Part 3
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep. And there she is lying and no one knows, And the summer shines and the winter snows. For many a year the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head. And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone. Stately and still like a ship at sea. And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were Does half the heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
* * * * *
It’s All in the Game
Weddings and rice, old maids and advice, And the world rocks on just the same. You may win the pot, and again you may not, But remember, it’s all in the game.
* * * * *
In Flanders Fields
_The author of this poem, John McCrae, B.A., M.D., M.R.C.P., was born in Guelph, Canada, son of Colonel and Mrs. David McCrae, who still survive him, and for several years he was professor of pathology at the University of Vermont. In 1899 and 1900 he served with the artillery in South Africa and rose to the rank of commanding officer of his battery. Lieutenant-Colonel McCrae died in France from pneumonia January 28, 1918, in his forty-sixth year. His other masterpiece, The Anxious Dead, will be published in the May issue of the Whiz Bang, together with Poppies, J. Eugene Chrisman’s poem of Flanders, and America’s Answer to In Flanders Fields, the work of R. W. Lillard._
By LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow, Between the crosses, row on row; That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly; Scarce heard, amidst the guns below.
We are the Dead; short days we Lived, Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow; Loved and were loved, and now we lie. In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe, To You, from falling hands we throw The Torch; be yours to hold it high; If Ye break faith, with those who die, We shall not sleep—though poppies grow In Flanders Fields.
* * * * *
Fading Blossoms
Here’s to the rose of brilliant hue, Pluck it and call it your own. The rose will fade, And so will the maid If she’s left too long alone.
* * * * *
_Many requests from Whiz Bang readers for the publication of “Life’s a Funny Proposition After All,” the famous recitation by George M. Cohan, are answered herein. The Whiz Bang has obtained the original recitation and permission to publish it from the author._
“Life’s a Funny Proposition”
By GEORGE M. COHAN
Did you ever sit and ponder Sit and wonder Sit and think Why we’re here and what this life is all about? It’s a problem that has driven many brainy men to drink, It’s the weirdest thing they’ve tried to figure out, About a thousand theories all the scientists can show But never yet have proved a reason why With all we’ve thought and all we’re taught Why, all we seem to know is we’re born And live a little while And then we die. Life’s a very funny proposition after all. Three meals a day A whole lot to say, When you haven’t got the coin You’re always in the way. Everybody’s fighting as we wend our way along, Every fellow claims the other fellow’s in the wrong. Hurried and worried until we’re buried And there’s no curtain call, Life’s a funny proposition, after all. When all things are coming easy and when luck is with a man, Why, then life to him is sunshine everywhere; Then the Fates blow rather breezy and they quite upset a plan, Then he’ll cry that life’s a burden hard to bear. Though today may be a day of smiles, Tomorrow’s still in doubt And what brings me joy may bring you care and woe. We’re born to die But we don’t know why Or what it’s all about, And the more we try to learn the less we know And no one’s ever solved the problem properly as yet. Young for a day, then old and gray, Like the rose that buds and blooms And fades—and falls away. Losing health to gain our wealth As through this dream we tour, Everything’s a guess and nothing’s absolutely sure. Battles exciting and fates we’re fighting Until the curtains fall, Life’s a funny proposition, after all.
* * * * *
The Hell-bound Train
Tom drank until he could drink no more, Then went to sleep on the barroom floor; Where he slumbered with a troubled brain, To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
Wilder and wilder the country grew, Faster and faster the engine flew, Louder and louder the thunder crashed, Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed.
And out in the distance there rose a yell, “Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.” Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in pain And begged of the devil to stop the train.
“You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor, The starving brother you turned from your door, You have laid up gold where canker rusts, And given free use of your fleshly lusts.
“So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire, Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.” Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry, His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high.
And he prayed as he never prayed before, To be saved from drink and the devil’s power, And his vow and prayers were not in vain, For he never more rode on the hell-bound train.
* * * * *
Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer. Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser.
* * * * *
After the Raid
_A raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amid a crashing of hip-pocket glassware, inspired Mr. McKillips to write this poetic story._
By BUDD L. McKILLIPS
Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’ ’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell; Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’; Oh, I know it’s simply hell.
Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer, Won’t make him unlock the door; Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler; I’ve been in these raids before.
Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me When they used to have a line; Ward boss always came and bailed me— Sometimes even paid my fine.
Never mind that “Press” sob-sister, Dry your eyes and play the game— Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister; Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name.
Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey; Hush now, dear, I know your tale; Just like me you needed money And stepped out to grab the kale.
Lost your job, maybe slack season; Didn’t have the price to eat— Maybe not, but that’s the reason Most girls start to hit the street.
Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’, Soon you found the business paid, And there wasn’t no slack season Or no lay-offs in our trade.
Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers Said as how you’d go to hell? Dear, the sons of those same teachers Came to buy the thing you sell.
Just forget those sal’ried prayers When they tell you all those things, Tell them that the low-wage payers Don’t help grow no angel wings.
Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er, Cut the weeps and be a sport, Fix your hair, here comes a copper For to take us into court.
See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’ Out all night—he’s got the jerks; We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’? Holy Gee, we got the works!
* * * * *
When Wifie’s Away
Of all the insidious temptations invidious Contrived by the Devil to put a man down, There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive, Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town.
He feels such delightfulness, Stay-out-all-nightfulness, Be sure to get tightfulness, ’Tis one without pain. A bachelor’s rakishness, What won’t you takishness, None can explain.
His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful, ’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight, But the grand opportunity, The baleful immunity, Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.
* * * * *
There was a young man named Whiteside, He always slept on his rightside. When the “cooties” would crawl, You could hear the boob bawl, As he made a quick dash for the outside.
* * * * *
The Blue Raven
By C. P. CIPIUS
Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and weary Over many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore, While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door; Only this and nothing more.
They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing, Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er, Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver, Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that bore Sorrow for them, evermore.
All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping, And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before; Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving, These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore. Happiness? No, nevermore.
Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people pining For the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before; Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and bumming Is to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor, On the Sabbath, evermore.
Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing, Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore. They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of wining Or they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore: Wooden stocks, forevermore.
Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning All the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door; Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lying On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore; Freedom’s fled, forevermore.
* * * * *
Interpretative Dancing
I saw a barefoot lady dip, And kneel and rise and poise and hover, As if to pin a pillow slip Upon the line stretched high above her. “This must be comedy,” I said, “Some esoteric highbrow joshing, This nymph who moves with classic tread Is hanging out the family washing.”
The program told me I was wrong— The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.”
I saw a maid with flying feet, Whose clothes were singularly airy, Go running through a field of wheat, With all the fleetness of a fairy. When I had gazed awhile askance At her abbreviated habit, I thought “The title of this dance Is ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’”
My guess was wrong—the program said: “A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.”
Six damsels, very sparsely clad In white diaphanous confections, Came tearing in and ran like mad In many different directions. “Aha!” I cried, “I think I get The meaning of this scene before us; The title of it, I will bet, Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’”
But my conjecture went astray— The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.”
* * * * *
Sweet Simplicity of Ye Olden Days
Miss “Pabst,” young and fair, With a “Blue Ribbon” in her hair, Sat under a “Busch” of “Anheuser,” When a “Bohemian,” by plan, Rushed some “Schlitz” in a can And she went home “Extra Pale” “Budweiser.”
* * * * *
A Mother’s Prayer
Last night I dreamed—I never can forget; I saw my son a prisoner at the bar. A stripling with the honest eyes of Youth, My baby strayed away from me so far. And I, his mother, had to stand And see him there so helpless and so dear; God knows I thought I had done right, But there stood leering Crime, and Shame, and Fear. Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning bright And give my child his need of help and love. Help me keep faith with him, as Thee with me, And guard this life entrusted from above.
—Nellie Putnam Chapman.
* * * * *
The Underworld
By CLEM YORE
I want to be square to the underworld And even a dog that is down. I’d rather be a painter of smiles Than to carve a grewsome frown. So sit you down by my bungalow And we will enjoy the sky, For brothers and sisters, pals of woe, You’re just as immortal as I.
* * * * *
We’d Kiss Her, Too
If blue were red and red were blue And you were I and I were you, And you loved me and I loved you And all alone were just we two, And you were sure nobody knew, Would you kiss me?
If I were you and you were I And you so near I could hear you sigh, And then providing no one was nigh, And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye. Wouldn’t I?
* * * * *
The Hooch Cure Blues
By M. V. Sumner.
Bring me a dry Martini, waiter, and chase it with something that’s wet. I went to a pink tea yesterday and I haven’t got over it yet. I heard they’ve discovered the North Pole, waiter, Gee, I wish I had it here now, They couldn’t come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow.
’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high, Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry. Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think, But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink.
The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock. Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the dock, Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine, The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine.
Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero should; Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood. Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I hope, Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap.
* * * * *
Who puts me in my little bed And spanks me till my face is red? My Mother.
* * * * *
All to Myself
All to myself I think of you— Think of the things we used to do, Think of the things we used to say, Think of each happy yesterday; Sometimes I sigh and sometimes I smile, But I keep each olden, golden while All to myself.
—W. D. N.
_Pasture Pot Pourri_
Brevity is the sole of wit, and the sole charm of a maiden’s skirt.
* * * * *
It’s the first straw hat which shows how the wind blows.
* * * * *
I suppose the maid does all the hard work?
No, my wife still makes the biscuits.
* * * * *
“Do you like music?”
“Yep.”
“Then listen to the band around my hat.”
* * * * *
If you want to see something swell, put a sponge in water.
* * * * *
Did you ever catch your wife flirting?
Yes, that’s the way I caught her.
* * * * *
If you were with me in my new Cadillac On a road with no trolley about it, A long way from town, would you start to walk back? Maybe you would—but I doubt it.
* * * * *
While we live, let’s live in clover, For when we’re dead, we’re dead all over.
* * * * *
Business as Usual
(From the Tryon, N. C. News.)
Wallace Jackson called on Miss Jennie Barnett as usual.
* * * * *
It is refreshing to know that the woman who was brought up for biting a man in self defense has been bound over to keep the piece.
* * * * *
Washington woman wants the Congress to impose a tax upon bachelors varying from one dollar a year for men from 21 to 24 to $5 for men of 65 or over. She should reverse her scale and tax the bachelors while they are useful. A bachelor of 65 is not worth taxing—from a woman’s standpoint.
* * * * *
Here’s to the girl that’s strictly in it, Who holds her head for every minute, Plays well the game and knows her limit And still gets all the fun there’s in it.
* * * * *
Dode Leonard tells us that near beer is like looking through a keyhole with a glass eye.
* * * * *
Missouri is noted for three things: Raising democrats, mules and hell.
* * * * *
You say “Bye, bye,” To some sweet little blonde, And she says: “Sweet Daddy, Get bottled in bond.”
* * * * *
Our Latest Song Success
The only rings I ever gave her were the rings beneath her eyes.
* * * * *
Probably Still Together
(From the Cornell, Ill., Journal.)
Joseph Highland and Miss Zelma Gourley left together, Monday, to get married. At time of going to press we have not heard any further particulars.
* * * * *
Oh, Geraldine, are the seams of my stockings on straight?
* * * * *
We will now sing: “He Asked For Bread,” and the curtain came down with a roll.
* * * * *
Ah-h! How would ze mamma like to kees ze papa?
* * * * *
Better to have loved and lost than to have been divorced and alimonied.
* * * * *
A remarkable man is the Hindoo. He wears no clothes—makes his skindoo.
* * * * *
Who’s your new girl, Sam?
She’s not a new girl. She’s only my old one painted over.
* * * * *
_Here’s to the happiest days of my life,_ _Spent in the arms of another mans wife._ _My mother._
* * * * *
Here’s to the glass we so love to sip, It dries many a pensive tear; ’Tis not so sweet as a woman’s lip, But a danged sight more sincere.
* * * * *
Perfection at the Start
The first real talking machine, in which no improvement has ever been made, was made out of a rib.
* * * * *
John Barleycorn may have been officially dead for a number of years, but his funeral expenses still keep piling up.
* * * * *
Grandpa says that “skirt dances” never will be as popular as the shimmy until the girls start wearing skirts again.
* * * * *
Lips that touch a cigaroot will never park beneath my snoot.—Ethel Worrymore.
* * * * *
“That can be seen from both sides,” said the fly as he left his mark on a hall of pane.
* * * * *
Our Old One Revamped
Since prohibition came, my wife made me likker.
* * * * *
Jack—Can you keep a secret?
Jim—I should say so—I have one in the St. Paul Hotel now.
* * * * *
Purely Political Pot Pourri
“Should Mr. Noble, who sits for this constituency, consent to stand again and run he will in all probability have a walkaway.”
_Classified Ads_
Washing the Girlies
(From Indianapolis News.)
EXPERIENCED lady cleaners. Park Theater.
* * * * *
Here It Is Again
(From the Mandan, N. D., Pioneer.)
We stand behind every bed we sell. Home Furnishing Co., Mandan.
* * * * *
Take a Tip, Horace
(From Augusta Chronicle.)
Horace—Please do not phone me again. Father is cleaning his gun.—Lulu.
* * * * *
A Vague Gee-String
(From Le Bon Ton.)
“The vague bodice joins the skirt at the hip line with an embroidery stitch.”
* * * * *
Hey! Hold That Job
(Providence, R. I., Journal.)
WANTED—At Hotel Randolph, first class porter; room furnished; also chambermaid.
* * * * *
Take Your Turn, Boys!
(From Shreveport Times.)
YOUNG lady wants refined girl to share room. Also vacancy for two gentlemen. 1821 Marshall.
* * * * *
The Swamp
(From the Lowell Tribune.)
George B. Bailey went to Indianapolis Thursday to attend a meeting of the committee on drainage of the legislature.
* * * * *
Job Wanted
(From Akron, O., Beacon-Journal.)
A JOLLY GOOD LADY wants position as housekeeper in widower’s or bachelor’s home. Write E, Box 34, Beacon-Journal.
* * * * *
Oh You Farmer!
(From Wichita Eagle.)
A NICE APPEARING lady, about 40, a first class housekeeper, wants to keep house for a gentleman on farm where there is no other woman.
* * * * *
The Truth Revealed
(From Iron Mountain Tribune-Gazette.)
I wish to correct an error made by me in Monday night’s paper. My wife did not leave my bed and board, as stated, but I left the home myself as she told me to.—Jalmer Gustafson.
* * * * *
Triflers Form in the Rear
(From the Denver Post.)
A woman, beautiful, refined, 30 years, wishes to meet man; clean habits and education. Must be wealthy and a cripple; matrimony; no general delivery or triflers answer.
* * * * *
Anything to Please
(From Pensacola, Fla., News.)
SITUATION WANTED—A young widow, with one child, desires a good home as housekeeper in a wealthy widower’s home; no objection to one or two children. “V. S.,” care News.
* * * * *
Enough Is Too Much
He sat on the edge of her desk and swung his legs. She, being fully satisfied that the brevity of her frock and the excellence of her silk hose would lend charm to such a proceeding, did likewise. For she was a good secretary, and all study the tastes of their employers.
“Everything all right about the Sutton case?” he asked.
“Oh, quite,” she replied, “here are the papers,” and she passed them towards him—but before he could take them they fell to the floor.
“I am so awfully sorry,” she said, as he went down on his knees to pick them up, “let me help you.”
Then a most extraordinary thing happened. He kissed her. And she, being a proud girl and not wishing to accept favors from any man, returned it. It was a very free and easy office.
About an hour later he said he must go and see Brown about the Ware case.
But Brown was out.
So he sat on the edge of Brown’s secretary’s desk and swung his legs.
She, being every bit as good a secretary as his own, did likewise.
After a pleasant chat he said he must go home.
He found his wife reclining on a sofa swinging her legs.
“Had a busy day?” she asked him.
“Yes, very busy,” he replied.
“You’re late, are you not?”
“Yes,” he grunted, “one or two little things kept me at the office.” He glanced at his wife disapprovingly. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t sit there swinging your legs like that. It annoys me.”
* * * * *
Naughty Coppers
Speaking about the St. Paul chief of police who claimed he was “framed” with a patrolman’s wife, here’s one from London: