Part 2

Pastor of People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

Palm Beach is the place where the palm is held out for your money as soon as you land. Here nothing is free save the air, looks and morals of the visitors. On the beach color, costume, commotion, low necks, high skirts, bare legs, wicked winks and studied poses kindle the onlooker’s thoughts into a flame that Neptune cannot put out. This is the place for high jinks that would shame the half-naked savages of the South Seas and outdo the love-antics of the nymphs and gods in old mythology.

Dinner is the day’s event at the Poinciana Hotel. ’Tis a thrilling sight to see an army of waiters “charge” through miles of dinner table trenches, while the guests, armed with sabre knives and bayonet forks, fight to get food. After the attack the survivors sit around in the lobby, stand or march about the miles of halls and foyers, shooting glances at each other and attempting to make “conquests.” Despite the heat of the room, there were many chilling glances and cold shoulders if you were not one of the “regulars.” Giddy boys and girls, thoroughbred sports of men and women, were all there to see and be seen, to show all they dared, to flaunt their gold and diamonds and exhibit everything they could on their outside which did but advertise the naked poverty of their inner mentality and morality.

Amid all this glare, gold and giddiness, I watched an old woman, who was out of the society race, but painfully anxious to be noticed. This slave of fashion with rope of pearls around her neck, bosom bound round with chains of gold, and handcuffed with bracelets, leaned back in her chair. When she saw me look at her she raised the lace on her breast that I might see her hidden diamonds, then rested her withered arms for me to admire her bracelets, moved her bony, be-diamonded fingers, heaved her upholstered bosom and writhed her wrinkled, snaky neck.

Ye Gods, what a sight! This last leaf on Life’s tree—this winter of discontent amid these tropical surroundings—this dying spark in life’s conflagration of passion—this woman of three score years making this unholy show of herself, when she ought to be in bed or with a Bible on her knees preparing to meet her God. This after-dinner sideshow was a fulsome fiesta of Fashion, a vicious Vanity Fair.

The “Beach Club” is the Monte Carlo of the U. S. A. To gain admission you must be a member, or be vouched for by a member in good standing. I met a member who offered to take me in and show me around. I had seen the real Monte Carlo abroad and was told this was like it with its games and sports. I did manage to get by the Cerberus at the door, but was then politely stopped by a smiling, monkey flunkey with an expression of “Thus far shalt thou go and go further.” He informed me I couldn’t enter without being in evening dress. Since I was like the man in the Scripture, without the wedding garment, I was cast out. Nevertheless, at the door I saw two old satyrs taking a chance with two powdered, painted dames, who in life’s game had lost everything worth having. One of the girls was tipsy. They made some fly remarks and were welcomed in.

This “Beach” Club is a place of financial and moral wrecks. It is openly run in defiance of the Florida state law against gambling. There is not a law of man or God that it does not break, except the one that unless you wear a tuxedo or Prince Albert you cannot enter. Here hearts, heads and bank accounts are broken. Fabulous amounts exchange hands among the players. If you are just a looker-on you pay for the privilege—a dollar for a glass of water or ten dollars a plate for a light luncheon. Question: Why does the government pinch the little gamblers and permit this “White House” to be a black palace of ruin and despair?

There is some excuse for the routine of an insane asylum but none for the silly Palm Beach daily program. Here it is: Yawns, idleness, ennui and indigestion; dressing for beach and undressing for dinner; sun-tan of the “Browning Club” and tonic baths; whisking around in an invalid wheel chair in company of dudes and pug-dogs; driveling talk of clothes and looks; drinking pink tea or cocktails; reading the latest trash; spooning, dancing, flirting, golfing, yachting, sporting, and parading high-priced dogs, cats and monkeys whose mentality and morals are often higher than their owners’.

Even Mother Nature here is togged out in society form, laced and corseted. Trees and flowers are trimmed out of all picturesqueness; natural curves give way to geometrical squares; lawns are imprisoned in concrete curbs; the air is perfumed with the balmy fragrance of cigarettes and cigars; there in no rest found beneath palms, fruit trees or among plants and flowers on account of the stinging swarms of society gnats. Florid Florida folders describe Palm Beach as “paradise,” but the attractions to me were outside of the garden. Everything is over-estimated. It is very far from the luxuriance of Hawaii, the sport of Monte Carlo, the beauty and history of Mediterranean resorts. It takes more than a railroad and a big hotel to beat them.

Palm Beach pauperizes and provokes. Her short season sickens and shames. She is the painted, pampered prostitute of Florida. “Do as you damn please” is her motto. This was no place for a minister’s son, so I stood not upon the order of my going, but went by the first midnight train—before I lost all my money and morals.

* * * * *

Froth Pulls This One

Belle—I don’t understand why Clarice lets that common grocery boy play around with her?

Buoy—Neither do I, unless it’s because he delivers the goods.

_Our New York Gossip_

Heaven forbid that I should be catty about this; but I marvel at the new medical malady introduced into the world by the great Mlle. Suzanne Lenglen, the French tennis star.

It is a peculiar kind of bronchial cough that only comes on when you are getting licked. The peculiarity of the disease that the paroxysm of coughing take place every time one loses a point; the gaining of a point is followed by an immediate, temporary recovery.

Brethren and sisters, I don’t want to bring on another European war; but we gotta have the truth about this French jane who came over here to mop up the tennis courts with our American girls.

The real malady from which Mlle. Lenglen was suffering was an overdose of publicity. They tell me that, at the time of the Olympic games in Belgium, the French star had begun to believe that the rest of the firmament where she was not was a comparatively dull affair.

One day, at Antwerp, she arrived at the stadium without her ticket of admission. To the gatekeeper who held out his mit for the accustomed cardboard, she said with freezing hauteur, “I am the great Lenglen.” I don’t know what the gatekeeper did; I suppose he dropped dead and was carried out by the heels; but anyhow, that is what she said.

When she arrived in America, the little French girl did a very foolish thing. She gave out an interview loftily pooh-poohing all the American stars—especially Molla Bjurstedt Mallory, whom she said she had defeated without trying.

Now it happens that Molla is a sweet, kind-hearted, unaffected, courageous little Norwegian girl. She was a professional masseuse when she came to America; but disarmed the snobbery of the Newport tennis set by her good sportsmanship.

She read the catty remarks that Lenglen had said about her and she came out on the tennis courts at Forest Hills looking for blood. The dander of her Norse Viking ancestors was up. The way she lit into the French girl filled the latter with dismay. In the face of the tornado, the “great Lenglen” retired shivering to the back courts and straightway developed a sensational cough.

At the end of the first set, she threw up her hands and quit cold, leaving the courts in tears. Molla retired from the battle in high dignity; but as soon as the club house doors closed upon her, she was almost smothered by the kisses and hugs of the other girl tennis players who had gathered for the tournament. Mlle. Lenglen during her brief stay of two days had managed to make herself thoroughly unpopular.

It is predicted that the other French champion, Carpentier, will not be basking in quite such a halo of hero worship when he comes back again, next winter, to fight Tom Gibbons.

Georges made a gallant and inspiring fight against Jack Dempsey but, around the neighborhood, they were not quite so strong for him.

It is certainly an awful thing to contemplate; but if the new picture censors of New York have their way, the world is due to be a lonely void without any one-piece bathing suit girls.

The first thing they did on taking office recently was to throw out the picture of some Dallas, Texas, young ladies who won the prizes for having the best—well, y’ know—bathing suits and so on.

Hardly had the metropolis recovered from this shock when the censors ruthlessly stepped on Hope Hampton’s thousand dollar bathing suit which recently gave Atlantic City a thrill.

Of course, you understand that Hope’s bath suit was made out of seal skin; and seal skin is so awfully expensive that she naturally couldn’t get such an awful lot of it for a thousand dollars—and that was the kind of suit it was.

The censors gave the indignant Miss Hampton a funny reason for their official “thumbs down” ruling. They said that her bath suit was against the city ordinances of Atlantic City—and they couldn’t stand for that—even if it was in New Jersey.

Whereupon most of the New York papers promptly proceeded to print both of the censor forbidden pictures, thereby giving them about a dozen times the publication they would have had on the screen.

It is practically a defi on the part of the Metropolitan daily papers, who say in effect to Governor Miller, “Why don’t you try censoring us, too?”

And now we are on the subject of Hope Hampton, they tell me that, although a really nice little girl, Hope has begun to feel her dignity. Not long ago, at her picture studio two electricians were fixing an overhead light. One of them, looking down upon the set, said, “Now we’ve got it right. It’s right above her head.”

Whereupon the lovely young star stared upward with a cold and terrible stare:

“Where do you get that stuff, ‘her’?” she demanded. “When you are talking about me, say ‘Miss Hampton.’”

There are alarming rumors that Hope is going onto the stage along with the other movie stars who are headed furiously in that direction.

On the other hand, Theda Bara, to counter-balance the exodus, is going back to the screen again.

Personally I quiver with excitement waiting to find out if T’eda is going to be a vamp on the screen again. She’s a queer girl—T’eda.

It used to be said of Oliver Goldsmith that he wrote like an angel and talked like a fool. Just the other way with T’eda.

Personally she is one of the most charming women I ever met. She has brains, wit, philosophy, humor and concentration. She is a brilliant conversationalist. I once heard her talk with a dramatist, renowned for his brilliant conversation, and the silver-tongued genius had nothing on her. She simply sizzled and coruscated with brilliancy.

But when she stops talking and turns to her professional life, the brains ooze out somewhere. The only thing worse than Theda’s pictures was Theda’s play, put on last season. At that, she has real ability as an actress—if she would take up sane subjects.

Theda was married the other day to one Charles Braban, a director.

A few days after the wedding, she was in court testifying as a witness. They asked her for her name. She said it was Theda Bara.

The lawyer was one of these bull-dozing gents. “I want to know your real name,” he said with cheap sarcasm.

The courts recently gave the lady the right to change her legal name from Theodosia Goodman, with which she was born, to her stage name Theda Bara; so she replied with dignity, “My real name is Theda Bara.” And annihilated the lawyer with a look. The examination had proceeded when she suddenly shrieked, “Oh, no. Excuse me. I forgot. I am Mrs. Charles Braban.”

The deeply regretted death of Caruso will be followed by a musical revolution.

It is an admitted fact that no good American name goes in musical circles. If you were not born on the other side, you have to pretend you were and apologize and take a foreign moniker; or you will not be accepted in your own, your native land.

The way things are now, no American singer can possibly break in without going to Europe for a long and expensive course of study—just to get the European stamp of approval.

Some of the bitterest tragedies of this world have been those of American girls who found the doors closed to them in their own country by foreign impressarios and who struggled their way to Europe in order to work for German or Italian permission to follow their own professions in their own country. A good many found heart-aches, poverty and other worse tragedies over there.

And now coming to the point: it looks as though the logical successor of Caruso might be a young California boy of good old American stock—Mario Chamley. He is a regular young “he” American who talks baseball; goes to all the fights and is “regular” from the basement up. He has a glorious golden voice and has gone to the front in the Metropolitan more rapidly than any other young tenor in the history of American opera. The future seems to have boundless possibilities for him.

Chamley is a charming young fellow to meet. Opera singing is just a job—like any other—to him. He tells some outrageously funny stories about life in an opera company. Among other adventures, the first time he appeared in a grand role in the Metropolitan, he burst the waist band that held up his pants.

When the curtain went down and the applause began, the excited impressario tried to drag him out in front of the curtain.

The young tenor tried to tell him his pants were coming down, but he couldn’t remember how to say it in Italian. The impressario thought it was just shyness and modesty that kept him back and tried to drag him along. Just in time, one of the other singers, explained the situation and the Metropolitan audience lost a chance for a comic thrill.

And now, brethren, that will be about all for today, except that the press agent of the Ziegfield Follies has announced with heat of excitement that the girls have formed a club to prosecute and reply to those who say they go to rough parties and live wild lives. Cross my heart, I have always believed that the Ziegfield girls spent all their spare time reading dictionaries and doing tatting work and helping mother with the dishes. So they can’t get anything on me, b’ gosh.

* * * * *

A Gimme For Fair

First he said “Gimme a kiss,” Then he said “Gimme a hug,” Then he wanted “A lock of my hair.” I filled these requests with glee. Then to prove truly that he was a “gimme” The brute, he gave me “the air.” (’Tis tuff, sister, ’tis tuff.)

* * * * *

Getting the Sheckels

Why wait until you’re old and bent? The wise bird took ’em as he went.

* * * * *

Over in Italy they have a new drink, made out of prunes. They call it Prunell. That’s nothing. Over here they have a new drink made out of raisins. They call it Raisenell.

* * * * *

Stranger (winking): Can you direct me to a good drug store?

Villager: You’re talking to one right now.

* * * * *

The ocean wearily exclaimed, “Incessantly I go; I wonder that I don’t get corns Upon my undertow.”

* * * * *

The first Tommy was ruddy of complexion, with a huge growth of beard of the hue known as auburn.

The second was smooth shaven. Said the latter: “I useter have a beard like that till I saw myself in the glass. Then I cut it off.”

But the bearded man was not dismayed.

“Much better ’ave left it on, mate,” he returned gently. “I useter have a face like yours till I saw it in the glass. Then I growed this beard.”

* * * * *

How Do They Get That Way?

Mother—Come, Bobbie, don’t be a little savage—kiss the lady.

Bobbie—No, she’s a naughty lady. If I kiss her she may give me a slap just like she did Papa.

* * * * *

That’s Righto!

The man who has the love and confidence of a good woman, and whom the children run to meet when he is coming home from his work at night, may no be rated as a millionaire, by Bad Street and Done, but High-Gate Pete has him pretty well lined up in the Babe Ruth class!

* * * * *

George, my boy, when a girl really loves you she’ll wade through hell for you unprotected and with her hair unleashed and streaming defiantly behind her as Love’s Unconquerable Flag. You’re the whole works to her—from the engineer to the president, and the directors and stockholders heaved in for good measure. All other men, compared to you, are only accidents or bellhops.

* * * * *

The Modern Way

A jug o’ pumpernickel, a hunk o’ buttermilk and a case of near-beer, a pinch o’ limburger and a bouquet of green onions, a ukelele, an electric fan and a fly swatter, a porch hammock, the Whiz Bang, a package of cigarettes, a few jazz records and a chicken and you couldn’t wish Harding’s job on me!

* * * * *

As the old Hebrew walked across the golf links, a ball bounced off his head with considerable force. He turned angrily upon the golfer. “Say,” he yelled, “You want to kill me?” “I sue you for fife tousand dollars.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘Fore.’”

“All right,” Ikey replied, “I’ll take it.”

* * * * *

She hangs out in our alley, but oh! what she hangs out.

* * * * *

Good Night, Shirt

“See here, I will not let you go out in a frock like that.”

“Don’t be an ass, Jack. I’m not going out—I’m going to bed.”

_Whiz Bang Editorials_

_“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”_

Making It Perfectly Clear

Although tradition holds the devil was masculine, there is at least one person in the world who would dispute tradition and stamp the evil one a woman. You may not agree with him, but then again you may, so here’s the poem:

As the story is told, in the ages of old, The devil, a spirit, was free, To wander at will, mid the good and the ill, So the devil a roaming went he. In a garden he met an old man and his pet, And straightway enamored was he With Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit, For the devil a serpent could be.

Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt— A cunning young vixen was she— Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms, Till the devil he chuckled in glee. For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhance If only a female were he; So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes, And the devil a woman is she!

* * * * *

“_Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,_ _Holy angels guard thy bed,_”

were the soft sweet words I heard as I passed by a little cottage home. Glancing in the open doorway, I saw a young mother rocking her baby to sleep. It recalled the voice of my mother who sings to me across the years of babyhood, youth and manhood.

In memory’s light I see the old cradle. It was a homely thing. The sides sloped, it was just wide enough for a baby’s arms to reach across, high enough for the little sister to look over, and the brother to learn to walk by. It was shaped like a kind of Noah’s Ark, but in it we children rocked and rode safely over all the storms of early years.

It had a wooden canopy at the head. As we looked up, it must have seemed like the edge of the world, or a dark background on which to paint awful childish fancies. Sometimes a loud man or an ugly woman looked over it into our faces, spoke, and we were frightened and cried, but mother came and smiled the tears away.

The rockers were curved and turned over at the end, and were worn smooth and gray. Weary with work, mother sat by our side, placed her tired foot on the rocker, and to the time beat of a loving heart, rocked us to sleep as she knitted, sewed, mended, thought or prayed.

For many years the old cradle was going most of the time. Again and again a big baby was taken out of the cradle and a small one put in. She sang as only the mother can, whose child is born of pain and baptized with tears.

It was a lullaby sweet and low, like hum of bees in summertime; a song in a nursery, and not in a concert hall; a song not for the many but for just one pair of little ears which heard and loved and understood. It was rock, and sing, for nap by day and long sleep by night; rock and sing when well and glad or sick and sad. One day the cradle was stilled, the little brother, Gordon, was sound asleep, his long lashes cast shadows on the upturned cheek, and the little fingers had changed a red rose for a white lily. His cradle had rocked him nearer to the tomb for “birth is nothing but our death begun.”

Dear cradle of childhood, that rested so many tired bodies and soothed so many hearts. Today the old cradle is in the dark garret and the tired mother rests in the dark grave. The hands that laid the pillow and spread the cover have stopped their work; the foot that rocked it has finished its journey; the face that hovered above it is gone and the song she sang is silent.

Baby boys and girls are men and women now, but they can never forget the old cradle. How often when body, mind and heart ache we toss and cry during the long night hours, and wish that mother could hug, kiss and put us in the old cradle again and rock and sing us to sleep.

* * * * *

We note with amusement that certain of the sanctimonious sect still are passing “resolutions” about the Dempsey-Carpentier fistic embroglio, deploring the same as a “disgrace to our civilization.” These are the same “birds” who would have us scrap our navy and reduce the army to a squad of boy scouts with Easter lilies in their hands.

A “prize fight” is no more brutal than any other manifestation of power; no more “disgraceful” in what we call civilization than any other application of force. Force rules the universe; nothing can resist it. It would take physical force to maintain any law against prize fighting just as it takes physical force to keep the bathing beauties from discarding their two-ounce outfits as too burdensome to wear.

Prize fighting is a “disgrace to civilization” only because it is mercenary, venal, sordid; yet we loan our money on mortgages and sell our goods at a profit with never a thought of disagreeable civilization. The fighter sells his ability to clout another prize fighter on the chin before the other bambino of the bulging biceps bangs him on his own proboscis.

The power of the state is behind all human law and activity—the threat of physical enforcement keeps Pedro, Jr., out of Neighbor Jones’ alfalfa patch. Society is protected by force and sometimes with arms. Our civilization is merely armed resistance to “barbarism” and the brutality is always under the thin pretense of “culture” and “refinement.”

We have no desire to see America a nation of male toe dancers. Let there be “prize fighting” if it is to help save the country from the bigotry of the organized minority. If we don’t look out we’ll soon be as unprotected as a toke point oyster on the half shell—and it will be the folk who are raving about prize fighting that will do it.

* * * * *

My hip is often my castle.

* * * * *

Ikey’s New Bank