Published Monthly
W. H. Fawcett,
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 $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL
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 1922
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_
Three weeks of Havana’s cliquot, bacardi, cervesa, horse races, jai alai,
casino, and the rattly-bang-bang, of garbage cans, piercing shrieks of
peddlers, not to mention rip-snorting roaring and exhausted automobiles,
have had their exhilarating effects on the usual hum drum existence that
has been my part of living on a quiet Minnesota farm. The contrast is
pleasant although somewhat tiresome. There’s been too much excitement for
the little old editor of this family journal of travel.
Sometime in the dim and distant past I was told that the most difficult
feature in writing was to transcribe the first paragraph. My hardest
job here is to stay away from the Scotch and soda long enough to even
think what the first paragraph will look like. However, with the able
assistance of my good old pals, the Haig brothers, I am at last seated by
a rickety old dining room table in an apartment overlooking the Malecon,
Morro Castle and the Gulf of Mexico.
Confucius once said: “It is not the wine that makes a man drunk—it is the
man himself.” This filosophy applies to Cuba today. I have seen more
“saloons” in Havana and fewer intoxicated persons than in any city in
the United States, both before and since the adoption of the prohibition
amendment.
The easy manner in which we Americans can get borie-eyed drunk on a few
shots of moonshine reminds of the Wag Jag ditty about
_DeGulick McBlue, psychological stew,_
_Could always get tight on one small shot or two—_
_Far from proving his worldliness, toughness and such._
_It all went to show that he couldn’t stand much._
In Havana it is forbidden by law to kiss your wife on the gang-plank, in
a taxi or other public place. The usual fine for violation is $25.
Spooning custom here is quite different, too. In Cuba every residential
window is protected by iron bars similar to our jails. It is through
these barriers that lovers must cuddle and coo—at least until he becomes
so nervous and tired from continual standing that he pops the question. I
know it would be rather tough on some of our Minnesota farmhands if the
farmers should adopt a custom similar to Cuba.
* * * * *
The first thing I learned in Havana was that the Cubans do not like
the Whiz Bang’s traveling correspondent, Rev. “Golightly” Morrill. Mr.
Morrill’s name is anathema to the average native, due undoubtedly to the
fact that our reverend friend rarely deals out his views of life with
kid gloves. He sees the world from the standpoint of the betterment of
humanity and in seeking to attain his end, strikes out in two-fisted
manner.
In republishing a recent Morrill article from this magazine, a Havana
publication takes this rap at our correspondent:
The Rev. “Golightly” Morrill is still tramping around the world
seeking muck in which to wallow. After his experience in the
West Indies and Central America it was not to be supposed that
he would find anything very bad to write about, but it seems
that he has discovered familiar iniquities on the beaches of
California.
* * * * *
We chanced into a gringo barroom towards the close of one evening, lured
by broken melodies of the brass rail gang. Through the bedlam we could
catch swinging tunes of:
_I’ll never get drunk any more, I’ll never get drunk any more,_
_I’ll never enter a barroom door, I’ll never get drunk any more._
_I wish I had taken my mother’s advice, and married a nice little
wife,_
_And settled down in the old home town, to lead an honest life._
_My father gave me a fortune, I placed it all in my trunk,_
_But I lost it all a-gambling, one night while I was drunk._
_I’ll never get drunk any more._
And this one:
_Wifie says you’re crazy, you’re drunk, you’re blind and can’t see,_
_That’s nothing but a cabbage head the grocer gave to me._
_Now ten thousand miles I’ve traveled, with ten thousand more to go,_
_But whiskers on a cabbage head I never saw before._
* * * * *
Ever since the death of our good neighbor, Cyrus Hopkins, his lonely
widow has made a conscientious study of spiritualism. The other morning
Mrs. Hopkins visited a Minneapolis medium in the hopes she might
communicate with her late husband. The connection soon was made and the
following conversation took place:
“Is this you, Cyrus?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Happier than when you were with me?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Ain’t heaven just grand?”
“I don’t know, dear. I’m in hell.”
* * * * *
How, Kind and Forbearing Readers of this great encyclopedia of Psychic
Research, better known as The Whiz Bang, pause a moment while Ye Ed
relates how Sir Harry Lauder indirectly caused me much embarrassment.
While lunching at the Friars’ Club on my last visit to New York City,
I was cordially invited to a big reception at the Hotel Commodore in
honor of Sir Harry Lauder, famous Scottish comedian. The momentous
night arrived and I donned by “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes for the
great event. Please try to imagine my chagrin and sheepishness when
friends who had called to escort me, very courteously and, I might add,
diplomatically informed me that “it was to be a full dress affair.” How
in heck could a horny-handed tiller of the soil be expected to possess a
dress suit? After thanking my kind auditors in as gracious a manner as
possible, I suggested that probably Sir Harry might consider overalls
more appropriate for me. Anyway I did not attend the reception. Next day
my Friar friends told me about it and I was happily regaled with Scottish
humor. The chairman, they said, graciously introduced Lauder as his
“closest friend.” Will these jokes on Sir Harry’s thrift never cease?
* * * * *
During recent pilgrimages that carried me east, west, north and south,
I ran across many amusing, although sometimes embarrassing situations.
Chief among them was the constantly manifested surprise of newly-found
friends that there was actually such a personage, in flesh and blood, as
Captain Bilious Billy.
Here is a fair list of the questions usually dished out by new
acquaintances:
“Why, I supposed the Whiz Bang was only ‘kidding’ and that ‘Captain
Billy’ was merely a book name.”
“And do you really drink that horrid moonshine?”
“Did you have a hired man named Gus?”
“Is Pedro your honest-to-goodness pedigreed bull?”
“Is there actually a town named Robbinsdale?”
“Did a honeymooning couple really leave their automobile seat with you
when they went to the village constable to report the theft of their car?”
It was necessary to plead guilty to nearly all the allegations heaped on
me. Of course, poor Pedro is no more, he having “kicked the bucket” last
July, and Gus, too, has sorta back-slid. Gus always was an in-and-outer
anyway.
* * * * *
Gus, my old time hired man, has busted into poetry again. The old boy
must be getting a whiff of the pine forests about Breezy Point Lodge.
Well, here you go, Gus,—we’ll publish this one:
_I am only a poor old wanderer;_
_I have no place to call my home;_
_No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,_
_As friendless and sadly I roam._
_It is tramp, tramp along though I’m weary;_
_To rest through the long, long day;_
_Through the rain and the snow I must tramp to and fro,_
_For it’s the poor tramp’s way._
_How I long for a place by the fireside,_
_When the night it is cold, chill and damp;_
_Vacant places I see, but there’s no room for me,_
_For I’m only a poor old tramp._
* * * * *