bed out in de yard, and doggone if Ah didn’t go to bed las’ night wiff de gate open.”

* * * * *

The head that is loaded with wisdom doesn’t leak at the mouth.

* * * * *

Debt is a trap which a man sets and baits for him self and then deliberately falls into.

_Arthur Neale’s Page_

I wish to assure the readers of Captain William’s Whiz Bang that what we stand for is one country, one flag, one language and one-piece bathing suits.

* * * * *

_’Cause what looks so cute_ _As a nice bathing suit—_ _Provided inside it_ _The girl is a beaut?_

* * * * *

We notice the Very Rev. “Golightly” Morrill says: “At Puerto Cabello one goes in swimming au natural. The guide-book says: ‘The natural beauties of the place are charming.’” That settles it! Puerto Cabello is where we spend the vacation!

* * * * *

_We heard someone say: “I do admire Art”;_ _We blushed as we thought of our striving,_ _But the next thing they said was a stab to the heart._ _’Twas: “Look! She’s so graceful when diving.”_

* * * * *

Every year the bathing regulations grow stricter. If Gus, the hired man, read the ones for Coney Island this year we think he’d say they wear more in the sea than they do on the sidewalk.

* * * * *

_Miss Venus, as perhaps you know,_ _Had lost her pair of arms;_ _It didn’t matter to her beau,_ _The gal had other charms._

* * * * *

As the refined woman single in vaudeville said: “I may be no riot—but thank God, I’m satisfied.”

* * * * *

Our friends in the song-writing game will be interested to learn that we are now at work on a snappy little one-step entitled: “When Adam Said ‘Eve, You’re a Naughty Little Girl.’ She said: ‘Well, I don’t care A dam.’”

* * * * *

Our Monthly Prayer

“O Fadder, give thy servant this mornin’ de eye of de eagle and de wisdom of de owl; connect his soul with de gospel telephone in de central skies; ’luminate his brow with de sun of heaben; pizen his mind with love for de people; turpentine his ’magination; grease his lips with ’possum oil; power; ’lectrify his brain with de lightnin’ of de loosen his tongue with de sledge hammer of thy word; put ’petual motion in his ahms; fill him plum’ full of de dynamite of thy glory; ’noint him all over with de kerosene oil of thy salvation, and sot him on the fire. Amen!”

_The Raptures of Cupid_

_In the April issue we published a model love letter, and since then we have been deluged with dimes from anxious swains asking us to hurry along another letter, as their sweethearts had answered the first and were expecting another. As we are always ready to sympathize with crooning youths, and wish to be obliging, we are offering another captivating love note in the following_:

My dear Miss Gumptious: Every time I think of you, my heart flops up and down like a churn dasher. Sensations of unutterable joy caper over it like young goats on a stable roof, and thrill through it like Spanish needles through a pair of two linen trousers. As a gosling swimmeth with delight in a mud puddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic rapture, thicker than the hairs of a blacking brush, and brighter than the hues of a humming bird’s pinions, visit me in my slumbers; and, borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach out to grasp it, like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly. When I first beheld your angelic perfections I was bewildered, and my brain whirled ’round like a bumble bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted up my ears to catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag and in silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a thirsty man swalloweth a tumbler of hot whiskey punch.

Since the light of your face fell upon my life, I sometimes feel as if I could lift myself up by my boot straps to the top of the church steeple, and pull the bell rope for singing school. Day and night you are in my thoughts. When Aurora, rising from her saffron-colored couch, blushing like a bride; when the jay bird pipes his tuneful lay in the apple tree by the spring house; when the chanticleer’s shrill clarion heralds the coming morn; when the awakening pig ariseth from his bed and grunteth, and goeth forth for his morning refreshments; when the drowsy beetle wheels to droning flight at sultry noontide; and when the lowing herds come home at milking time, I think of thee; and, like a piece of gum elastic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom. Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse, powdered with gold, and the brass pins skewered through your water-fall fill me with unbounded awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat; your eyes are glorious to behold. In their liquid depths I see legions of little Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old Army cracker. When their fire hit me upon my manly breast, it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a load of bird shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is a chunk of Parian marble, and your mouth is puckered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your lips, like honey on a bear’s paw; and myriads of unfledged kisses are there, ready to fly out and light somewhere, like bluebirds out of their parents’ nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the windharp’s strain, or the bleat of a stray lamb on a bleak hillside. The dimples in your cheeks are like bowers in beds of roses—hollows in cakes of home-made sugar.

I am dying to fly to thy presence, and pour out the burning eloquence of my love, as thrifty housewives pour out hot coffee. Away from you I am as melancholy as a rat.

Sometimes, I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears, and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits; and my soul is pierced with doubts, as an old cheese is bored with skippers.

My love for you is stronger than the smell of patent butter, or the kick of a young cow, and more unselfish than a kitten’s first catterwaul. As a song bird hankers for the light of day, the cautious mouse for the fresh bacon in the trap, as a mean pup hankers after new milk, so I long for thee.

You are fairer than a speckled pullet, sweeter than a Yankee doughnut fried in sorghum molasses, brighter than the top knot plumage of muscovy ducks. You are candy, kisses, raisins, pound-cake and sweetened toddy altogether.

If these few remarks will enable you to see the inside of my soul, and me to win your affection, I shall be as happy as a woodpecker on a cherry tree, or a stage horse in a green pasture. If you cannot reciprocate my thrilling passion, I will pine away like a poisoned bed bug, and fall away from a flourishing vine of life an untimely branch; and, in the coming years, when the shadows grow from the hills, and the philosophical frog sings his cheerful evening hymn, you, happy in another’s love can come and cast a tear and catch a cold upon the last resting place of

Yours affectionately,

ANNY JOHN.

* * * * *

Give Her a Ring Under the Eye

“What shall I give my girl for a birthday present?”

“Why not give her a book?”

“No, I think she has a book.”

* * * * *

“Where did you get the idea?”

“Right out of my own head, and I have enough left, to make a crazy-quilt.”

* * * * *

Judging from spring styles, the only cap a girl will set for a man this summer will be a kneecap.

* * * * *

A Human Obsession

We’ve got a discharged soldier in our town who was gassed, and had his leg shot off. He is forever looking for his lost leg, and often seems to think a woman may have it, with the result that he is arrested every few days on some woman’s complaint and is let go. We’d call that a pleasant mania.

_Pasture Pot Pourri_

No, Madeline, “The Charge of the Light Brigade” does not refer to your gas and electric bills.

* * * * *

Bedroom Farcical Maxims

Never retire in a garage unless you auto, and— Never sleep in a stable for a stall.

* * * * *

Love is the intoxication of joy—marriage is the D.T’s.

* * * * *

Here We Are—In Again

Policeman Knife had by his wife A set of bouncing twins; One took a cough which took it off From this abode of sins; Number one no sooner died And into the coffin slid, When number two took the flu And joined the other kid.

* * * * *

She only weighs two pounds less than a horse.

* * * * *

THERE ARE A THOUSAND THINGS LIFE’S WORTH LIVING FOR. ONE IS WINE, ONE IS SONG—AND THE OTHER 998 ARE WOMEN.

* * * * *

I got a girl named Stella, She’s got a mouth like an open umbrella; She’s knock-kneed, crippled, her eyes turned in— But a darn good girl for the shape she’s in.

* * * * *

Woman

Rocks whereon greatest men have often wrecked.

* * * * *

If all the trees had limbs like thine, I think the woods would be divine.

* * * * *

“No one seems to kick about the high cost of hooch these days.”

“Of course not; the kick is in the drink.”

* * * * *

They were married and lived happily ever after—next day.

* * * * *

_I asked our stenog. why firemen wear red suspenders. She said, “Those I know don’t.”_

* * * * *

I know a man without a sin—he is dead.

* * * * *

Kiss Fighters

Rose is game; Mary’s pretty small; Nellie fights back,—but I like them all.

* * * * *

Life is just one damnthing after another—and love is just two damnthings after each other.

* * * * *

Why do you wear your stockings inside out?

Because there is a hole on the other side.

* * * * *

A news item says knee pants for men are bound to come. I wonder if the women will stand on the street corner and admire our shapely (?) laigs? And will men wear silk hose of green and pink and purple hues, with “Jacob’s ladders” showing? Let us pray.

* * * * *

Alphabetical Stuff

Y Y U R Y Y U B I C U R Y Y 4 Me.

But we won’t keep you in suspense—Two wise you are, two wise you be; I see you are, too wise for me.

* * * * *

Teacher—“Willie, can you tell me the definition of an hangar?”

Willie—“A place where airplanes are hung.”

* * * * *

A Montevidious Comparison

(From the Montevideo, Minn., American)

In Albert Lea, the other day, a man was shot dead when found with another man’s wife. If this practice were strictly adhered to in Montevideo the undertakers would be rushed to death.

* * * * *

Pertinent Question

(From Portland Oregonian.)

Young womanhood that wears wrist bottles and check corsets is not typical of the best. Do their mothers know their route?

* * * * *

Tell It to the Judge

In a recent scandal case in New York, a lady declined to answer a question because, she said, “It wasn’t fit to tell decent people.”

“Oh, well,” replied the lawyer, “just step up and whisper it to the judge.”

* * * * *

Our Short Story

He—Cold, Hon’? She—About to freeze! He—Want my coat? She—Just the sleeve!

* * * * *

The Glorious Daze

Two drunks hanging on a lamp post at 2 A. M.

No. 1—Shay, d’you know Tom Perkins?

No. 2—No, what’s his name?

No. 1—Who?

* * * * *

Daytona Beach Ballad

Come all you reformers, if you want to raise ’ell. Here comes a woman from the Breakers Hotel, With dropped-stitched stockings, And high-heeled shoes, A pack of cigarettes And a bottle of booze.

* * * * *

Always smile—It gets you something.

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=Teny Sun=—The best way to prevent your dog from suffering with the heat in July is to kill him in June.

* * * * *