Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol 1, No. 11, August, 1920
America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy (2024)

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicatedto the fighting forces of the United States, past,present and future.

The following article is the first of a series thatwill depict the more intimate life of the movie actorsand actresses who make their headquarters in thevicinity of Los Angeles. This series is in no senseto be considered “press agent dope.” The WhizBang, in this series, proposes to tell its readers ofthe little romances of their favorite screen star—oflives strewn with mobilized immoderation, fickle faithlessnessand dark desolation. As an actress once toldme: “Our step is pep; our creed is speed.”—TheEditor.

HOLLYWOOD, beautiful little suburb of Los Angelesand famous as America’s leading moviehot-house, is running pretty nowadays with itsmany wondrous autos and, Oh! those numerous andnaughty little, palpitating bungalow intrigues.

The Mary Pickford-Doug Fairbanks romance, isalmost old stuff with Mary and Doug on a bit of ahoneymoon in New York and London, while fortyeleven representatives of the daily papers accompaniedthem as far as Arizona to watch the Moki Indians gettheir first glimpse of the screen.

One of the merriest rumors just now extant regardsanother member of the Pickford family, to-wit,Lottie. Lottie is a live wire in the parlance of the countryclubs and cafes. In southern California, until the“prohis” bore down, the word “country club” meantone of the nightly places of revelry, stretched all theway from Vernon to the beach. These places are somewhaton the blink now, but it has been known that astray “shot in the arm” has been seen to take effect.In fact a wagon load recently was taken to the policestation from Vernon.

But getting back to Lottie. For a considerablenumber of moons the night black eyes of Mary’s sisterbeamed favorably upon a certain handsome Apollo ofthe screens. It wasn’t a case of, wherever Mary wentthe boy was sure to go. It was a case of, whereverLottie went she took the boy along. At ball games,country clubs, bungalow dances, midnight revelries,Lottie and her lad were together. Then came damerumor, and she is a busy dame in these parts. Lottie’sman was playing with another. So far as the publicwas concerned that was about all there was to it.

But know ye, that Fatty Arbuckle, Roscoe hewishes to be called of late, rented the handsome homeon West Adams street, formerly occupied by ThedaBara. In fact it is said that Fatty sleeps in the vampire’sbed, which may or may not, weave his dreamswith vampires and their dangerous moods.

Fatty recently gave a party. He gives a lot ofthem. There were picture girls galore and the wineflowed red and every other way, for Roscoe is no derelictof a host.

It didn’t take twenty-four hours for Dame Rumorand her children to scatter the news that “there wassome ruction among the ‘Janes’ out to Arbuckle’s jointlast night.”

Just how it started was lost in the hurry of gettingdown to the absolute certainty that Lottie Pickfordand another girl staged one of the prettiest scraps seensince Charlie Chaplin tried to lick his wife’s managerat the Alexandria hotel recently. In fact the efforts ofCharlie as a pugilist are said to have been nil comparedwith the flavor that Lottie and her rival put up.It wasn’t exactly Lottie’s rival either, so the storygoes.

Seems that Lottie and another girl were talkingin one of the bedrooms regarding the “cat” who hadvamped the temporary affections of Lottie’s formerbeau. A third girl was lying, supposedly asleep. Shearose suddenly and challenged, in behalf of her vampingfriend what Lottie had said. Then the riot started.One of our well-known artists stated next day that itwas the best he had seen since Young George and SteveDalton first met at Jack Doyle’s. Anyone taking a goodlook at Lottie would opine that the girl, when angry,might be worth a bet in the real money book.

Not much has been heard of Jack Pickford sincehe became mixed up in the war time mess. It was noHollywood secret that Jack was not an over welcomevisitor at the home of Mary and her mother for sometime. Things may have been calmed over since Marysettled down with Doug, or rather tried to settle downwith him.

Olive Thomas, Jack’s wife, recently returned fromNew York and Jack met her with a Whiz Bang of anew car. Jack claims it cost him bucks to the numberof ten thou. Speaking of automobiles, Roscoe Arbucklerecently received a specially designed motor car thatis a humdinger. The price is reported at $25,000. If itdidn’t cost that much it sure looks it. Thousands ofpeople viewed the monstrosity for a week in the windowsof the motor works where it was turned out.

Of course the machine is simply to be used as anad for the prolific Fat. Some of the last words in autoshave been seen around here, but they all faded to asickly, measly brown when Arbuckle’s came into prominence.Arbuckle says he intends dazzling Broadwaywith it. What may help some, if he uses it in NewYork, is the license number, which was displayed whilethe car stood on exhibition here. The number was“606.”

“United Artists,” the “Big Four” and “AssociatedDirectors” are familiar terms here. Speakingof United Artists, we must pause at mention of CharlieChaplin and Mildred Harris. They are not united, notso anyone can notice.

Shortly after their marriage last year, the doll-likelittle Mildred and her mother were the observedof all observers at the fashionable St. Catherine hotel,the Wrigley’s island palace at Catalina. Wistful indeed,appeared the little girl as she sat day after daygazing across the Pacific blue whence fly the famousChaplin hydroplanes from the mainland. The hydroplanesare a venture of Sid Chaplin. Charlie is notin on the deal, though he makes the air trip occasionally.

But never did Charlie appear to the knowledge ofthe vastly interested hotel habitues. Ever with herslender, keen looking mother, the bride waited in vainfor her Lochinvar. Occasionally she danced with avisiting picture personage. But Charlie—he came not.

Friends—friends always spread bad news—whisperedthat something was wrong. The St. Catherineseemed a haven, welcome or not, of disconsolate women.On the broad veranda sat the woman discardedby Earl Williams. Inquisitive society dames raisedtheir very proper eyebrows as they passed and themournful looking girl appeared as lonesome as anygirl could feel, even though Earl had, through hislawyers, handed over a settlement admitted to be atleast $40,000.

Charlie Chaplin has all the earmarks of a ratherdistraught young man. He lives at the Los AngelesAthletic club. From his studio comes the word thatthough he finally is working at another picture, his peoplenever know whether it will be a week or a monthbefore he shows up to don the old derby and the familiarshoes.

The fight between Chaplin and Manager Young ofMildred Chaplin was funny. Young is fat and the ideaof Chaplin trying to use his fists is funnier than anythinghe ever did in pictures. Just what the real causeof combat was hasn’t been thoroughly dissected by thescandal mongers. Young says he was trying to protectMrs. Chaplin from annoyance by her husband.Chaplin says Young is a big stiff and that he (Chaplin)certainly never annoyed his wife. He hasn’t—in public—becausethey never appear together.

Just how the divorce proceedings will work outnobody knows. It is true that Chaplin wishes he wasout of it. It is believed that Mrs. Chaplin’s mother issomewhat of a business woman and will have considerableto say before the bones of the affair have rattledtheir last.

Fairbanks and Chaplin are very close friends.One of the newspapers recently published a picture ofMary, Doug and Charlie, purporting to be one taken immediatelyafter the marriage, when Chaplin went to thetrain with them as they left for an alleged brief scurryto some quiet haunt. As a matter of fact the picturewas one taken at the time the trio were leaving on theirfamous Liberty Loan jaunt, upon which momentoustrip Doug and Mary are supposed to have “fallen”for each other good and hard.

Poor Owen Moore has become a public goat. Theformer husband of Mary is a likable enough fellow,quiet and with a winning way that can’t restrain theundoubtable sadness which lurks in a pair of wistfuleyes. By the way, ninety-nine women out of a hundredprobably would “kotow” to Moore so far as looks areconcerned, rather than to Fairbanks. Moore is well setup and handsome in a masculine way. Doug nevercould be called a thing of beauty and most of his cowboysdisplay better physical form than the agile laugh-maker.

All the testimony given by Mary at Minden wouldtend to indicate that the hour in which Owen did notinject a lot of booze into himself, was a rare hour indeed.If Mary asked Owen to come back to her asoften as she says she did, figuring he was the lusheras she sets forth, then indeed Owen, if he loves the girl,hasn’t much of a kick coming.

The general opinion appears to be that Moore hadthe love of Mary very much at heart but through histendency for liquor, finally lost out. Those who reallyknow Mary Pickford swear by the character of the girl.Those who really know Moore can’t dislike him. Theysimply figure he was his own worst enemy and that inthe desperate moments of her mental torture the girlgrew to care for the light-hearted Fairbanks and hisblithesome way.

Poor Owen is just now figuring in a suit for damagesbrought by someone from whom he rented a house.The owners claim that everything was in a mess whenthey came back and that an overflow of booze has considerablydepreciated the furniture.

Another Hollywood “Secret” has been shattered.It seems that a perfectly good married man went on avisit to his “Secret” and before the evening was donehe was driving a joyful bunch of other men, with their“Secrets,” in his latest buzz wagon.

Everything would have been O. K. but for the factthat the happy hubby permitted his own “Secret” tosit in the back seat while helping the other revellingbenedicts to deliver their “Secrets” home. It appearsthat the “Secret” of the car-owner went tosleep in her recess in the rear of the car.

The night was foggy. So was the brain of this“perfectly good” married man. He parked the carin his garage, forgetting all about the “Secret” lyingasleep in the back seat. Next morning a “perfectlytrusting” wife was surprised, when she stepped ontothe bungalow rear, to see a “perfectly wild Secret”dashing madly out of the garage, clad in anything butup-to-date morning garb.

The betting in Hollywood is 100 to 1 that Nevadaprosecutors or politicians do not break the Fairbanks-Pickfordmarital relations. Los Angeles herself—thatis the heart of it—says, “Let them alone. They’remarried, aren’t they, however they managed to do it?”

Maybe Los Angeles prognosticators are wrong.Maybe Nevada means business. But the prevalent sentimentis that, unless their love-ship hits the rockssome other way, Mary and Doug may woo and coountil dooms-day—except at such times as they see fitto invite the newspapers en masse to dinner or loaddown autos and Pullman cars with scribes who wouldfain not invade their privacy.

Hanging and wiving go by destiny. For everyJonathan Wild there is somewhere an adequate JohnKetch; from the ends of the earth, noose and neck rushto meet each other. For every Jack there is some compliantJill; from all the plains and valleys the couplesscramble up to the difficult ark of matrimony. Shebatravels to Solomon and the event is set down in thebook of Kings. Caesar rules over Rome and Cleopatraover Egypt, but the wet sundering leagues cannot separatethem.

Nat Goodwin, it is true, never married Lillian Russell,but the universe felt that something had goneamiss. So says an American journalist—one of thekind who knows everything. He continues: Destinyhad fallen down. How then should Mary Pickford andDouglas fail to swing into the orbit calculated fromthe beginning? If she is not queen of her particularSheba, Sheba never had a queen. If he is not thegayest of Solomons, at least he has written a book,and unquestionably he rules his jovial dominion in hisown right. In this wedding the royal line crosses. Itis as expected and as gratifying as the conclusion of afeature film.

Obstacles have kept the prince and princess apart,but obstacles do not last forever. After the conflictthere must be peace, and before the final curtain theremust be a happy ending. How evil are those dispositionswhich interpret this amalgamation of splendoursin economic terms; which hint that the joint revenueof the pair—to judge by figures made elaborately public—willbe three times what he earned before; whichcalculate that his income will actually pay her incometax.

Rev. “Golightly” has favored The Whiz Bang withanother able article for the September issue. It is a story onthe practice of witchcraft, with its revolting rites, throughoutthe West Indies and the three Guianas. The story holds thereader’s attention from start to finish and gives an exposé thatwould put the ouija board and clairvoyant mysticisms to shame.Get the September number and read Morrill’s story of thehuman hyena which kidnaps children, the goat without horns,and the “loupgarou.”—The Editor.

POOR devil! He was an escaped convict fromFrench Guiana—haggard, half-starved, barefooted;his shirt torn as if to show his torn heart,his trousers ragged; bareheaded, blue eyes, a mat ofbrown hair, and a neat mustache and beard, reminiscentof the Parisian boulevards. He didn’t look half soferocious as his black, British gorilla of a guard, whodragged him on our boat, and later transferred him tothe train bound for Georgetown, Demerara, to languishin jail till the French mail steamer arrived to take himback captive to Cayenne. I took pity on him, gave himsome fruit, chocolate and money, wished him a bonvoyage, and was sorry I couldn’t give him his liberty aswell.

French Guiana is a penal colony, a prison of 35,000square miles, bounded by Dutch Guiana, Brazil andthe Atlantic ocean. Out of a population of some 40,000,10,000 are convicts. While there are exports of balataand phosphates, the principal ones are gold, cocoa,hides, rosewood and rosewood oil, the last shipped toFrance as a substitute for attar of roses. But the glitterof the gold is dimmed by the shadow of the prison,and above the fragrance of the rosewood rises thestench of political putridity, convict crime and corruption.

From her earliest history, Cayenne has furnishedan inspired chapter for the Devil’s Bible, written withfinger of fire in ink of blood. In the first of the seventeenthcentury the settlers not only had before themthe interesting fate of being massacred and devouredby the cannibal Indians, but a providential blessing inthe form of their mad commander, Sieur de Bretigny,who, not satisfied with torturing the 400 colonists withgibbet, gallows and wheel, amused himself by institutingpleasures called “Purgatory” and “Hell,” inwhich he forced them to relate even their dreams asto a father confessor; if he were displeased, he maltreatedand killed them. The next batch of settlersmutinied en route from France, and on arriving here soangered the Indians by enslaving and plundering themthat the natives forced them to take refuge in a fortwhere Famine and Disease were the red man’s bestallies.

Succeeding colonization companies were failures.Mismanagement and Misfortune were president andvice-president of the ventures. For example, in 1763,12,000 volunteer colonists came to French Guiana, withthe promise of free lands, which proved to be freegraves. By 1765, 11,000 died. They landed and livedin mud and water; there were no tools for tilling thesoil, yet they had a shop to make skates in this equatorialclime; drinking water there was none, probablybecause they thought it would rain or they might beable to get wine; rivers rose, and not knowing how todike them, those who lived through the fevers died fromthe floods. Such colonial schemes are finely satirizedby Daudet in his “Port Tarascon.” At best, the Frenchare the worst colonizers, whether here or in Tahiti,Marquesas, Caledonia, Panama, Algeria, Canada andMartinique. Cayenne next became the criminal cesspoolof France, costing the lives of hundreds and 800,000livres.

During the French Revolution men were arrestedin Paris, paraded before the populace like wild beastsin cages, then shipped to Cayenne, the white man’sgrave. Of 600 Royalists transported here and landedon the Sinnamaire River without shelter or food, two-thirdsperished. Often they were brutally murderedbefore reaching there, according to De Vigny’s storyof “Laurette or the Red Seal.” The country wasdubbed the “dry guillotine,” and it is said that a prisonerwho had the choice between it and the blood-wetone in Paris, chose the latter.

In 1852 free transportation was offered as a “favor”and more than 3,000 accepted. In 1854 NapoleonIII, that third-class Napoleon, made Cayenne a penalcolony for his political enemies, as if he hadn’t alreadyenough crimes to atone for. Between 1852 and 1867,18,000 exiles were brought over, although New Caledoniafor the next 20 years became the ticket-of-leavetourist resort. In 1885-7 confirmed criminals, andthose with more than 8-year sentences to hard labor,were shipped here. However, they have proved unfitfor government employment. Convicts formerly sentto Caledonia had such lease of long life, that they arenow sent to Guiana to reduce living expenses. Grave-digging,next to gold-digging, is the principal occupation.

In Cayenne, the majority of the prisoners are negroes,Arabs and Annamites. Now most of the outcastsare sent to unsaintly St. Laurent. Formerly they wereherded at Cayenne, the three Iles du Salut, on one ofwhich Captain Dreyfus was imprisoned, and the KourouRiver, La Mere being reserved as a home for the oldand sick. The convicts have trades, and are bakers,carpenters and tanners, etc. They make curios, suchas balata boats, whips with Kaiser and dog heads onthe handle, separable tables, fibre vanity bags, andcigar-cutters in the shape of a guillotine. They areemployed as balata-bleeders and in gold-camps, andhave built some thrifty miles of road in the countrywhere there is little agriculture or cattle-raising. Thelittle money made is spent on rum and tobacco, and thefranc notes saved are tightly rolled up in a small cylindricalreceptacle which they use as a suppository toprevent robbery—nevertheless, horrible murders andmutilations are common. There is the cut-throat classsent here from Paris for life. Inhabitants tell you thatif they boldly and insultingly beg you for gold, youshould give them lead. Then there is a harmless classmade up of those convicted three times for some pettyoffense.

Cayenne twice a year. The culprits had steel-cagecabins to prevent them from jumping overboard andswimming home across the Atlantic. As the Athenianssent youths and maidens to be devoured by the Minotaurevery year, so this monstrous country eats up2,000 convicts annually. In the old days, when a prisonerdied, the corpse was sewn in a sack, taken to thewater and a bell tolled. The sharks knew the soundand instantly rose to the surface, making it black withtheir fins as they hastened to the funeral meat. Felonswith sentences for more than five years are compelledto serve an additional term of the same period as settlersin the colony. When a contractor wants convictlabor, he gets it from the government for so muchmoney if it can be spared. The “liberes,” though havingserved their term, are not free to leave the colony,and since the work is done by the regular prisoners, itis hard to land a job. Accordingly, many starve todeath, unless they steal provisions. They may be skilfulartisans, but have no tools, are not wanted in town,so they go to the country to loaf or pilfer, where theyare arrested and punished as tramps. Often for pettytheft an overseer ties his victim to a tree and beats himwith a balata whip. When they do procure work it isbig with little wages. It is impossible for the whiteman to work in the sun or stand like a black man allday in the water. Many convict camps are abandonedon account of unhealthy surroundings.

Poorly fed, the prisoners stalk around likespectres. They receive scanty rice rations for theamount of work they do, and are compelled to beg fromeverybody. Their murderously-minded Corsican keeperslook like fiends in human form, provoke to kill,and like the followers of Marquis de Sade, take a madpleasure in torture, gloating over the suffering of thewretches they starve and flog. As companions I preferthe thief and assassin convict to the jailer with hiswhite cork helmet jammed down over a low forehead,his shaggy black brows and lashes from which flashheartless glances, his long, bandit-like mustachios,framing a savage slit for a mouth, and his brutal jaw.Far from the restraint of civilization he becomes abeast in fury, and loves to torment his charge. Heartsas well as stones are broken in these prisons. The convict’scomplaint is useless, for his letters are censored,doctored and amputated before they reach home.There was one American down here for stealing. Hetold a friend of mine he could be trusted up to $500,but any amount over that he would steal. Escapedprisoners taken back to Cayenne are often chained tothe deck, lashed and kicked by ruthless black guards,and left to wallow in their excrement. The mouths ofthe rivers are well guarded, and all told there areabout 700 police who set the springs to this death-trap.Camps are insanitary and full of disease, insects andvermin. After work the exiles are thrust into darkcells of decaying barracks. Still they have some privilegesbesides death and torture. They are furnished apiece of ground with necessary tools to work it; allowedto send home for their families, or to have a contractmarriage if they have been here two years and showngood behaviour.

If the convict escapes, the French officials don’tcare much. He prefers the savage jungle to his savagekeeper, fleeing to the bush not half so wild, through fenand flood to Brazil, Dutch and British Guiana. Withno weapons for game or hook for fish, they grow madwith hunger, kill each other and have cannibal feasts,for which they are guillotined if captured. To avoidambush they go in gangs, and when they eat or restwatch the four points of the compass. Just as Americahad an underground railway between the North andSouth to aid the fugitive slaves, so in Paramaribo,Dutch Guiana, there are agents of a society formed inFrance who provide food, clothes and money to aid theconvict’s escape. There I was informed that the AmericanBauxite Company engages escaped convicts, andgives them a chance. However, in holy British Guiana,if caught, they are sent back or given so many days toleave the colony, in which case they often fly to Venezuela.Recently there was a frightful murder in thebush, a man’s head was chopped off and placed in acanoe to shoot the falls in order to cover traces of thecrime. But as in Eugene Aram, guilt could not be hidden,for the canoe went over the rapids and falls withoutspilling its gruesome cargo; it was beached, discovered;the assassins were tracked; and an aeroplanewas sent from the penal colony which swooped downon the murderers like a bird of prey and carried themoff to prison.

Paradoxical as it may seem, the salvation of Cayenneis the convict—he does the work. I talked with aman who employs convicts and he said they were all“good” workers. Many of the other inhabitants, whosweat to get balata and gold, are just as bad outlaws,their life being one guilty round of drink, seduction,cruelty and crime.

The colony is full of physical as well as morallepers. Like the other Guianas, elephantiasis, leprosyand filthy diseases scurf and scourge. The jungles arefull of envenomed serpents. As for heat, the countryis a few degrees above the equator and many above theboiling point. This dirty land is washed by the Atlantic,although the ocean does not, as Euripides says,wash away the wounds and stain of the world, butrather washes them here from France. Like a NewYork garbage boat carrying refuse to the sea, Frenchconvict ships dump the offal of humanity on theseshores. The Pilgrims came to America with religiousconvictions, somewhat different from the convictionscriminal and otherwise those Frenchmen held who settledCanada, Caledonia and Cayenne. Climate here isone long season of sorrow. Guiana is an outlaw country,a jumping-off place of the world, a back-door toperdition; a dominion of dolour, despair, mud andblood, where Death is the jailer who frees. The citiesof Cayenne and St. Laurent are cities of dreadful dayand night where spread

Faith, hope and charity are banished the colony,and the prisoners are the saddest and weariest of men.

La Belle France has succeeded in establishing andmaintaining a hell on earth in French Guiana. Dantesays, “There is a place within the depths of hell calledMalebolge.” His prophetic eye must have seen thiscolony accurst, for he peoples the ten gulfs of thateighth circle of the “Inferno” with seducers, thirstersfor gold, grafters, thieves, peculators, hypocrites, robbers,forgers and counterfeiters—and punishes theselost souls with terrible heat, horrible leprosies, poisonousserpents, filth and scourging demons!

The teacher was explaining to her class the differencebetween concrete and abstract.

“Concrete,” she said, “is that which can be seen,abstract that which cannot be seen. Now, Willie, giveme an example of the concrete.”

“My pants,” said Willie.

“Good,” said the teacher. “Now give me an exampleof the abstract.”

“Yours,” replied Willie.

Billyus Plutocrat—“Rave on, Red Raven, youshall not split tonight.”

ANCIENT mythology and folklore contain innumerablestories of the creation of the world andof man. Most of them have this in common thatthey relate that, when it came to the creation of woman,the being who had the task in hand experienced immensedifficulties. According to a supposed legend,for instance, this is the origin of woman:

“Twashtri, the god Vulcan of the Hindu mythology,created the world, but on his commencing tocreate woman he discovered that for man he had exhaustedall his creative materials, and that not one elementhad been left. This, of course greatly perplexedTwashtri, and caused him to fall into a profound meditation.When he arose from it he proceeded as follows.He took:

All these he mixed together and formed a woman.”

This is widely accepted as an ancient Hindu legendand nobody would suffer very much for continuing tobelieve such to be the case, but a gentleman, in answerto a query the other day, completely destroys the foundationsfor this belief. He says: “The legend of thecreation of woman is the creation in English of an Englishmind; its author is F. W. Bain, and it is to be foundin his charming book, ‘A Digit of the Moon.’”

He had only ten dollars left and thought he wouldhave a tour on the railway. So he hied himself to a bigticket office where there was a host of booking clerksand inquired:

“Here! Can I go to Halifax for ten dollars?”

“No,” answered the booking clerk.

“Well, can I have a return to Montreal?”

“No,” replied the clerk again.

“Well, where can I go for ten dollars?” Then ina chorus they all answered him.

IT is the old, old, story. Sporty married man, trustfulor maybe designing girl, wool over her optics, girlfinally gets wise, recriminations, breach of promisesuit, and—?

Hector Havemeyer and Harriet Hearn comprisethe alliterative couple in the calcium effulgence thistime. Havemeyer is a scion of the sugar magnate; oneof whose stunts was to ruin a competitor by bribing aworkman in the rival plant to run a pipe from the syruptank to the river and waste fifty or a hundred barrelsa day. We mention this to show that Hector did notinherit a high standard of principle or regard for therights of others.

Harriet eked out her truce with profiteering landlordsand dry goods stores by digging muck from underthe claws of such customers as presented themselvesfor the purpose. Her modest shingle swung in a barbershop in the Grand Central Station, Graftopolis-on-the-Harlem,generally known as New York. Hectorcame, he saw, he—well, you can guess the rest. Ofcourse he proposed marriage. And of course Harrietsprung the old song and dance about it being “so sudden.”But when Hector offered as lagniappe to blowher to a whole slew of diamonds, a kolinsky cape and atrip South, his suddenness compared to hers as shePisa-towered on his caoutchouc and celluloid, mooning:“Hector, I am thine!” was even as Congress controllingthe trusts to a terrier kyoodle with a turpentineenema.

The fair Harriet was soon installed in a seven-dollar-a-daysuite at a no-questions-asked hotel. Manicuristsseldom can afford such things out of their ownearnings, and we will give our readers three guessesas to who signed the checks for the rent. As long asHector paid he naturally was entitled to call as oftenas he darn pleased, which was about once a day andthen some. Not contented with that he would telephoneso often to her at her place of business that her barberemployer ultimatumed that she must either cut it outor take the gate. Hector also sent flowers and candygalore. His progenitor had acquired coin in the mannerquoted above; a manner both easy and honorable,and passed it on to Hector to blow. Hector also pinedfor special messages from his Dulcinea del Toboso, andwould employ the red cap porters at the station to go toher and beseech for him a missive of love to ease hisnear ruptured cardiac.

The strange part of it all is that at first Hectorwas too bashful to go like an avuncular just arrivedfrom Canajoharie and have Harriet extract the Graftopolisreal estate and microbes from the nether sideof his hive-scratchers. Instead he sought the servicesof a New York Central detective as his John Alden,the fair Harriet states. But she fell for the detectivepresented proposition and consented to the introduction.

The promise of marriage, which Harriet claimswas made, might have been either the last resort of aman dealing with a near-Pamela and cute minx combined,or else a gratuitous piece of calorified atmosphere.But as she had to know some day that he couldnot keep his word without committing bigamy, Hectorpreferred that it should be from him rather than fromhis vindictive investigating storm-and-strife, or theserpentine lollypop-licker of Mrs. Grundy. Having hadpreliminary practice in another way, he screwed up hiscourage and broke the news, although he let her downeasy with the hoary classic bucolic cataplasm abouthis wife not understanding him, there would soon be adivorce, and then his Harriet would be IT. That wasall Harriet wanted to hear. She flew the seven-dollar-a-daycoop whose manager, as there were several timesseven dollars of arrears, was so unkind as to retain herpowder-rag, her tooth-brush, and other feminine impedimentawhich we forbear to catalogue.

Harriet went back to finding her own rent-money,but nevertheless she did not break with her Hector.Instead she kept Hectoring him with special deliveryletters and telegrams; ditto his wife, although shecharges that in the latter case Hector had fixed all theapartment house help so that none of her retaliatoryrevelations would strike home. She says, too, thather Lothario had the St. Vitus dance even when shewas not in proximity to him. Seeing that he had takenher all and given her in return nothing but candy,flowers and broken promises, she is going to try veryhard to make him pay, and has brought suit for a hundredthousand dollars. She exults that she did not sellor give away all her old clothes and resign her position,as he urged her to do, and says she would not bein a Gehenna of a fix if she had.

Hector claims that Harriet, like himself, is marriedto somebody else; a certain Garry Hearn being theman. But Harriet denies the allegation and defies thealligator. Hector lives with his wife at 375 Park avenue,New York. He seems to take it all as a joke, buthis Harriet evidently does not. She alleges that hewooed and won her under the name of Palmer, and alsothat he ungallantly refuses to pay the rest of the rentso that she can get her needful belongings out of hock;and, to make matters worse, he will not see her anymore. But she protests her undying love for him inspite of the way he has wounded her poor, tender littlefeelings, which ought to be easy for her, seeing the sizeof his saccharine bank-roll. Heads she wins, tails sheloses. Harriet figures she stands to get a slice of itif he doesn’t make good about divorcing his wife andmarrying her; or, in the other event, she will have thespending of most of it anyhow. So why shouldn’t modestlittle Harriet sue? And echo answers, why?

Dear Captain Billy—How will I head a story abouta prominent Boston society girl marrying a Providencesocialist?—Cub Reporter.

Just say: “Plymouth Rock chicken marriesRhode Island Red.”

Old Wheezy Bill—My landlord has raised my rentbecause I have a case of whisky in my apartments.Now, I don’t like to move and I don’t like to pay rentand then again its against the law to move the whisky,so what the’ll shall I do?—Oberst.

Your “case” has undoubtedly been disposed of bythis time.

Dear Bill—To settle a dispute, please tell me whatdisease is caused from the microbe of a kiss?—JuneBugg.

Palpitation of the heart.

Dear Bill—The ocean side seems so different thisyear. Why does it seem to make me feel so blue?—FloWaters.

I do not know, Flo, unless it’s the wind blowing thefroth over the bar that reminds you of olden days.

Dear Captain Billy—Why won’t they allow armyaviators to take up women passengers in airplanes?—MayWheat.

I am told that too many of the pilots went blindwhile looping the loop.

Dear Editor—Can you give me the technical namefor snoring?—Al McGluek.

Sheet music.

Dear Billy—Don’t you think the short skirts thegirls are wearing make us look lots shorter?—DaisyFields.

Yes, Daisy, but they make us men look lots longer,so what’s the difference?

Dear Billy—As you were in the United Statesarmy during the recent war, I wish you would informme as to the principal ailments the boys got fromabroad.—Prophylactic Pete.

I am unable to answer your question, Peter, buthave referred it to Private Iodine Ike of the CottonBatting corps.

Dear Captain Billy—I am lame, halt, nearly blindand 85 years old. What job do you think I should workat?—R. J.

Would suggest you apply for the position of gardenerin a young woman’s seminary.

Dear Cap.—I’ve just composed a song for my 1920-21“Record Breakers” show, entitled “The StockyardsRag.” I’m enclosing a copy to get your opinion of it.—JackRead, the “Information Kid.”

Dear Jack: The words of your song are all right,but I don’t like the “air.” It doesn’t smell just right.

Dear Captain Billy—What is your opinion of regulatedpublic dance halls and do you believe there is acure for the alleged dance evil?—Ichabod Iliad.

I say, on with the dance, let joy be unconfined,there is gladness unabated since Maggie Murphydined. Did you, my dear Ichabod, ever see a teakettlebubble, dance, sing and boiler over? Well, that wasthe effect. The pep, fire and energy underneath it wasthe cause. You can’t put out the fire by removing theteakettle to a cooler spot. Therefore you can’t cureevil thinking by doing away with dancing. Fire, pep,energy is the natural results we get from the disgustinghabit we have of eating. Consequently if we removethe cause, which is eating, evil thinking or dancing,which is the effect, will cure themselves.

Dear Editor—Please help me. I was out with ayoung lady for the first time when she saw some jewelry.She said she wished to buy some but had lefther pocketbook at home. What should I have done?—TroubledTom.

You should have lent the lady five cents to go homeand get her pocketbook. Always be a gentleman.

Dear Billy—Is it essential that a “movie vamp”have dark hair and eyes?—Blondie.

No, Blondie, you still have a chance. A vampdoesn’t have to have dark hair and eyes. I know oflots of blond ones, with big blue eyes, and several red-headedones.

Dear Whiz Bang—Is there any truth in therumor that Douglas Fairbanks is already consideringgetting a divorce from Mary Pickford?—Ima Darby.

I don’t believe it’s true but only an idle rumorgathered from the story that Doug was peeved becauseMary talked in her sleep and cried out the nameof her first husband too often.

Dear Editor Whiz Bang—I am a civics instructorat a high school, am 45 years of age, but act like anyspry young man. I am deeply infatuated with thepretty young school secretary. I went with her a fewmonths this year and then for a spell lost my likingfor her. Now for some reason or other I am again inlove with her, but am afraid to make any advances toher because she has recently purchased a car and I amafraid people will think that there is “method in mymadness.” Remember that I love her and then tellme what to do.—Ad Noid.

You’re not acting like “any spry young man” ifyou’re withholding your declaration of love for fear ofwhat people would think. Tell her and don’t loseany time about it.

The Whiz Bang desires to call the attention of itsreaders to the latest book published by the Reverend“Golightly” Morrill, famous author-traveler-preacher,who has been a regular correspondent to this magazine.Mr. Morrill is one of America’s most forceful writersand his varied experiences as a social worker and globetrotterfits him to deal trenchantly on varied subjects.The editor is not personally acquainted with Mr. Morrillbut has been an interested reader of all his worksfor the past 20 years. Read his ad on page 64 of thisissue and add his latest book to your library.

Tangier Island, in Chesapeake Bay, is where thenatives still vote for Andrew Jackson. The island isnothing if not religious in the narrowest and most reactionarysense of the word. Only one church is on theisland, and those who run it think that hell’s hottestfires are burning specially for all who do not agree witheach and every religious dogma they have. The ministeris almost qualified to butt into the Trinity andmake it a Quartette. It is against the law to hold orattend any religious service not under the auspices ofthe local church monopoly. It is also required by lawthat you attend the church every Sunday, and as ifthat is not enough, you are not allowed to be out ofyour house on Sunday, not even on your own porch,except to go to and from church services. It is franklyclaimed by the powers that be, that without such sterncompulsion the natives would desecrate the Sabbath bycongregating at stores or elsewhere, and then, if thedevil should happen to come to claim his own, he mightscoop up the whole island population as a consequence.

Roland Parks, a young man 17 years old, a residentof Tangier Island, was wicked and audacious enough tocut church service one Sunday and to take the air onthe porch of his house while the meeting was in progress.Officer Connorton got on the job and ordered himto come to church. Young Parks refused, Connortontried to arrest him, Parks fled, Connorton drew his revolverand shot Parks, dangerously wounding him.The inhabitants of the island regret the shooting, buthold that it would be better for such as Parks to be shotand killed rather than the law, which they approve,should be violated.

Among the other Puritan blue laws of TangierIsland are those prohibiting music anywhere duringchurch service, even though the instrument may be faraway and no sound come through the walls; playingball at any time on Sunday, etc.

It may be a shock to learn that such archaic conditionsexist anywhere in the world, let alone in our owncountry. True enough, we are the most backwardpeople on earth to control landlords and profiteers.But it seems that the same may be said of us in regardto religious tyrants and persecutors.

Admitting, for the sake of argument, that thingstaboo on Tangier Island displease God, why can’t hisagents safely leave it to Him to enforce His will andpunish those who violate His law? God needs nohuman avengers. It is an axiom that the only call forhuman legislation is tangible wrong or harm to somemember or members of society.

Just here we stopped to look over some exchanges,and find that the ministers of Lynnbrook, near NewYork City, have forced the Sunday closing of a localamusement park. This will not be allowed to open onSunday, not even at hours that do not conflict withany church services of the day. Give these reverendgentlemen credit. They did not find shooting necessaryin the process. But give them debit for a senselesspiece of business. With Coney Island and RockawayBeach near by, the Lynnbrook people will simplytake a short trolley ride and get what they want muchbetter. What was accomplished, what could have beenaccomplished, to help keep the Sabbath day holy? Azero with the circle erased. Any sensible man couldhave seen this in advance. But who has less sense thana tyrannical religious fanatic? Only a man whoexpects one such to have any sense at all.

Woman is creation’s best and last work and shouldbe the most attractive thing in the universe.

Clothes are the index of character. A woman isknown by the dress she wears. A standard of a country’sor century’s mind and morals is known by itsfashion-plate.

Some women are as long in dressing as Caesar wasin marshalling his army. They go to church to showtheir clothes, spend more money for hacks than forBibles, strut home like peacocks, forgetting thatclothes are but the reminders of lost innocency and thatto be proud of rustling silk is to be like the madmanwho laughs at the rattling of his fetters. They onlythink of dress, and were you to steal their clothes youwould rob them of the only valuable thing theypossessed.

Skirts have been bloated like a balloon and long asa crocodile’s tail, but now they are meagre as a mummyand docked like a horse’s tail, for Fashion is a foolishand freakish goddess.

A short skirt is said to be economical in material,sanitary because it is not a street or sidewalk cleaner,and comfortable for locomotion—but when art sacrificesutility in attempt to show the figure, as Venusbefore Anchises or Medea before Jason, it is a matternot only of comment but censure. Too often on leadingthoroughfares we fine a godless model of fashionwhich is an insult to sex and an outrage on decency.

The first short skirt was made in the Garden ofEden of fig leaves because there were no Parisiandressmakers present.

Skirt styles today are going back to the originalfig-leaf fashion.

Mother Eve ate the apple, became “wise” and herfirst thought was of dress, and that is all some of herdaughters have thought of since.

American women are willing to wear any skirtthat bears a Paris label, but would they if they knewit was a French fashion to advertise demimondainecharms?

If good women, who wear the suggestive short,close-fitting and diaphanous skirt, knew what bad mensaid when they went by, they would fall dead or callfor a taxi and break the speed limit to get home andhide in the cellar.

Men are a bad lot and women should help themto be better and not worse.

There are men in hospitals and hell who owe theirdamnation in time and eternity to the skirts of somebad, beautiful woman.

Fashion is the world’s undertaker and oftencharges a woman a big bill for a body with diseasedfunctions, a mind with dwarfed faculties, and a soulwith a future damned.

Girls, whose altar is a looking-glass, and theirBible a fashion magazine, might well pause to askthemselves how they will look in their coffin-shroudwhen the prevaricating preacher tries to offer someword of comfort to the mourners, and what they willsay to the great Judge when they stand “naked andashamed,” because on earth they wore the skirts ofsin instead of the robe of Christ’s righteousness.

With the October issue, Captain Billy’s Whiz Bangwill start its second year. This little publication wascreated with the idea of giving the former service menin the vicinity of Robbinsdale and the Twin Cities acontinuation of the pep and snap we got in the army.The first run of the press was 2,000 copies. They wentlike hot-cakes and “seconds” were necessary. Forseveral successive months it was necessary to doubleour monthly press order. We sincerely tender ourheartfelt thanks for your loyal support and shallendeavor more than ever to merit your patronage.

For the benefit of new readers, as well as the old,The Whiz Bang will publish its first annual year bookwith the October issue. This “Year Book” will containin part the livest selections from all previousissues. The back copies of The Whiz Bank have been“mopped up” so that it is not possible to fill any ordersfor previous issues. The demand for back copiesbrought forth the idea of an annual review. Theeditor will aim to compile the choicest poems, jests,jingles and stories from the previous 12 issues intothis October Year Book.

One often hears wonder expressed that reputablepersons find apparent pleasure in visiting cafes, roadhouses, country clubs or other places of amusement ofquestionable character. Yet the psychology of thematter is not so far to seek. The “young person,” andmany persons continue to remain immature in mindlong beyond the normal period of unripeness, likes tofeel that he is very wise in the ways of the world. Ayoung man likes to have his actions show that he is “aman of the world,” even though he may not make theclaim in words. The fact that he is nothing of thekind urges him on to become better acquainted with“the primrose paths.”

Hence it often results that an innocent young personwill go with others to a restaurant with a shadyreputation, either in the spirit of bravado or to discoverwhat the secret is. Often enough the place, onthe outside of the life shown there, seems innocentenough and the visitors wonder at the secrecy, innuendoand charm draped about the place.

The real “man of the world” knows the taste ofthe “dead sea fruit” well enough.

To be glad of life, because it gives you a chance tolove and to work and to play and to look up at thestars, to be satisfied with your possessions, but notcontented with yourself until you have made the bestof them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehoodand meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice;to be governed by your admirations rather thanby your disgust. To covet nothing that is your neighbor’sexcept his kindness of heart and gentleness ofmanners; to think seldom of your enemies, often ofyour friends, and every day of Christ; and to spendas much time as you can, with body and with spirit,in God’s out-of-doors; these are little guide-posts onthe footpath to peace.—Henry Van Dyke.

Miss Isabel Jones returned yesterday from Chicago, where shevisited her son, Dick, and attended the Republican convention.Miss Jones also visited at the National Kindergarten College, whichshe formerly attended.

Little Johnnie rushed home from school, throughthe house and into the yard where he had a pen of petrabbits. Picking one up he began to shake it violently,repeating with each shake and in a rather rough tone:“Two and two; two and two.”

Johnnie’s mother heard the noise. She ran to thewindow and yelled at him to stop abusing the rabbit.“Stop that, Johnnie,” she admonished. “You’ll killpoor bunny.”

“I don’t care if I do,” Johnnie replied. “Teachertold me a lie today. She said rabbits multiplied fasterthan anything and this one can’t even add.”

HAVE you ever sighed for the good old days before theGreat Drought? I have—many, many times. Oh!Gentle Readers, how my mouth has filled with juicycotton at the thought of a nice, large, cooling glass of lager.You know, the kind we got before the war—the amber fluidthat would almost make you side-slip into a tail spin andflop on your fusilage. In the September issue, I want you toread “Sherry,” and then eat an egg so as to complete theillusion.

A parson in London, England, has been unfrocked for kissing aservant girl. This smacks of intolerance.

If big feet, knock-knees and bow legs won’t makea girl wear long skirts, what chance has modesty?

A man in Brandon, the other day, was fined one thousand dollarsfor selling a bottle of whiskey, and a man in Humboldt, foundguilty of seduction, was let off on suspended sentence. Uplift ismaking great advances.

Clothing dealers think that it’s all over with the overall.

The man who does not possess a private cellar is in a fair wayto possess a private cell.

Bohemia! Bohemia! The world of hopes and fears,Of themes and dreams and cigarettes, free lunches, beers and tears.

A recruiting officer says soldiers make goodhusbands because all they want is plenty to eat andbeans once a week. Hm! And we imagined beans weresomething to eat.

Flooterpush gazed sadly upon Jane Emily thehandmaiden.

“Jane Emily,” said he, severely pointing to a half-emptybottle of the fluid which cheers and occasionallyinebriates, “somebody’s been at this whiskey.”

“Well, I’ve never touched your whiskey,” retortedthe girl.

“Are you sure, Jane Emily?”

“Sure! O’ course I’m sure! Why, the blessedcork wouldn’t come out!”

Silk stockings coming down, is the joyful screamthat hits up from the headlines.

’Smatter, garters going up?

See where the girls are putting wings on their slippers.That ought to speed up the high flyers.

THERE is something almost amusing about theviolent agitation in Canada and England againstthe publications of a well-known American.The Britishers are working up a boycott against theseperiodicals, declaring their pages contain many bitterinsults to old John Bull.

Those acquainted with the tribe of England soonrecognize their proud and haughty demeanor. Bloodand lineage cut deep into their flesh and cranium. Ioften wonder if the English realize a possibility forpride in the American people. From my observationthrough a wide exchange of British publications, Ihave noted 10 insulting stories regarding the Americansto every one story contained in our newspapersand magazines of a nature detrimental or slurring toBritish cousins.

Permit me for a moment to regale you with a fewold stories gleaned from the English:

Story No. 1.—A teacher asked one of theclass to tell her what the British flag stoodfor. “Truth, honor and justice,” replied thechild. “Right,” said the teacher. “NowWillie, can you tell me what the French flagstands for?” “Liberty, fraternity and equality,”piped Willie. “Good,” commented theteacher. “Reggie, you tell me what theAmerican flag stands for.” “I don’t knowwhat it stands for now,” replied the knowingyouth, “but it stood for a devil of a lot duringthe first two years of the war.”

Story No. 2.—One of the first Americansoldiers arriving in England went into a publichouse and ordered a glass of beer. He wasnot used to the non-sparkling English beerand casually remarked to the barmaid: “Isn’tthis beer a little stale.” “No wonder it’sstale,” rejoined the lady, “it has been waitingfor you three years.”

Story No. 3.—“Why are American Tommiescalled ‘Doughboys’,” asked a kind lady of anEnglish soldier. “Well,” theorized the Englishsoldier, “I suppose it is because theywere kneaded in 1914 and did not rise until1917.”

Story No. 4.—A prize was offered at a children’sentertainment for the lad who could tellthe biggest lie. “I went up in an aeroplaneso high that I could hear the angels sing,”said the first child. “I went down in a submarineso far that the water was boiling,”said the second. “The Americans won thewar,” said the third, and carried off the prize.

Story No. 5.—An American soldier met aBritish soldier in New York. “What mobdid you go over with?” asked the Britisher.“The Rainbow Division,” responded theAmerican. “Never heard of it,” laconicallyremarked the Britisher. “What,” ejaculatedthe American; “never heard of the RainbowDivision, the famous Rainbow Division.”“Ah, let me think,” pondered the other; “letme think; ah, yes, bah jove, that’s the onethat came out after the storm was all over.”

The Englishmen admit their insulting storiesabout the Americans, but defend the practice bydeclaring the stories to be of a friendly character. Onthe other hand they declare the American insults tobe bitter. Our “friendly insults” appear to be “ahorse of another color.” What chance is there forpermanent peace?

There are ways and other ways, but——

“How do you wash your back when you bathe?”queried one fair maiden of her companion on a streetcar,as they rode to work one morning last week. “Ijust can’t seem to get a satisfactory job on that partof me.”

“Why—wash my back?” came the instant andready reply. “Why, that’s easy. I just soap my backall over and then lie down in the tub and shimmy.”

He: “Are you free tonight, dearie?”

She: “No, I was last Friday but not tonight.”

Wanted—To buy buggy by lady that is double seated and haspatent leather top.

Strayed or Stolen—Young heifer from farmer living east oftown with XXXX branded on hind leg.

For Sale or Trade—A big paying hotel and boarding house; 45roomers, always full.

Do you know W. L. Boyce? If not, you should, as he is the manthat marks the mistakes of the doctors. The Monument Man.

Beautiful farmer’s daughter with 425 acres of land, verywealthy, would marry. Send stamp for a reply. Box ——, Tallahassee,Fla.

For Sale—A cow will have calf soon, also some hogs.

Girl for general housework; no laundry work; pleasant room,private bath; $10 a week. Mrs. B. S. Bull, Ken. 1898, 1627 W. 26thstreet.

Wanted—Lady to sleep nights for company. Would allow useof kitchen if necessary. B-232

Middle-aged widow lady (girl six) wishes light duties, $10monthly, country preferred, with respectable, good living manhaving nice, healthy home, piano.

To whom it may concern—Some men advertise for fine stock,but not the case with me; I am looking for a wife. I am a loneman keeping house. I work every day and do not have a chanceto find a wife. Any lady wishing to marry will please address meat Johnston City, Ill. Very respectfully, W. C. South.

Wanted—An assistant. Must be good mixer. Lady of goodappearance and one with the goods would do. Address ——, careThe O. P.

A concern advertises in The Chicago Tribune for an “office boy,16 years old, with large corporation.” Isn’t that asking a good dealof one so young?

Tommy: “Do you go to bed very early, Mrs.Peck?”

Mrs. Peck: “Yes, Tommy, sometimes—when Ifeel tired.”

“You wouldn’t go so early if you were married tomy father, would you?”

“Oh, Tommy, you funny boy! Why not?”

“’Cause my father told mother that if he wereyour husband he’d make you sit up and take notice.”

Mr. and Mrs. George D. Stagg, of San Bernardino,Calif., are the proud parents of a baby boy. Mr. Staggis still in the military hospital.

A recent robbery disclosed the fact that largequantities of whiskey have been sent to insane asylumsfor “medicinal” purposes.

Men wishing to take the examination for insanitywill please leave their names at the front office. Theline forms to the right—don’t crowd.

One of our Robbinsdale farmer boys who wasactive in the big blowout in France was explaining themysteries of a barb wire entanglement to a sweetcountry miss. Using the pasture fence and countyroad ditch to simulate trench conditions, our farmer-doughboy“went over the top” at the zero hour, muchto her delectation. She joined in the second attack,but our friend said the entire battle effect was spoiledwhen her skirt caught in the barbs, and she exclaimedin a very unmilitary manner: “Move over, kiddo,until I blow my nose.”

ELEVEN o’clock p.m.—a dainty little ankleadorned by the lace ruffle of a silken pair ofpajamas is drawn under the warm, crispcovers. A little brunette head is nestled more comfortablyon the soft pillows—two sleepy gray-blue eyesglance demurely but searchingly around the room. Atired yawn is suppressed by tiny rosy finger-tips—asmall round arm reaches upward, and, presto—thelights go out.

A moment of struggling is encountered in thegloom,—follows a turning over, and suddenly theshapely little head is jerked breathlessly under thecovers. Part of a minute elapses, then—“Ow, help,murder, police, oh—oh, oh, my God!—a man!”

A frantic struggle to turn on the lights commences,but the poor frightened little slip of a girlcan’t find the switch.

An anxious pater rushes in amidst the hystericalscreams of his exceedingly excited wifie who justknows that she will collapse!

Two minutes later, with the lights well on, daughteris snuggled securely in pater’s protecting arms,—butwhere is the man?

A faint sound arises from under the blankets, atwhich daughter Fanchon screams, and mother, true toher prediction, faints.

Oh! how terrible is the suspense of that fatefulnight! Presently, the “sound” is converted into anunmistakeable mew—Tabby innocently emerges fromthe covers, and demure little Fanchon very conventionallycries, “Oh, Hell—it’s only the cat!”

The sad part about fishing trips this year is thatthe fisherman will have to fish.

It is next to impossible to get a drink in St. Paul—unlessyou have the price.

John Smith, Cass Lake, Minn., Indian, says hefished on the Rainy river 115 years ago. There’s amark for some of you fish liars to aim at.

Thrift advocates are advising wives to discard alluseless things around the house. It looks bad for a lotof husbands.

Villa supported the rebels until they got intopower, but now he is “agin” them. There must be astrain of Irish in him.

They are still selling beer in England at threecents a glass. The fare to England is only $179.75.

The daily papers are running articles about thegreat slashing in wearing apparel. They must referto the laundries.

Price slashing continues. Snow shovels, ear muffsand overcoats are coming down in price.

John—I think you must be speaking of pickles;olives are never warped.

C. P.—Use one end of the fork, only.

Agnes—The male should buy the tickets—at leasthis own. Would suggest that you send me your picture.After all I may be wrong.

L. M. & C. D.—“You are both wrong.” Question1—It was Richard B. Sheridan the lady was speakingof. Phil Sheridan took the ride and it was MartinSheridan “who threw things,” as you so aptly put it.Question 2—She must have thought you a couple ofmutts.

Mr. B.—I am sorry but I know of no way to keepthe ears from flapping. Is Jessie your wife or yourhorse?

T. U.—You cannot lay the blame to your hostess.One should not expect the chicken to be nailed to theplate.

Maggie—No, tea is not tackled nor is it lapped.Sip perhaps is the word you seek.

Henery—If you must speak of them, use the word“Suspenders.” “Braces” are doubtful, while gallowses,well, you strike me with horror. Gallowses areobsolete in good society. Yes, an old-fashioned man isone who wears suspenders.

Percy—No, you are not expected to kiss the girlin the vestibule. It is not being done these days.

Bill Grabb—If you think you have a good chancewith the lady and are sure about her income, hire ataxi. Life is a gamble, anyway. Take a chance; SteveBrodie did.

H. G. P.—We thank you for the two followingitems. They’re “birds”: A young man and girleloped and when they reached Pensacola he wired thegirl’s mother as follows: “Married Gladys in Pensacolatoday. Am going to Tampa with her tomorrow.”

You can lead a mule to water, but it takes BullDurham Tobacer.

Mae—The skins of potatoes become jackets uponleaving the kitchen.

Ed.—Yes, it would be best to use your handkerchief.

Miss Sylvia—If you are unfamiliar with the artichoketurn it down. No book can help you. It is oneof the most treacherous traps that a newly-rich-society-climbercan fall into. I dare not advise you.

Frank D.—No, Frank, trap is not the correct expressionto use in speaking of a lady’s mouth, unless—unlessshe is your wife.

Harry P.—I am no lawyer. However, I believethat you have no grounds for a law-suit. You didn’thave to hold the baby.

Miss Dorris M.—Please mention the kind of abreath your dancing partner had. Also give his nameand address.

James P.—Grapefruit is always uncertain. Writea letter to “the lady on your left.”

Louise—Charles Dickens’ “Curiosity Shop” isa book, not a store. Give up hunting downtown andtry a library.

E. O.—A is right. Trousers; not pants.

Cleo—Yes, your touching poem, “Why Should ISuffer and Die,” is very good, but you should practicewhat you preach.