Read Ebook: Captain Billy's Whiz Bang Vol. 2 No. 20 May 1921 America's Magazine of Wit Humor and Filosophy by Various Fawcett W H Wilford Hamilton Editor

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Editor: W. H. Fawcett

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 April 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 11th day of March, 1921.

ROBERT P. KIRBY.

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

Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post-office 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.

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

Out on Rural Route No. 2 we haven't much class, as the saying goes, but we have a lot of fun. We haven't any bright lights, although the folks about the country have thought so liberally of my little bundle of bunk lately that I have been able to put in a small farm lighting plant in the Whiz Bang house, barn and yard.

Not many Minnesota farmers can afford, in these low-wheat-price days, such a luxury as an electric lighting plant, and so the one put in at the Whiz Bang farm created quite an interest.

Gus, our hired man, thought it would be a good idea to have a sort of celebration over the new electric lights. The idea met with instant approval from Mrs. Bill and the kids. The next question was how to celebrate the great event. Gus suggested a "snoose" party, but as not all of my neighbors chew the Copenhagen breakfast food, his suggestion received a cool reception, particularly from Mrs. Bill, who dislikes the habit. It was left to my twelve-year-old daughter to solve the problem, later in the day, when I discovered her in the loft of the old red barn practicing toe dancing. This suggested to my mind a dancing party.

And so we gave the party. I wired the hay loft with electric lights and dumped a pail full of oatmeal on the floor to make it slippery. We picked Gus as the dance master, and here was his predominating action for the evening:

On a balmy night, when the weather's clear, The boys and girls from far and near; We'll congregate on the Whiz Bang farm, To cut some capers in the old red barn.

We have a drum and a jew's harp, too, Jim Moss plays on the tin bazoo; And a fiddler over from Sugar Creek,-- Pick 'em up Silas and lay 'em down deep.

Oh, we'll dance all night to the latest tune, The Maiden's Prayer or the old Hip Croon; We'll walk the dog and ball the jack, And promenade around the old hay stack.

The horses nicker and the roosters crow, Balance all and away you go; Dance that one step nice and clean, Possum trot and the lima bean.

Now swing around like the old barn door, If the music stops, then holler "more." Oh, pinch your gal on her rosy cheek,-- Pick 'em up Silas and lay 'em down deep.

Pick 'em up Silas and lay 'em down deep, Ain't no game of hide and seek, Pick them knot holes from the floor, Change your partners, forward four; Hear the music to your feet, Pick 'em up Silas and lay 'em down deep.

The only fault we had to find with Gus' musical attainments was that he didn't say anything about the dingbusted lighting plant going on the blink during the dance. Something went wrong and the lights went out, and when we came to again, I was horrified. Mrs. Bill says we can't give any more dances; not if those girls from Sugar Creek are allowed to attend.

Here it is Spring, the poets are with us and the Thursday musicales can now render "The Coming of Spring" by a scanty Aphrodite girlie in true aesthetic rhythm, but I hearken naught to their artificial atmosphere. I crave Mother Nature in all its ruggedness.

Hence I have fared to my log cabin settlement on the shores of Big Pelican lake in northern Minnesota, accompanied by Mrs. Bill, the five kids, my dog Shep, our new perfumed Persian pussy and, last but not least, the good, old pedigreed bull, Pedro. Fred La Page, my French-Canadian friend and the lord and master of the Pequot settlement, threw in a couple of cows in the deal wherein I acquired title to the cabins and the shore property and advised me to bring the pedigreed bull along to keep the cowlets company. And so here we are at Pequot, and as I said before, it is Spring and the birdies are singing in the treelets.

We've hardly been here a week when into our wild and wooded midst enters, like an angel from Heaven, a pretty young miss, a graduate of Minneapolis aristocracy and unlearned in the ways of we simple country folk. She had never seen a real pumpkin sprout in the garden of nature and her knowledge of the products of the soil was confined to what she had read in some seminary institution.

The first evening, Gus, our hired man, picked some of Brother La Page's wild asparagus. We did it up in butter, as was my wife's custom, and served it in big helpings on the old pine table.

Miss B?, our guest and new acquaintance, was guided by etiquette and started to eat her asparagus with a knife and fork, but Gus changed her mind. Now Gus is a careless sort of fellow. When he surrounds a plate of grub he is like time and tide. He waits for no man. He simply surrounds his lips, arms, fingers and what-not in mad haste to consume everything on the table. He is oblivious to anything or anyone else. So Gus grabbed the butt end of a big stock of asparagus and sipped the tip of the vegetable in much the same fashion as a steam suction hose cleaned the streets of Paris in our soldier days. But Miss B? was game. In manner demure, she nervously grasped a luscious piece within her slender fingers. Blushingly, she placed the tender morsel between her pearly teeth. She was a game little girlie, despite her embarrassment. The warm butter slobbered over her but, to her credit, may it be said, she went through the ordeal much like a seasoned veteran.

At this writing, I am glad to say, our angel is rapidly becoming accustomed to backwood etiquette and she now can eat away at any size asparagus just as well--well, almost as efficiently as Gus. I said almost. It would be impossible, I believe, to equal his record.

At last, thank God, Mrs. Bill admits I have one good quality--that of being tender-hearted. I overheard her telling Gus that I was so tender of heart that I wouldn't kill a poor, defenseless fly, or even beat a carpet.

Pedro, famous pedigreed bull of the Whiz Bang farm, has quite a reputation as a county fair prize winner. Gus, the hired man, decided he'd make a few extra dollars one week while I was "tooting it up" in Minneapolis, so he started charging admission to the many who came to view the noble animal.

A visitor approached Gus the first day of admission charges and inquired as to the cost for himself, wife and nine children, for viewing the bull.

"Not a cent," promptly replied our faithful man. "Come right in; I want Pedro to see you."

The girls of Texas, we judge from correspondents, are madly in love with the confection known as the lollypop or all-day sucker. We've received several complaints from love-lorn swains requesting that we ask the Texas girls to protect their tresses from the sticky lollypops.

So many Whiz Bang readers have requested that we send them the automobile seat left on our farm by a daring couple while they hiked to Robbinsdale, to report the theft of their motor car, that we have decided to retain it. An auto seat, you know, is valueless without the car.

Gus is a progressive hired man. He progresses from penny ante to nickel heart games to two-bit moonshine. It's a good thing he's not very strong for the ladies. He has plenty of bad habits now.

Gus is a great fellow to play pranks. Whenever he wants to chop wood around the smokehouse, he goes to the farm house, opens the back door and rings the dinner bell. All the flies swarm inside and take their places in the dining room. Then Gus closes the doors behind the flies and goes to the wood-pile to work undisturbed. You have to hand it to Gus for originality.

Spooky Stuff

At a seance the other evening the spiritualists were telling of their experiences with residents of other worlds. One man told of conversing with a ghost, another had dined with one. A woman declared she had shaken hands with a departed friend, and others followed suit until it seemed they had exhausted the list of possible activities with spirits.

"We have heard the testimonials of the circle," said the medium, "but so far nobody has told of being in love with a ghost. Is there anyone here who has had that interesting experience? Has anyone ever loved a ghost?"

"I have, lady," said an Irishman in the rear of the room.

"Step right up in front, I am sure everybody will be interested in your experience," said the medium. "In all my life I've never heard of an instance of a human loving a ghost."

"Hell!" sputtered the Irishman, "I thought you said a goat!"

The male sissified flirt is becoming more and more a social pest. One is liable to bump into this queer creature at any social function, regardless of its exclusiveness.

Let us dwell for a moment upon the great masque ball recently held under auspices of theatrical people at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. It is the latest creation in behalf of the wealthy tourist who visits Southern California.

In this huge pile, which somewhat resembles a great depot, in depth of its long corridors and maze of shops and stands, a scene of merriment occurred that has not been rivalled in the history of winter tropics.

The affair was stopped, it is understood, by order of the hotel management, when word freely was passed that by some hook or crook booze was to be had on an upper floor. Just how booze might get into a great hotel and gradually cause the dance to become rather flushed may have been a problem that puzzled and nettled those responsible for the good name of the house so far as Uncle Sam is concerned. At any event the fiddlers left and the impression went about that the hotel people weren't going to stand for the party getting rough.

Into the main dining-room, before the evening was well started, two of our leading male comedians strode, both with an ill-concealed bottle protruding from the usual pocket. One of these comedians is a heavy gentleman and a jolly one. The other is gaining fame as a comedian because he never is known to smile.

Just what was in the bottles cannot be proved, but the incident caused some words of criticism from other members of the movie colony, who figured the boys were "putting it on" a little too strong in view of the assemblage present, ever ready to declare that the "movies" are impossible.

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