But now we go on our bended knees

Beautiful are the hands of wife, sister, man or friend which have
directed, lead and lifted us by pitfall, through marsh and despair to
mount the height on which we stand–hands perfumed with prayer, baptized
with tears, clasped with affection, and generous with charity.

The man ought to be horsewhipped who uses the words “hard,” “homely,”
“unmanicured,” of the hands of a father, calloused that they might give
daily bread; hands of a mother, blistered and aching for work never done
until they are crossed white in the coffin and God gives them rest; baby
hands which twine around the trellis of our hearts and are unclasped by

* * * * *

Another “international marriage” has gone the way of many spectacular
predecessors–through the divorce mill.

In this it is hardly noteworthy. Experience and commonsense alike
indicate that such unions rarely can be successful. The base allurements
of a British title on one side and American gold on the other, are not
the sources in which wholesome happiness finds its inspiration.

But in quite another way there is something worth noting in the divorce
proceedings through which Consuelo Vanderbilt has freed herself, at last,
from the disreputable ninth duke of Marlborough. It is the revelation,
through her simple letters, of the true nobility of birth which does not
rest upon a “Burke’s Peerage” or an “Almanach de Gotha.”

Miss Vanderbilt married this highly decorated fortune hunter in 1895.
Two children were born to them. For their sakes the American wife, with
womanly reserve, suffered much indignity during many years. Eventually
driven to a separation, she still endured in silence, without resort to
the unsavory publicity of divorce, reflecting upon her growing sons.

These children came of age last winter. The wife then made a last brave
effort toward reconciliation. There was a brief reunion–ending in a
disgraceful visit of the 45-year-old duke to Paris with a 25-year-old
female companion.

Blood will tell–the plain American kinds and likewise the tainted blue
sort that trickles through “noble” veins.

* * * * *

Noah was building the ark. A gang of “drys” hung around criticizing the

“Ever built an ark before?” asked the leader of the gang.

“Nope,” replied Noah, pounding away.

“By what right do you assume that this boat will be a success?” asked
the other. “This has always been a dry country and there has never been
any need for a so-called ark. What experience have you had with your
so-called ark upon which to base so absurd a claim as that it will float?
Don’t you know that umbrellas and gaiters have gotten us through the
thunderstorms for the last forty years? There can be no hope of success
for your so-called ark.”

But Noah kept on building away. Then came the Deluge, and for once in
history, the knockers got what was coming to them.

_Smokehouse Poetry_

_Smokehouse Poetry will lead the February issue readers through a variety
of red-blooded gems, including, for instance, a bright little jingle
from the pen of a new Kipling. His name is Carl M. Higdon and his first
offering is “The Shimmy Shaker,” and what it lacks in veteran polish is
made up in breezy sway. Such as thus:_

_She could shimmy on a mountain,_
_She could shimmy in a pool;_
_When it comes to shimmy shaking,_
_She’s a shimmy shaking fool._

_Last month we promised to give you a full portion of George R. Sims’
tragic masterpiece, and so here we offer it for your approval._

’Ostler Joe

By George R. Sims.

I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,
Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;
Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,
Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as

Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.

In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,
Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;
Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,
He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.

But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,
And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;
Sped the months, and came a baby–such a blue-eyed baby boy!
Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.

He was rubbing down the horses–gave them then and there,
All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;
It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)
That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.

Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,
He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;
Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,
Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.

Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,
He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;
Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.
And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.

So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),
He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;
And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,
And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.

’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,
’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;
’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,
Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.

Annie listened and was tempted–was tempted and she fell,
As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;
She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,
Yellow gold for child and husband–and the woman left them both.

Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”
Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;
She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,
Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and

“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;
“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;
Why a girl like her–God bless her–’twasn’t likely as her’d rest
With her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.

“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,
So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;
If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you see
I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”

Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,
Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;
Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,
Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.

Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,
For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,
And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.

Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple down
To the level of a market for the women of the town;
And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,
With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.

Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.
Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;
Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,
Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.

Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,
Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;
And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress lay
Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.

One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,
And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;
Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,
And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.

All the past he had forgiven–all the sorrow and the shame,
He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;
Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,
He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.

In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,
And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;
Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,
And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.

That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.

* * * * *


By H. H. Bennett

’Twas on a sunny morn in June,
The bee had put his pipes a-tune
And buzzed his way across a field,
The while the birds their love-song spieled.

He buzzed and ate full many an hour,
Then crawled into a dainty flower
And curled himself up for a nap,
The same as any drowsy chap.

A cow came browsing through the moor
And towards the little floweret bore;
Not knowing that the bee was there,
She put it on her bill of fare.

So rudely wakened from his doze,
His beeship’s fiery temper rose.
“Old Cow,” he said, “I’ll sting you deep
When I have finished up my sleep.”

So, cuddling in his darksome den,
Eftsoons he went to sleep again.
He slumbered on till nearly dawn–
When he awoke, the cow had gone.

* * * * *

Evolution Up to Date

_In the December issue we had the original Langdon Smith’s “Evolution”.
Now steps forth Lewis Allen with a much more modern expression on the
tadpole and fish idea. This is it:_

By Lewis Allen.

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the palaeozoic time,
’Twas side by side near the ebbing tide
We tangoed through the slime.
We skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the maze of each fox-trot step,
For we had the craze in those ancient days–
To the dance stuff we were hep.

Mindless we lived, and mindless we loved,
And mindless we passed away–
Which all goes to show that long ago
Our brains were the brains of today.
The world turned on “in the lathe of time”
With many a mighty twist.
We were normal then, beyond your ken.
No watch adorned your wrist!

We were amphibians, scaled and tailed,
And garbed in the latest style.
We coiled at ease, ’neath the dripping trees,
Or played with a crocodile.
Croaking and blind, with our side-laced feet,
Writing a language dumb,
Though we had no brains, we had no pains,
And that was going some.

Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved,
And happy we went our way,
And believe me, kid, when I say we did,
Which is more than we do today.
And the aeons came, and the aeons fled,
And days came with the nights,
To our surprise, we all had eyes,
So we took in the sights.

Then light and swift through the jungle trees
We swung from bough to bough,
Or loafed ’mid the balms of the fronded palms–
Wish we could do it now!
And Oh! what beautiful years were those
When we learned the use of speech,
When our lives were stilled and our senses thrilled
As we chattered with some dear peach!

And that was a million years ago;
Years that have fled away,
Yet here tonight in the glaring light
We sit in a wild cafe.
And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake.
Your peroxide hair is great;
Though your heart is cold and your age is old,
You love to hesitate.

Once we howled through the jungle wastes.
With a club each won his mate.
And she had to work, nor could she shirk,
Lest a blow would be her fate.
But now we go on our bended knees
To a girl we would make our wife,
And she keeps us broke until we croak–
Alas for the modern life!

So as we dance at luncheon here,
Missing each savory dish,
I’m feeling blue, for I wish that you
Were a Tadpole and I a Fish!

* * * * *

Siam’s National Anthem

(To the Tune of “America.”)

Ova tannas Siam
Geeva tannas Siam
Ova tannas
Sucha tammas Siam
Inocan gif fa tam
Osucha nas Siam
Osucha nas.

* * * * *

A Regular Present

She wouldn’t tell what Santa brought;
We hope this don’t sound shocking–
But when she got in her brand new car,
We saw what she had in her stocking.

* * * * *

Confessions of a Dope Fiend

_The following poem, written by a dope fiend, is the first of a series
he has contributed to this magazine. Although these poems are morbid in
character, the editor hopes their lesson will serve as warning to all
to “touch not, taste, shoot nor smoke.” This is the author s opening

_I started out wrong when I was a kid,_
_And now my days are blue;_
_Cigarettes, booze, wild women and dope–_
_I’m a wreck at twenty-two._

* * * * *

In Dreamy Chinatown

By B.T., Los Angeles

As I lie in this room, all hazy with smoke
From the “dopes” smoking hop and sniffing at coke,
My mind wanders back just a short year ago
To the time I first started at hitting the snow.

But soon I’ll be dreaming again in my sleep
Of my little gray home away ’cross the deep;
I’ve thought of dear mother as much as I can,
I’ve fought ’gainst the dope and fought like a man.

But here as I lie on my dirty old bunk
In the Hong Kong hotel, with my head full of junk,
I am hopelessly gone and await the last bell
That will usher me home to the dark depths of hell.

There’s a little red devil a-prodding my feet,
Begging me gently to fall into sleep;
I’m gradually slipping, so here’s my last knell,
Because I am under the Chinaman’s spell.

* * * * *

Flirtation in a Flower Bed

I had a flower garden,
But my love for it is dead,
’Cause I found a bachelor’s button
In my black-eyed susans’ bed.

* * * * *

Fairies Revel in Moonshine

_When old Bill Shakespeare outlined his tale for “The Merry Wives of
Windsor,” he certainly used extraordinary judgment in peering into the
future. His fifth act and fifth scene are almost a duplicate of present
life in New York City–that grand village by the sea, where red neckties
sell at a premium and moonshine lights the bright Broadway. Here are just
four lines that tell a story in themselves:_

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die;
I’ll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.
Fairies, black, grey, green and white,
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.

* * * * *

Something Stirring

(First Convulsion.)

Her death was so sudden,
Her death was so sad,
She gave up her life,
’Twas all that she had.

(Second Convulsion.)

She now lies sleeping silently
Beneath a willow bough;
There’s always something stirring
When a freight train meets a cow.

* * * * *

That’s When I Need You

(Serenade of a Whiz Bang Hen.)

I don’t need you in the morning,
I don’t need you in the night,
I don’t need you when I’m hungry,
I don’t need you when I fight;
I don’t need you when I’m lonely,
I don’t need you when I’m blue–
But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs,
That’s when I need you.

* * * * *

Tell Him Now

If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing.
If you like him, or you love him, tell him now;
Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration
And he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow;
For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it,
He won’t know how many tear-drops you have shed.
If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him,
For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.

More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny,
And the hearty, warm approval of a friend,
For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver,
And it gives you heart and spirit to the end.
If he earns your praise, bestow it; if you like him, let him know it–
Let the words of true encouragement be said.
Do not wait till life is over, and he’s underneath the clover,
For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.

* * * * *

Or a Finger Ring

By Gabe Caffrey.

I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own,
To write them out and flop about
As dead as any stone.
I’d love to be a physician and have my little nip
Oh, I want to be a doctor–
And sip, and sip, and sip.

* * * * *

Come on, Joe

Gone are the days when we got beer in a can,
Gone are the days before we got the ban,
Gone are the days when we were a highball fan;
I hear the angels sadly calling, “Come, dry man.”


I’m coming, I’m coming,
And I have the ready dough;
I hear those dominoes a-calling,
“Come on, Joe.”

* * * * *

Police Inspection

We were crowded in the cellar,
Not a soul would dare to sleep,
It was midnight in the barroom
And Old Joe lay in a heap.

As we huddled there in darkness,
Each one seeing snakes and bears,
“They’re all drunk,” the barkeep shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little barmaid whispered,
Passing him a quart of gin:
“There’s a ‘copper’ at the back door,
Should I let the ‘cuckoo’ in?”

* * * * *

How Old Is Ann?

By Billy Bea

Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?
Or a key for a lock of his hair?
Or can his eyes be an academy
Because there are pupils there?
In the crown of his head, what gems are found?
Who travels the bridge of his nose?
Does the calf of his leg get hungry at times
And devour the corn on his toes?
Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail?
Where’s the shade from the palm of his hand?
How does he sharpen his shoulder blades?
I’m tammed if I understand.

* * * * *

The Bachelor’s Dream

Then give us the dances of days long gone by,
With plenty of clothes and steps not so high;
Oust turkey-trot capers and buttermilk glides,
The hurdy-gurd twist and the wiggle-tail slide.

Then let us feast our tired optics once more
On a genuine woman as sweet as of yore;
Yes, Time, please turn backward and grant our request
For God’s richest blessing–but not one undressed.

Pasture Pot Pourri

Eczema, Oh! Eczema, don’t be so rash.

* * * * *

My cross-eyed sweetheart became my cockeyed bride.

* * * * *

Why do the widow’s wiles usually win out against the maiden’s smiles?

* * * * *

The pure food law doesn’t guarantee “preserved peaches.”

* * * * *

He Drinks Hair Tonic

He asked me if I’d kiss him,
I kissed him once or twice,
I know I hadn’t ought to,
But, my Gawd, he smelled so nice.

* * * * *

Favorite Quotations

I wish Adam had died with all his ribs in his body.–Nat Goodwin.

What is home without another.–Jack Johnson.

I feel like the end of a misspent life.–Wm. J. Bryan.

* * * * *

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight raid on the neighbor’s beer.

* * * * *

We will now sing: “The World Is Mine,” by Jawn D. Rockefeller.

* * * * *


Take up thy bed, oh hunted one;
Make haste and quickly flee;
And when thou starts, do more than run
Lest woman and marriage overtaketh thee.

* * * * *

Advertisement: Colored woman wants washing.

* * * * *

Or on the Ear

Eminent Physician–As we have no idea what the fashions may be when your
daughter grows up, I think it wise to vaccinate her on the tongue.

* * * * *

We’d Quit ’er

’Tis sad to love
But oh, how bitter,
To have a girl,
Whose face don’t fitter.

* * * * *

A Noise Like a Kiss

What can a woman do that will make a horse go, a dog come, and a man stay?

* * * * *

Never hesitate in telling a woman that you love her–it increases her

* * * * *

Pat died and went to Heaven.

“Why, Pat!” exclaimed St. Peter, “How did you get here?”


* * * * *

And He’ll Crow

The modern chicken reminds one of the girl at the table who let an egg
fall on the floor. She said to the man next to her, in a horrified
whisper: “O, I’ve dropped an egg! What shall I do?” He replied: “Cackle.”

* * * * *


By Vivian Yeiser Laramore.

Said the monkey maid to her monkey mate,
“These cocoanuts are fine,
Let’s leave a few in the sun to brew,
And make some ‘monkey-shine.’”

* * * * *

Mule Wasn’t So Sensitive

“The language you use to that mule is perfectly shocking!”

“Yes,” replied the driver, “it seems to trouble everybody but the mule.”

* * * * *

Immodesty’s Penalty

The Eskimo sleeps in his little bear skin,
And keeps very warm, I am told.
Last night I slept in my little bare skin
And caught a hell of a cold.

* * * * *

A little girl went to the soda clerk behind the fountain and asked for a
“Billy Sundae.” The clerk gave her a nut sundae.

* * * * *

Said the fruit jar to the top: “You’ll have to use a rubber on me, ‘Old

* * * * *

Re-published After Many Requests

FOR SALE–One Ford car with piston ring, two rear wheels, one front
spring; has no fenders, seat or plank; burns lots of gas and is hard to
crank; carburetor busted half way through; engine missing–hits on two;
three years old, four in the spring; has shock absorbers and everything;
radiator busted–sure does leak; differential dry–you can hear it
squeak; ten spokes missing; front all bent; top blown off–ain’t worth a
cent; got lots of speed, runs like the deuce; burns either gas or tobacco
juice; tire all off, been run on rim; she’s a darn good Liz for the shape
she’s in.

* * * * *

Tell the Truth and Shame the Devil

Some go to church to meet their lover;
Others go their faults to cover;
Some go there to blink and nod–
But darn few go to worship God.

* * * * *

The improprieties of yesterday are the fashion of today.

* * * * *


“A woman’s life is divided into two great periods.”


“The first she spends looking for a husband, and the second looking after

* * * * *

Heaven will protect a working girl, but whoinell will entertain her?

_Classified Ads_

It’s No Good Now, Algy

(From the Denver Post.)

For Sale–One Twin bed, never used, or might trade for baby buggy.

* * * * *

Wait Till 1922

(From the Gary, Ind., Tribune.)

Lost–White mule, 3 years old, finder return to Antonio Cazarro. That’s
pretty old for white mule.

* * * * *

The Persian Cat Again

(From the Clinton Herald.)

Lost–A large white tomcat with gray tail and two gray spots on body.
Return to 1306 S. 3d st. and receive reward.

Lost–Topsy, black Persian cat. Anyone seeing her call 231 5th ave.

* * * * *

Michigan Methods

(From the Lansing State Journal.)

Lady desiring room with mate free, may have same by inquiring 221

* * * * *

What Runs?

(From the Boston Transcript.)

Will deposits in the Lisle Silk bank be increased because of the runs?

* * * * *

That’s A’right, We’re Wed

(From the Bulletin of the U. of M.)

Class in swimming of married couples will be organized Monday. Ladies’
suits furnished if desired.

* * * * *

Pretty Soft

(From the Watertown, S. D., Public Opinion.)

Wanted–An assistant housekeeper in a family of two. Good home, easy job.
No children and none expected. Nothing but a Spaniel pup, looked after by
head of family. A mighty fine chance for the right person. Phone 4765.

* * * * *

Tells the World

(From the Winnipeg Free Press.)

I, Francis William Crink, am not responsible for any debts after Oct.
1 of Mrs. Crink, now living with Mr. Peabody, window cleaner, at 744
Winnipeg ave.

* * * * *

Chiropodist or Manicurist?

(From Indianapolis News.)

Miss Edith May Hiatt, 18 When Building, personal attention which assures
you absolute satisfaction.

* * * * *

Traveling Men, Attention!

(Knoxville Journal and Tribune.)

FOR RENT–A traveling man’s wife, alone in a big 8-room house, wishes
to rent three or four nice, unfurnished rooms to a congenial couple, or
to two business women. Bath, hot and cold water furnished, with use of
phone. Call Old Phone 3988.

* * * * *


“Yes, Private Smith was making a splendid recovery, but now there are

“Oh, I am so sorry! Did he catch pneumonia?”

“No, he was caught kissing the nurse!”

* * * * *

A Wet Wedding

Weddings, like other things, are progressive affairs in Idaho. Look at
this from an Idaho paper:

“Yesterday at high noon Miss Helen ⸺ and Ward ⸺ were united in marriage
at the home of the bride’s parents in Wardner. The ceremony was performed
in the spacious living room which was beautifully decorated in syringes.”

_Jest Jokes and Jingles_


The woodry-blee pipes oolie-goo,
While on the brinkers grimes the moo.

God save the King, the soldiers cried,
And then they took a trolley ride.

A rooster crowed upon the hill,
His name was William–she called him Bill.

’Twas bitter cold at Valley Forge,
But nothing ever rattled George.

The berries were growing on the vine,
Three times thirteen is thirty-nine.

* * * * *

Out in the kitchen a maiden fair
Plucked from the hash a golden hair.

* * * * *

Woman’s hair–beautiful hair,
What words of praise I’d utter;
But, oh, how sick it makes me feel
To find it in my butter.

* * * * *

Looking Up

“Look up!” cries the optimist.

“Look upward!” shouts the revivalist.

And yet Robert Bailey was fined $1 and costs or ten days because he
looked up while under the Stadium bleachers.

The police said there were ladies up above.

–Toronto Telegram.

* * * * *

He took her rowing on the lake;
She vowed she’d go no more.
I asked her why–her answer came:
“He only hugged the shore.”

* * * * *

A woman’s first kiss may be attributed to childish curiosity; her second
to misplaced confidence; the others are just downright carelessness.

* * * * *

Not So Fond of It

Mrs. Benham: “You used to say that I was the apple of your eye.”

Benham: “Well, what of it?”

Mrs. Benham: “Nothing; except that you don’t seem to care so much for
fruit as you once did.”

* * * * *

There was a girl in her own boudoir,
And she was tall and handsome;
And every time the wind blew hard,
It blew right through her transom.

* * * * *

Seven Ages of Man

The seven ages of man have recently been tabulated on an acquisitive
basis, as follows:

First Age–Sees the earth.

Second Age–Wants it.

Third Age–Starts to get it.

Fourth Age–Decides to be satisfied with half of it.

Fifth Age–Becomes still more moderate.

Sixth Age–Now content to possess a six by two foot strip of it.

Seventh Age–Gets the strip.

* * * * *

Under the swinging street car strap,
The homely old maid stands,
And stands and stands and stands and stands,
And stands and stands and stands.

–Luke McLuke.

* * * * *

Har Du Got a Hod?

An Irishman died and went to heaven. St. Peter said, “I’m sorry, but we
just got a big consignment of Swedes from Minneapolis today and there is
no more room.” “Can I get in if I make room?” asked the late arrival.
“Certainly,” said St. Peter. The Irishman shouted through the gate, “Hey,
you fellows, there’s free snuff in hell.” And he made room, all right.

* * * * *

Society Note: Mr. Potter of Pottersfield felt cold and stiff this

* * * * *

In a Garden

As I walked along the paths this morning picking flowers, I found in the
yellow heart of a Lady Slipper, a little brown bee. My first impulse was
to shake him out of his honeyed abode, but as I looked at his velvety
body and the sunlit rainbow wings, a foolish tenderness surged over me.
Perhaps there were baby bees at home that would starve if papa bee did
not bring back honey; and how useful this little creature was, carrying
the pollen from flower to flower–so I moved on, leaving him unmolested.
But even as I turned away thinking these pure, sweet thoughts, the darn
thing stung me.

* * * * *

When Adam in bliss
Asked Eve for a kiss,
She puckered her lips with a coo;
With looks quite ecstatic,
Gave answer emphatic:
“I don’t care A-dam if I do.”


* * * * *

And she said I must Seattle as she rose Tacoma her hair, for if I wear my
nice New Jersey, what will Delaware?

* * * * *

When Greek meets Greek–they open a fruit store; but when Irish meet
English they open an uproar.

* * * * *

Beats me how these girls keep their dresses up. Must be strength of mind
that does it.

_Our Rural Mail Box_

=Dear Bill=–Did you hear that they traded Manhattan for 24 cases of
whisky and that now they want to trade it back? Yours till the Statue of
Liberty shimmies up the Hudson, Flo.

* * * * *

=Dear Captain Billy=–I live at 268 W. Rayen Ave., Youngstown, Ohio, and
the other evening I saw this question and answer in your July issue:

=Dear Bill=–What does my brother mean when he speaks of the
“depth bombs” and “submarine chasers” in army hospitals?–=Miss

Send a self-addressed, stamped envelope for reply.

I am sending same and hope to hear from you. Resp. yours, John Wilson.

(Editor’s Note–Dear Mr. Wilson: I have referred your letter to Miss
Curiosity, who undoubtedly will answer you personally.)

* * * * *

=Dot=–A. is right. Get out and walk.

* * * * *

=Rhoda=–Yes. You are old enough to wear what you please. That is as far
as your parents are concerned. But the police will not respect your age.

* * * * *

=Madge=–The Doctor was correct. After an operation for appendicitis the
cut shouldn’t show.

* * * * *

=Alden M.=–Can give you no advice about free love. Always thought love
very expensive.

* * * * *

=Hazel=–Do not marry the sixty year old millionaire. He’s too old and
too young to bring you happiness.

* * * * *

=Jacqueline=–Jackie, for short, you said you wanted to write me the
worst way. You did, I can hardly read your letter. Try again.

* * * * *

=Ima Flirt=–Yes, love is blind, as the old saying goes–but the
neighbors are not. Pull down your shades after this.

* * * * *

=Mable=–If the day be muddy and the boys will stand on the corner it’s
up to you to make good. Will speak to the cashier about sending you silk

* * * * *

=Jim=–If you are dancing with another man’s wife it is proper to let him
see light between you.

_Luscious Limericks_

There was a young man from Art Creek,
Who went around dressed in batik,
When they asked, “Are you well?”
He replied, “Ain’t it hell?
But in Art it’s the very last shriek.”

* * * * *

Another young chicken named Mary
Was in love with a youngster named Larry,
And when it was dark
They went to the park,
And there they did tarry and tarry.

* * * * *

There was a young feller named Aster
Who went in a wild bullock’s pasture;
The sweater he wore
Made the poor bully sore,
And so he ran faster and faster.

* * * * *

A sculptor made nymphs and bacchantes,
Omitting the coaties and panties,
Till a kind-hearted Madam,
Who knew where they had ’em.
Donated some warm Ypsilantis.

* * * * *

The Impulsive Cuss

A maiden not lacking in pride
Went out with her beau for a ride.
She said, “Tell me, Joe,
How far do you go?”
“The sky is my limit!” he cried.

* * * * *

There was an old sculptor named Phidias,
Whose knowledge of art was invidious.
He carved Aphrodite
Without any nightie,
Which shocked all the people fastidious.

* * * * *

There was a young lady named Florence,
Who for kissing professed great abhorrence.
At last she was kissed,
And said: “My! What I’ve missed!”
And cried till the tears fell in torrents.

* * * * *

This story may be overdrawn,
But now that my ink is all gone,
I’ll say goodby, guys,
And cease with my lies;
’Tis yours very truly,–Bull Kahn.

* * * * *

Even the repeal of the Eighteenth amendment wouldn’t do the brewers any
good. Everybody knows how to make his own, now.

* * * * *

I Like ’em, God Bless ’em

These widowers are an elusive lot,
I like ’em!
They make you forego the sense you’ve got,
I like ’em!
They call you young, they think you’re green,
For blasé women they’re beaucoup keen,
They’re the worst darn pests I’ve ever seen,
I like ’em.

–By Flo.

* * * * *

The best man that ever lived
Must take his child on faith alone,
But the worst woman that ever lived
Knows that her child’s her own.

* * * * *

That Osculating Thing

A little kissing now and then
Is why we have the married men.
A little kissing, too, of course,
Is why we have the quick divorce.

* * * * *

The Alphabet of Love

A is the art of man and maid;
B is the blush, so fair, displayed;
C is the challenge in the eyes;
D the dare that soon replies;
E but why the rest recall?
The rest is E-Z, that’s all.

* * * * *

A buzz ran ’round the party,
Some maids were e’en in tears;
A blasé girl–ye Gods, the shame–
Had left exposed her ears.

* * * * *

The melancholy days have come,
The saddest of the year.
There’s no coal in the cellar,
And no goodness in the beer.

* * * * *

If I had a girl and she was mine,
I’d paint her back with iodine;
And on her ankles I’d place this sign,
“Keep off the lunch, they’re mine, they’re mine.”

* * * * *


Let me live in a house
By the side of the road
Where the races of men go by;
The men who are good
And the men who are bad,
Just as good and as bad as I.
I would not sit on the scorner’s seat
Or hurl the Cynic’s ban;
But let me live in a house
By the side of the road
And be a friend to man.