Part 3

Ikey was talking to his Yiddish merchant friend in the latter’s store when the dealer’s young son toddled in and said, “Papa, give me some money.” The father reached in his pocket and handed the boy a quarter. His friend appeared rather shocked at the show of liberality. “Why, how much spending money do you give that kid every week?” he asked. Levy replied, “Only three quarters.”

“Don’t you think you’re too extravagant with a child?”

“Oh, no,” answered Levy, “I showed him how to put the quarters in the gas meter and he thinks it’s a bank.”

* * * * *

Report From London

They were holding an inquest upon poor Sandy McHarris, whose body had been taken from the Thames. Eleven of the jury were for returning a verdict of suicide, but the twelfth, a brither Scot demurred.

“Hoo could it be suicide?” he asked. “Ah’m for a vairdict o’ ‘Accidental death,’ maisel. Ye’ll notice that the puir laddie had a bottle of whisky on him, and it was nearly full.”

Verdict in accordance with the evidence.

* * * * *

“Say, Gus,” asked a neighbor, “I heard that the foreman has had a fever. How’s his temperature today?” Our hired man scratched his head and decided not to commit himself. “Taint for me to say,” he replied. “He died last night.”

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_In the November issue Smokehouse Poetry will bring back to memory that Civil War classic, “Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late.” This beautiful and touching poem was written by an officer of the Confederate Army to the most beautiful and brilliant belle of Savannah, the fiancee of the officer’s companion in prison. The woman had written a cold, heartless letter, but her fiance had died before the letter was received and the poem was in answer to it._

_Tonight your home may shine with lights,_ _And ring with merry songs,_ _And you be smiling as though your soul_ _Had done no deathly wrong._ _Your hands so fair, none would think_ _Had penned these words of pain,_ _Your skin so white, would God, your heart,_ _Were half so free from stain._

_In addition to this noted classic, Whiz Bang will reproduce “Down In the Lehigh Valley,” which is well known by name among Smokehouse fans. And, in parting, folks, don’t forget that the Winter Annual will contain the greatest assortment of Smokehouse poetry ever put into print. Send your dollar in before you are too late._

* * * * *

The Prisoner’s Prayer

_This poem was written by Arthur Winter on the wall of the Federal Prison at McNeil Island, Washington, in September, 1909, and later memorized by another prisoner and forwarded to the Whiz Bang upon his release. We offer it to you for what you think it is worth._

Our prayer has gone up through the ages To a God whom they say gave us souls; But the fear of anger still rages, The thunder of punishment rolls.

We are sheep that are driven to slaughter; We are dogs that are whelped in the street; We are useless as poisonous water; We are only for punishment meet.

So hear ye the prayers from the prison, Where fever and famine are rife; Where never one soul has arisen, Where myriads go down in the strife.

Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers, Lest its jesters should make him unclean; And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over, To shut out God’s sun from the scene.

Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken, With shame as it passed in the sky, To look in the cells where we sicken, To fall in the sod where we die.

If thou, God, omnipotent being, Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom; And growest not sick of the seeing, This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?

If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger, To smite this damn den of despair, Whose evil is rampant, and languor Is lord of the poisonous lair.

Then God, take Ye back your creation, And plunge it in infinite fire, Your wrath is eternal damnation, But man’s is more lasting dire.

* * * * *

The Sunflower Kid

By Koffdrop DeHaven.

A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand, I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand; But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell, I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything; I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night, ’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight. I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ; I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp. For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength, Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.

The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club; Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub. We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause, They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s flaws. For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me, And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z. The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled, We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings went wild; No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks, I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.

The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the while, I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile, Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the jaw, And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on the straw. The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit, I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit. A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head, A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead. From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to fail In health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.

And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray, And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.

* * * * *

Not Me

When a pretty Fairy gets on a car, And her dress comes kinder high, The goodly man will steal a glance, Even as you and I.

But when he’s with a real nice girl, To look, he will not try, He is a regular “model man” Even as you and I.

* * * * *

Evolution

_Jazzed a trifle—Apologies to Langdon Smith_

By Neil McConlogue.

When you were part of an elephant’s tusk In the Palezoic time, And I rode round in a walrus mouth ’Mid the piscatorial slime, Or skittered with many a caudal flip Thru the depths of a salmon fen— Our hearts were rife with that dentine life, But—I wasn’t with you then.

That was before the colored man Invented the game called Crap; Before they cubed and spotted our sides, And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap. But the world turned on in the lathe of time; The hot sands heaved amain; And our faces were polished with emery wheel— Then between us they made a game.

At first they called us a “game of dice.” We were drab as a dead man’s hand: We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees, Or trailed thru the mud and sand. Sextette-sided, with corners round, Writing a language dumb; While fingers snapped and cash exchanged On bets that we wouldn’t “come.”

Later they labeled us “African Golf.” And they gave us a spin once more. Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold Of the Terra Firma shore. The aeons came, and the aeons fled, But the hand that held us fast, Was sure to hold us a bit too long, We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”

Then light and swift thru the jungle trees Swung the white men in their flights; And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”! In the hush of policeless nights. And, Oh! What improvement the white man made! For us there were no bounds! We were riven away by a newer day, And no longer rolled on the ground.

Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,” Onward thru cycles strange, We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,” And followed the chain of change; ’Till there came a time in Gambledom ’Midst many a weal and woe— They changed the name of this plucky game To “Bounding Domino.”

Long were the “rolls” on the table-top. When the game would once begin; Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance” When “hard-luck” came trooping in. O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes, They’d fight, and claw, and tear; And cheek by jowl—with words quite foul They’d soil the clothes they’d wear.

We were discovered so long ago In a time that no man knows; Yet here tonight, in the mellow light, Near the race-track at Pamlico, Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stones That shine like the Devon Springs; And cute Flappers display us in public Quite as proudly as diamond rings.

It makes no difference if we are rolled For a dollar, five, or ten. Our love is cold, our game is old, And the “sucker” our kith and kin. Tho cities have sprung above the graves Where the crook-boned-men made war, Let us drink anew to the time when you Found the hardest point was “Four.”

Moral:

REMEMBER, He who operates a barber-shop is not barbaric; He that studies the lunar system is not a lunatic; He who exists on a stew is not always a student; He who thinks that One Broadway makes New York has “muchly” to learn; And—He that caresseth the Uneasy Ivories is hastily disconnected from his dough.

Never Shoot Crap!

Never! Remember That!

TOTAL MORAL: Play Poker Instead!

* * * * *

Is it you I love dear? I can scarcely tell. When you smile your eyes, dear, Make me think of Nell. When you’re sad, your mouth, dear, Makes me think of Sue, But, dear, when I kiss you, I am sure it’s you.

* * * * *

Oh! You City Slickers

By Gordon Campbell.

’Twas down in the Lehigh Valley That me and my pal, Lou, Was workin’ in a hash house, An’ a pretty good one too.

It was there that I met Gonzola; She was the village belle, Now I was only a waiter, But I loved that gal like everything.

Then along come a city feller, A slick haired son of the idle, An’ stole my darling little Lou To slip on the marriage bridle.

So fill up the glasses, stranger, An’ I’ll be on my way; I’ll get the guy that stole my gal, If it takes till the judgment day.

* * * * *

Our Paris Letter

A Jack Johnson burst over the shell hole into which Pat and Mike had crawled. “Oi’ve been shot in the foot,” said Pat. Mike immediately placed Pat on his shoulder and started for the hospital. On his way there another shell took off Pat’s head. Arriving at the first aid station, the sentry hailed Mike.

“No use bringing any dead men in here,” he said. “That fellow’s head has been shot off.”

“Why, the son-of-a-gun,” exclaimed Mike, “he told me it was his foot.”

* * * * *

Oh, Pickle My Bones

Pat—“Well, Mike, I just saw a doctor about my loss of memory.”

Mike—“What did he do?”

Pat—“He made me pay in advance.”

_Questions and Answers_

=_Dear Breezy Bill_=—“What’s the tallest tree you ever have seen?”—=_Ella Mental._=

Up at Pequot we have a tree that is so big it takes two men to look at it; one man looks up at it as far as he can and the other man begins where the first left off.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I often have heard that there are lots of cows that do not give milk during the summer. Is this true?—=_O. Shoot._=

Yes, in a way, but the next time anyone says such things you just tell them it’s “bull.”

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a girl fourteen years old and have a dog named Toddles. Should I let a boy of fifteen hug me?—=_Dot._=

No, go in the house, and take the dog in, too.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I met a guy at a dance, he kissed me during the moonlight waltz. What shall I do?—=_Helen._=

Lay off the moonlight waltzes.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Could you tell me when Cuba was discovered?—=_Hi Drant._=

July 1, 1919.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a young man only seventeen years old. My mother says I shouldn’t play with any rough girls. What shall I do?—=_Percy._=

Do as your mother tells you, you little rascal.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—I am a boy eighteen years old and am in love with a bootlegger’s daughter. How can I tell her that I love her—=_Al. Hambra._=

Send me her address.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—What are the secrets of success?—=_Harold Lloydette._=

“Push,” said the button; “Take Pains,” said the window; “Never be led,” said the pencil; “Be up to date,” said the calendar; “Always keep cool,” said the ice; “Never lose your head,” said the hammer; “Make light of everything,” said the fire; “Find a good thing and stick to it,” said the glue.

* * * * *

=_Dear Old Skip_=—What are goofus feathers?—=_U. N. Omeal._=

The fuzz on a peach.

* * * * *

=_Dear Admiral_=—What is the easiest way to catch a whiffempoof?—=_A. Fisher._=

Throw a plug of tobacco in the water and hit him on the head with a club when he comes up to spit.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Bill_=—Why is it that flies can’t see in the winter time?—=_I. C. Fairlywell._=

I suppose it is because they leave their specs behind in the summer time.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—Can you dig me up a girl if I come to Robbinsdale to visit you?—=_Geehell._=

Sure, but what’s the matter with me getting you a live one?

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—What is funnier than a one-arm man trying to wind his wrist watch?—=_Horace._=

A glass eye at a keyhole.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skip_=—How is hash made?—=_Hi Water Shuz._=

It isn’t made. It accumulates.

* * * * *

=_Dear Breezy Bill_=—What’s your idea of the height of optimism?—=_Peter Outt._=

Changing your socks from one foot to the other so that the toes will not fit the holes.

* * * * *

=_Dear Captain Billy_=—Do you think that if I hired a pretty stenographer I would take more interest in my business?—=_J. G. P._=

I don’t know whether you would take more interest in your business, but I know your wife will.

* * * * *

=_Dear Skipper_=—Who was the first original profiteer?—=_C. Serpent._=

The whale that swallowed Jonah; he grabbed all the Prophet in sight.

* * * * *

In case your Ford misses, look in the exhaust pipe.

_Pasture Pot Pourri_

Come, Kiss the Heroine!

Dear Editor: While coming over to America on a steamer, the mate rushed up to me and threatened to blow up the ship if I didn’t give him a kiss.

What did I do?

I saved the lives of four hundred people.

* * * * *

Lives of ’skeeters all remind us, While short skirts are all the go, That to them existence must be Just one great big burlesque show!

* * * * *

=_Yes, Gus, ’tis sad but only too true that in Georgia the peaches grow on the limbs while at the beaches—but why break the monotony?_=

* * * * *

The hired hand, Gus, went to town the other night to a dance. When he got back he said that “nothing stands between certain dancers and pneumonia but a sense of loyalty to their employers.”

* * * * *

_Oh, Myrt, do you know Aurora Borealis? They say she was all lit up last night._

* * * * *

No, Geraldine, Sandy Hook is not a Scotchman.

* * * * *

I was walking down the street the other day and on the far side was a fellow who looked familiar. “Hello, Bill,” I says. “Hello, Tom,” says he. “My name ain’t Tom,” I says. “Well, my name ain’t Bill, either,” says he. With that, I looks at him an’ he looks at me an’ sure enough, it was neither of us.

* * * * *

Height of Speed

_Our idea of a fast guy is one who can turn out the light and get in bed before the room gets dark._

* * * * *

Why don’t girls figure that it costs money to press trousers?

* * * * *

Our Book Review

When a girl reading a novel begins to wet her lips, the hero and heroine are about to meet.

* * * * *

_Girls will play fast and loose with men,_ _We know; so what’s the use?_ _So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,_ _We’ll turn the fast ones loose._

* * * * *

The angels that fear to tread where fools rush in must miss a lot of fun.

* * * * *

=_A woman is not a heroine, Geraldine, just because she is dying for a man._=

* * * * *

Ain’t It Awful, Mabel!

Our friend Hooper writes us that last fall he was in Alaska; went out to spend the evening with his best girl and didn’t come back for six months. Some night, we’d say.

* * * * *

Height of Laziness

A fellow who gets up at five o’clock in the morning so that he’ll have more time to loaf.

* * * * *

Har, Har, Ha!

Heard a good joke this morning.

Is it really a good one?

Must be. My stenographer laughed until she almost fell off my lap when I told it to her.

* * * * *

A fast night makes a slow day. How well do I know it this morning.

* * * * *

Plug it Up

He—My love for you is like a rushing brook.

She—Dam it!

* * * * *

Oh, for a world of equal balance. Here we find some women with no husbands atall, atall, while others have husbands and assistant husbands.

* * * * *

_Women are like automobiles. Some are chummy roadsters and some are merely runabouts._

* * * * *

A New Melody

One of the latest song hits in Southern California is “And we will get a little bungalow in Hollywood and live our own sweet way.”

* * * * *

_Indeed, Aloysius, you’re right—socks are the most frugal things in the world. They wouldn’t think of dropping a scent until they’re washed. Hoping you are the same, I am,_

_Antiseptically speaking,_

_Yours for safety first,_

_Bilious Billy._

* * * * *

Do you need any typewriter supplies? Yes, send me two pounds of candy and a box of chewing gum.

* * * * *

About the only amusement women appear to have nowadays is smoking cigarettes, shaking the shimmy, and shooting their husbands.

* * * * *

=_We wonder where the pictures that used to hang in the bar rooms are now?_=

* * * * *

Here It Is Again

Don’t bother bringing in the firewood, Mother. Father will be home with a load.

* * * * *

Me friend Mulligan says wan time whin two heads are not better than wan is whin you wake up the morning after the night before.

* * * * *

=_Said our pet pole cat to his pretty pal: “Now, dearie, do not be so high toned that you can’t use common sense.”_=

* * * * *

Talk about your nice dispositions—we have a man in our town who retires early rather than keep the bedbugs waiting for supper.

* * * * *

_Has anyone heard that little ballad entitled “Who shot Nellie in the freckle?”_

* * * * *

What could be sweeter than the rib music of choir-practors.

* * * * *

Fair Dancer—Say, walk over your own feet!

He—What do you think I am, a cross-country runner?

* * * * *

Button up your mouth, boys, you’ve ingrown heels.

* * * * *

Today in History

They were married and lived snappily ever after.

* * * * *

_It takes a tough bird to eat currents off a live wire._

* * * * *

A North Pole Ad

(From Charlotte, N. C., Paper)

To Sublet—Heated apartment for July and August.

* * * * *

“So you’ve been to Paris? How did you like the Eifel Tower?”

“Eifel Tower? Huh, I didn’t have my eyes more than two feet off the ground all the time I was there.”

* * * * *

In Our Barn Yard

In she came; Down she sot; Laid a little egg, And up she got.

* * * * *

“The MISERY of a CHILD—is interesting to a MOTHER!

“The MISERY of a YOUNG MAN—is interesting to a YOUNG WOMAN!

“The MISERY of an OLD MAN—is interesting to NOBODY!”

* * * * *

Roses are rare, Violets are few, I sure picked a lemon, When I got you.

* * * * *

Joe’s a Gentleman

“Yes,” remarked the stout lady in the private bar of the Helping Hand, “my Joe give me a ruddy good leatherin’ larst night. You oughter see my shoulders! They’re black and blue. But,” she added proudly,“’e never ’its me on the face, where it’ll show. My Joe’s too much of a gentleman for that.”

* * * * *

Reverting to the subject of colored babies, George Washington Jackson, informs us that his wife presented him with one last week that weighed only two pounds. Now he wants to know if this isn’t the first time a colored baby was born so light.

* * * * *

Yes, Alfred, the ambitious girl is ambitious to make a name for herself, but she usually ends by accepting some man’s.

* * * * *

Lost, Almost

A pacifist orator in Hyde Park, London, was declaiming against war. Seeing a returned soldier listening on the edge of the crowd, he roared out: “See that man! He is garbed in the uniform of war. But I belong to the army of heaven.” The “Tommy,” leisurely removing his pipe from his mouth, dryly replied: “You’re a ’ell of a way from your barracks, then.”

* * * * *

The height of Sir Walter Raleighism was observed at a bathing beach last month, when a young man carried a bathing suit clad girl from boat to shore through six inches of water so the poor dear would not get her feet wet.

* * * * *

Blessed are the orphan children, for they have no mothers to spank them.

Blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed.

* * * * *

All we have to do in Robbinsdale to feel the spirit of the good old days is to eat an ear of corn and drink a pint of water.

* * * * *

Since the country is dry why manufacture umbrellas with crooked handles to hang over bars?

* * * * *

If a woman can’t break some man’s heart she gets reckless and breaks her own.

* * * * *

Wise men never borrow trouble when they can borrow money instead.

* * * * *

One swallow doesn’t make a summer, But one frog can make a spring.

* * * * *

The other day I was riding in the street car. I had my eye on a seat, but a woman sat on it.

* * * * *