Read Ebook: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang Vol. 3 No. 27 November 1921 America's Magazine of Wit Humor and Filosophy by Various Fawcett W H Wilford Hamilton Editor

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Ebook has 388 lines and 23159 words, and 8 pages

Editor: W. H. Fawcett

Transcriber's Note: If you're following these issues in order, we jump straight from No. 25 to this No. 27 . Subsequent issues continue the numbering from here. No. 26 doesn't seem to exist at all.

STATEMENT OF THE OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST, 24, 1912.

Of Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, published monthly at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, for October 1, 1921.

State of Minnesota, County of Hennepin--ss.

Before me, a notary public in and for the state and county, aforesaid, personally appeared Harvey Fawcett, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the business manager of Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, and that the following is, to the best of his knowledge and belief, a true statement of the ownership, management , etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912, embodied in Section 443, Postal Laws and Regulations, printed on the reverse of this form, to-wit:

HARVEY FAWCETT.

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 9th day of September 1921.

EDITH M. KEEGAN, Notary public, Hennepin county, Minnesota.

My commission expires October 8, 1924.

Published Monthly W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2 at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May, 1, 1920, at the postoffice at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents .50 per year

Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy's Whiz Bang.

"We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people."--Theodore Roosevelt.

Captain Billy's Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States

Well, Kind Readers, I woke up the other morning with a grouch and the reason for it is just this: Gus, the hired man, jumped his job and I had to do the morning chores myself. At that moment I could waft forth onto the silvery air the sweetest scent you ever scented. To make matters all the worse, one of the cows kicked over the milk pail when I was half through the job. She also added insult to injury by swishing her mucky old tail in my face.

But to get back to Gus. Really, I don't think he played exactly fair. After he had enjoyed several aeroplane rides and a wonderful trip to New York and Atlantic City, he became obsessed with the idea that the sun rose and set in his face--that it was his bounden duty to hang up the moon and take down the sun each evening. Really, Fellow Soaks, I couldn't get him even to feed the pet monkey which I gave him as a present for assumed faithfulness. Previously I had a confidential talk with him regarding a boat which was badly in need of a coat of white lead and tar. He became quite haughty at the idea that I should expect him to act as Indian guide and hired man at the same time, so he threw his hands in the air and yelled: "I'm through." And I guess he is through, for the last time I saw him that morning he was spinning away to Minneapolis.

Right at this point, I must get somewhat confidential. My opinion of Gus is that he was lonesome for Robbinsdale--and its nearby suburb, Minneapolis. Breezy Point at Pequot, Minnesota, is thoroughly dry on account of its location in the Indian territory. When Gus is thirsty, he's good and thirsty and it is my honest belief that some day in the future he'll come back to the old homestead again.

Well, Gus, if you ever read these lines, Good Luck to you and God bless you--though I do feel like saying Gosh Darn you instead.

Every now and then it falls my lot to awaken with deep emotions of remorse. When the harvest of a misspent night has been reaped and garnered, the "morning after" invariably finds me with a sort of null and void feeling. Here I am in the old red barn of the Whiz Bang farm endeavoring to gather some fertile copy for the November issue. My poor, fatigued brain refuses to move to action. It is quite comparable to the brain of a univalve mollusk. I can find but one palliative for my purely personal woes and that is the twentieth amendment.

Oh, for the days of Omar Khayyam. His immortal Rubaiyat is a masterpiece for the "rounder." Had he lived in this modern generation a different title would have graced his writings. We would probably be reading a booklet entitled "The Philosophy of An Old Sport," or probably that short and sweet title, "Wine, Women and Song." Whenever I feel like a fatuous fathead, a certain degree of relief always can be gained in perusing Omar's bull. And so today, while I have a look of languor like a homesick bum, I am repeating herewith some of his verses which may find an appeal to "The old sport who sat in the grand stand chair." Here they are:

They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep And Braham, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house; Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape.

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare? A Blessing, we should use it, should we not? And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?

Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot-- I think a Sufi pipkin--waxing hot-- "All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me, then, "Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell "Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell "The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish! "He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."

And when like her, or Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!

"It won't be long now," insisted my new Jewish farm hand, Ikey, as he grabbed the axe this morning to cut the daily supply of wood.

We surely are getting lots of tourists in Minnesota this year. Just at the close of the hunting season we saw a pennant on the back of a Ford of the vintage of 1904 or 1905 which read "Clymer, Pa."

Fishing season was brought to an eventful close at my summer resort, Breezy Point Lodge, in the Indian country of Northern Minnesota this month and now all we have to do is sit around all winter and recount experiences with the hook and line.

The day the season closed four of us boarded a raft and put out into Big Pelican Lake for a day's angling. I had a very strong line and towards the close of the day was rewarded with a big bite from a Great Northern pike. The pike nearly ran away with the line, but the four of us held on and Mr. Fish pulled us almost to shore. When we reached shallow water we grabbed the line and made a half hitch around a tree while one of the party pumped the fish full of shotgun pellets. It was then we discovered that the fish had swallowed a young fawn and that the fawn, after being swallowed, kicked its legs through the belly of the fish, and thus the fish, when it reached shallow water, had been able to walk almost to shore. What was that you said? Yes, sure, make it Bourb'n!

This is a plea for fair play. Fatty Arbuckle at this writing hasn't been convicted of any crime. Testimony by one of the prosecuting witnesses is claimed by the defense as showing Miss Rappe voluntarily entering what later proved to be her death chamber. We are not taking that as evidence to remove guilt or do we claim that it excuses Fatty for his alleged actions.

The "exposure" of Fatty's past actions by daily newspapers ought not to be news to regular Whiz Bang readers. For more than a year we have "kidded" Fatty, in our "movie pages," for his famous "pajama parties," and dedicated the cover of our August, 1920, issue to Fatty's "heart-breaking" playfulness in Hollywood.

A recent report to the Whiz Bang was to the effect that Mr. Arbuckle bought the Randolph Miner home on West Adams Street, Los Angeles, because it was supposed to hold a thirty thousand dollar cellar.

We are reminded, by an enthusiastic reader, of the old story of the man who walked into a Halstead Street saloon in Chicago and ordered Sherry and Egg.

"Bartender, if your Sherry was as old as your egg and your egg was as young as your Sherry, this would be a dang good drink."

Deacon Miller, my long-haired neighbor, doesn't approve of the aeroplane which I purchased recently any more than he does of my Whiz Bang. When our hired man told the Deacon about my purchase of the plane, old Miller grunted and snorted and said he wouldn't own any fool thing that would fly and not lay any eggs.

We have it from the Seattle Post Intelligencer that the Justamere farm at Mount Vernon, Washington, is the home of Colony Zarilda Cornucopia, the only 33,000-pound pedigreed bull in the state. I'd hate to be the hired man that had to throw this bull every day.

My, my, my, what an agitation we have started over the definition of a "Whiffenpoof." A Kansas reader avers that everybody is wrong so far; that a "Whiffenpoof" is a bird that eats red pepper and has to fly backwards to keep his tail from catching on fire.

Some young men seem to imagine that they are following the fashions when they are on the trail of a pretty girl.

My new hired man, Pete, hangs around the hog pen so much that he apparently has learned most of his manners from the animals. The other night we went to supper at neighbor Nelson's place and our hired man tried to make a hit with Tillie, old man Nelson's daughter. A few days later I asked Tillie how she liked Pete.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "At supper he acted like a pig and after supper he was such a bore."

So I guess that ends Pete's love affair so far as Tillie is concerned.

Well, boys, in conclusion I wish to cheer you up with the consolation that the Bible gives to the thirsty: "Blessed are the poor in spirit."

Those Inquisitive Aussies

An Australian editor tells this story--

An old lady, at the conclusion of the war, was paying a visit to Madame Jarley's Wax Works. Carefully sizing up a group of figures representing various ancient queens, including Queen Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots, she asked an attendant if they wore any underwear under this gorgeous raiment. The attendant replied:

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