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 $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_
_Gentle readers, wet your lips, for whilst with dry tongues
thou art yearning, your obedient servant, Bilious Billy, is in
the land of liberty—personal and otherwise—basking in Cuba’s
sunny clime, in Havana, sucking soda through a straw! Soda!
Sure, soda with a dash in it. When we grow tired of fast horses
and saintly senoritas, it will be back again to the big pines
of northern Minnesota for the fishing season at Breezy Point
Lodge. You know, folk, in the winter we Minnesotans can’t fish,
as our Norwegian friends would say._
Well, boys and girls, here I am on the road again—just like a wandering
Jew. In making my present departure from Robbinsdale, I didn’t know
whether I was coming to Montreal or going to Cuba.
The high cost of coal in Robbinsdale made me long for summer at Miami
Beach, where there is no charge for hot rolls in the sand and a little
chicken nearby. Then again I was reminded of having seen Willie and
Mollie playing in the sand, indulging in youthful folly. The sand was
terribly hot on Willie’s back and the sun was hot tamale.
Woke up in Chicago with an ice-pack attached to my fevered brow, and
appreciating that the United States is the land of personal liberty I
hied forth towards Miami to see if I might not be able to obtain a “wee
snifter.” Miami is now the legal home of William Jennings Bryan and I did
not have much luck in satisfying an unquenchable thirst. Anyway, if I
did, it wouldn’t be nice to tell about. Mr. Bryan may have something to
do with keeping Miami and the State of Florida bone-dry—which it isn’t—so
more power to him. Florida may be dry, but in the unmortal words of our
snuff-chewing hired man, I am pleased to report that there are a lot of
“damp rascals” here.
Understand the Floridians are seriously considering Bryan for United
States Senator. Had the pleasure today of driving through the backyard of
the Commoner’s palatial home, but all I could see was the rear door and
his smokehouse. Mr. Bryan was too busy addressing a Baptist convention to
even invite me to lunch. Tomorrow he is slated for a Bible talk in the
city park and if I get up in time, and feel all right, shall listen to
his discourse. (Later, didn’t get up in time.)
* * * * *
After leaving Chicago I stopped at Atlanta for a few days’ sojourn.
Here we struck nice warm sunshine. The Atlanta ladies are a genial lot,
but their costuming somewhat crashes with the constitutional scheme of
affairs as laid down by the eighteenth amendment. Their hats are full of
cocktails—and sometimes also their heads, I am told. In fact, a bird of
paradise plume is quite in vogue in Atlanta.
The information is also vouchsafed that some Atlanta girls are born
foolish, while others marry.
Overheard a rather humorous remark of a local celebrity, Clayt Robson
by name, one evening in the lobby of the Kimball house. Robson is a
well-known Georgian lobbyist and political boss, who is considered a
power in the present state administration. Clayt jokingly spluttered to a
group of friends that “I was twenty-one years old and grown-up before I
knew that ‘damned Yankee’ was two words.”
My visit to Atlanta brought to memory a conversation I had with Cole S.
Blease, former governor of South Carolina, about four years ago. The
governor very kindly invited me to his suite in the Selwyn hotel at
Charlotte, N. C., to partake of his private twenty-year-old stock. While
“killing” the quart of medicine, the subject of Atlanta came to the
front. Here is the Bleasian description of the South’s largest city, as
nearly as I can remember:
“_Atlanta is a hell-hole of perdition. It is no place for a
virtuous woman or an honest man._”
I cannot quite agree with Mr. Blease, for Atlanta treated me royally. The
girlies here I found to be of true Southern stock—very shy and rather
demure. I once heard the late “Pitchfork” Ben Tillman remark that the
only family tree he could boast was that the women were virtuous and
the men reasonably brave. From my cursory observations this description
fairly fits Atlanta.
From Atlanta our next stop was Jacksonville. Went for a joyride here,
which ended in a thrilling though harmless smashup. Upon picking myself
from out the wreckage, I thanked the kindly doctor for a safe delivery.
Which calls to mind these lines by Lincoln, or some other noted personage:
_Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?_
_As he rides in his swift-flying car like a cloud,_
_A break in the axle, a bust in the tire,_
_He passeth from life to the heavenly choir._
* * * * *
As a deer hunter, I’m a good farmer. Spent ten days tramping the
windfalls in the neighborhood of Breezy Point Lodge without even seeing
a deer. Saw plenty of polecats, bobcats and house cats, and nearly
captured a “porky.” I learned lots about the habits and habitations of
the northern pine animals and finally managed to knock down a “spike
buck” (whatever that means) on the last day of the hunting season. Must
admit the buck almost shook hands with me before I was able to knock him
over. However, I had a very good guide, Arthur Foote by name, but better
known as “Panther Pete.” Pete has earned a regular living for twenty-five
years as a trapper and deer hunter, and I am sure that the small buck
never would have fallen for me had he not enticed the animal to leave his
forest retreat.
* * * * *
While touring the San Francisco underworld as the guest of the police
vice squad on my recent tour of the Pacific coast, we encountered what
the police considered a suspicious party.
He was one of those dapper young men with a red necktie that frequent
this section of Famous Frisco.
“What’s your occupation?” asked one of the policemen of the young man.
“I’m a business man,” was the answer as the young man started to trip
blithely away.
“Wait a minute,” said the cop. “I never saw a business man walk like
that.”
“Oh,” replied the dapper youth, “but you don’t know what kind of business
I’m in!”
Thirty days for him.
* * * * *
During my recent rampage about the American continent it was my pleasure
to appreciate the service of Tiajuana, and I could not resist the
temptation to contrast this Mexican village with the Canadian metropolis,
Montreal. In Montreal I enjoyed a bottle of Pol Roger champagne without
being a law breaker, even though it cost me ten cents for a two by
four sandwich. From Montreal I hustled to the deer hunting regions of
northern Minnesota and found no champagne or other imported wines, but
plenty of “mountain dew.” With all due respect to Mr. Andrew J. Volstead,
our Minnesota congressman, there is today in this grand and glorious land
of the free and home of the brave more rotten booze than it was ever my
lot to drink in the pre-prohibition days.
But to get back to my deer hunting expedition, I must admit that the deer
were scarce but—
_But there were polecats and goosehawks,_
_And a four-legged cow;_
_Wild pigs and wild boars,_
_And a thing like a sow._
_There were thousands of screech owls,_
_Turkey buzzards and quail,_
_And a little black jack-ass_
_With a damnable tail,_
_With their fol de dol dol_
_And fol de dol day._
* * * * *
While flivvering out near Golden Valley, Minnesota, I dropped in at the
farm of my old friend, John Foss, to pass the time of day. I noticed a
drove of hogs on his timber lot acting peculiar. They would run up to a
tree and squeal like mad, then leave that tree and go to another and do
the same thing, continuing in their mad scamper around the timber lot.
“What makes them act that way?” I asked John.
“Well,” replied old man Foss, “last winter I had a throat infection and
lost the power of speech for a month or more and couldn’t call them to
their feed, so I taught them to come by rapping on a post or a tree, and
now the darn woodpeckers are setting them crazy.”
* * * * *
At Breezy Point Lodge I have an old gray mare and I love to sing this
melody of my boyhood days:
_The old gray mare_
_She sits on the single tree,_
_Sits on the whipple tree,_
_Sits on the single tree._
And, believe me, her greatest indoor and outdoor sport is sitting on the
single tree.
* * * * *
Up in the deer hunting grounds of northern Minnesota the jack-pine
savages are still singing that old familiar ditty about the much
maligned, bird—the woodpecker. These heart throbbing words peal gently
through the evening air:
_“I stuck my finger in a woodpecker’s hole,_
_And the woodpecker said: ‘Gosh darn your soul,’_
_‘Take it out; take it out; take it out; take it out.’”_
* * * * *
The other day I was riding on a street car in Minneapolis. Sitting
opposite me was a very pretty young lady who had a poodle dog in her lap.
Bluenose lady sitting next to the girl addressed her thusly: “My, what
a nasty little dog. Don’t you think, my young lady, it would look much
nicer if you had a little baby in your lap?”
“No,” the pretty one replied in calm even tones, “it wouldn’t. You see
I’m not married.”
* * * * *
Chief Bloberger surveyed a party of hoboes coming down the Great Northern
tracks.
“Here they come, hog fat and crummy, short pipes and red noses. Won’t
work, ain’t allowed to shoot ’em, and if you don’t feed ’em they’ll burn
your barn daown.”
* * * * *
Extra! Extra!
Ladies and gentlemen: Don’t fail to be in Robbinsdale next Tuesday at
four o’clock A. M. to witness the daring feat of Peter, our hired man.
This brave snoose-grinding son of toil will endeavor to dive off the top
of the highest building in Robbinsdale into a six-foot tank of solid
concrete, playing the ukelele, eating raw liver and keeping perfect time.
The spectacular dive by Pete will be for a worthy cause. All proceeds
from the entertainment will be donated to the starving plumbers of
Chicago. Admission free.
* * * * *
Took my wife into a store to assist her in buying a new hat. Like all
women, she tried on nearly every hat in the store. In desperation the
salesman appealed to me with this remark: “How would you like me to try
a sailor for your wife?” Having been in the army for many years, I felt
like suggesting a soldier, for this insulting salesman. Needless to say,
the sale was not made.
* * * * *
On my recent visit to New York I had the pleasure of the company of Mr.
H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor,” which we misnamed
in past issues “The Face Upon the Barroom Floor.” This masterpiece
undoubtedly stands first among popular present day poems, judging
from the many requests we received from Whiz Bang readers for its
republication. To Ye Editor Mr. D’Arcy told the history of how “The Face
Upon the Floor” was inspired:
“Away back in the early 80’s Union Square in New York was
called ‘The Rialto’ agreeable to the fact that it was the
theatrical center of America. On the corner of Fourth avenue
and Fourteenth street, a very excellent saloon was run by Joe
Schmidt and it was kept fairly full from noon to midnight with
respectable members of the sock and buskin, and amusement
promoters. One Saturday evening in August, 1887, a table in
front of the bar was occupied by a bunch of managers. We were
combining business with pleasure, booking time and enjoying the
very excellent beer and spirits available in those happy days.
It was probably about 11 o’clock when a mendicant shambled in
and approached our table. With a sad, husky voice, he said,
‘Gentlemen, I want a drink.’ All eyes were turned to the
derelict and someone at the table offered one of the untasted
glasses of whisky which was quickly swallowed. Joe behind the
bar yelled, ‘Get out.’
“The waiter in front quickly seized the beggar and threw him
out of the swinging door; to make the situation more dramatic,
a rough haired terrier dog named ‘Toby’ and pet of the saloon
jumped at the poor devil and fastened on his pants. ‘Toby’
always thought it his duty to chase poor people, and had an
innate antipathy to jumpers or pants not duly pressed.
“Well, several of the party got up from the table and went out
to see what had happened to the poor wretch. He was lying on
the sidewalk with his face halfway in the gutter. We gathered
him up, brushed him off a little, wiped his face and someone
went into the saloon and brought out another drink of whisky.
Several coins were carefully dropped into the inside pocket of
his coat. This was done surreptitiously so that he would not
know the money was there until the tomorrow. As we left him on
a door step next door I asked what his trade was and he managed
to tell me he was an artist. I held that this man was not a
professional beggar, a derelict true, but probably had once
been a talented man. The argument was taken up by several other
gentlemen in the room and waxed warm until I got angry and with
a curt “good night” bolted out of the saloon. On my way home,
I determined to write up the story in such a way as would make
my argument good and satisfy Joe Schmidt that I was not wholly
chicken-hearted. I also was pretty sure of winning the fair
hostess to my way of thinking. As I walked along I composed in
my mind the first two lines:
_“’Twas a balmy summer evening and a goodly crowd was there,_
_That well-nigh filled Joe’s bar-room on the corner of the
Square.”_
“The measure was a happy iambic tetrameter and fitted the
story, and before going to bed, I jotted down the first two
lines which I have always found the hardest to compose, next
day I finished the story. When Joe read it, I saw tears in his
eyes. It was published in the New York Dispatch. Joe bought a
hundred copies of the paper and sent 25 to the Buffalo Bill
Co. who were playing in London and among whom both he and I
had many friends. Cody and Major Burke circulated the copies
among their theatrical friends and before many months three
vaudevillians were reciting the poem at the big music halls,
then Sam Bernard set America crazy with it and yet after over
thirty years, it is still a popular ‘act’ and wins excellent
booking.
“I have been often told that my story set the pace for
prohibition. I sincerely hope not. If I thought that I had
helped that unfortunate law, I would walk down to the dock and
kick myself into the river. ‘The Face Upon the Floor’ is not
a temperance story, but an admonition to the world, not to
despise the unfortunate derelict.”
In this issue we are pleased to publish another poem by Mr. D’Arcy and
have his promise of more to follow. And let me add, I found Mr. D’Arcy
a regular fellow, well met, an excellent conversationalist and a fine
reminder of the good old days.
* * * * *
Gus, our ex-hired man, escorted a petite young lady to her apartment.
“Just as I was putting my arm around her,” Gus reports, “a man walked in.”
“My gawsch, my husband!” exclaimed the girl.
“Oh, busy honey?” the intruder remarked, as he walked out.
* * * * *
Our new hired man, Ikey, from the cities, is so absentminded that when he
went in the stable to saddle a horse, he was surprised to find, after a
half hour’s work, that he had the saddle on himself and he spent another
half hour in vain trying to climb on his own back.
* * * * *