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.
Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett
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
_Drippings From the Fawcett_
_Ye Editor is now touring these great and glorious United
States in quest of the Famed Pedigreed Bull, and in this issue
we are intending to give a wider variety as a result of our
visits to the East, South and the golden West._
_We had the pleasure of spending an afternoon at the New York
studio as a personal guest of D. W. Griffith, in addition
to peeping behind Broadway’s scenes, and at this writing we
are “courting Satan” in the domain of Fatty Arbuckle et al.,
California’s movie camps._
_If we seem to carry too much gossip in this issue from
Hollywood and Los Angeles, please pardon us. We’ll be leaving
soon for the deer hunting grounds in Minnesota, but in the
meantime, of course, we will have to go to San Francisco, “The
City of Health, Wealth and Beauty,” for first-hand information
on Movieland’s latest and biggest sensation!_
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?
=YESTERDAY= this Day’s Madness did prepare;
=TOMORROW’S= Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
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.”
Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide,
And wash the Body whence the life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
=Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire=
=To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,=
=Would we not shatter it to bits—and then=
=Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!=
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.”
* * * * *