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
[Illustration]
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated
to the fighting forces of the United States.
_Drippings From the Fawcett_
The Whiz Bang has been selling rather fair since Christmas, with the
result that I was able to scrape together a few hundred bucks to make
first payment on a log cabin at Pequot, Minnesota, and 80 acres of
cut-over pine land on the shore of Big Pelican Lake. Accompanied by
Gus, the hired man, and Andy (not Gump), an oldtime timber cruiser, I
journeyed to the northland to view the future summer home of the Whiz
Bang.
Upon arriving at the cabin, we were met by Fred La Page, a typical
French-Canadian of the old school, and Mrs. La Page. All arrangements
were gone through and I was well pleased with the outlook excepting for
the lack of a cat. Now, it may seem strange that an ordinary household
pet like a cat should in any way be considered, but really, friends, I
was somewhat disappointed in not finding Tabby.
Ever since the Persian kitten of pedigreed fame entered into my life, I
have had a natural antipathy for the felines. La Page’s excuses for not
having a cat were apparently sound logic. “A cat is like a woman,” he
said. “She purrs when petted, and scratches and spits venom when things
go wrong. She must be contented at all times.” Which brought me back to
the lines of
A Persian kitten, perfumed and fair,
Strayed through the kitchen door for air,
When a Tom Cat, lean and lithe and strong
And dirty and yellow came along.
“Cheer up,” said the Tom Cat, with a smile,
“And trust your new found friend awhile.
You need to escape from your back yard fence;
My dear, all you need is experience.”
The morning after the night before
The “Cat Came Back” at the hour of four,
The look in her innocent eyes had went,
But the smile on her face was the smile of content.
Ah! World of Sweet Romance. How delicious are thy vicissitudes. Even the
cats enjoy little escapades into the unknown mists of the dim future.
In the meantime Mr. La Page will be busy constructing several more log
cabins from the jack pine of Pequot so that Whiz Bang readers may solve
vacation problems this summer, and I’ll bet you’ll find plenty of Persian
kittens and wily polecats scampering about the premises. And one of them
shall be called “Marigold,” after the Richard Garnett poem:
She moved through the garden in glory because
She had very long claws at the end of her paws.
Her back was arched, her tail was high,
A green fire glared in her vivid eye;
And all the Toms, though never so bold,
Quailed at the martial Marigold.
* * * * *
A fiery steed with championship form and charming personality rarely
roams long alone.
* * * * *
In our last issue we published that portion of Shakespeare’s “King
Lear” wherein Kent denounces Oswald, the lounge lizard, which brings my
memory back to nights in 1913 when I was a police reporter for a morning
paper in Minneapolis. This was prior to my incrustment upon the fertile
pastures of Robbinsdale.
One evening, while “chinning” with the desk sergeant at headquarters, a
policeman brought in a typical “divan dearie”—one of the sissy variety,
but well dressed. The sergeant gave him a private cell and was just
returning to his desk when another of the same species walked in.
“I have been informed,” said the caller in a meek voice, “that this place
is a jail, and I would like to know if you have a prisoner here by the
name of Harold Archibald Eaton.” The sergeant referred to the “blotter”
and replied affirmatively. He informed the inquirer that Eaton was being
held on a charge of flirting.
Great joy was registered by the caller, and he replied in accents sweet:
“Oh, dear, what a relief! I was afraid he might have been arrested for
stealing.”
* * * * *
Last fall I bought a pig for $5. It cost me $5 to feed the pig this
winter. This spring I sold the pig for $10. Of course, I didn’t make any
money, but I had the use of the pig all winter.
* * * * *
We’ve heard the old yarn about the lazy darky who harnessed the mule
by simply standing still and commanding “Giddap” and “Whoa,” but the
hobo that leaned against my wagon in Robbinsdale the other day wins the
hand-painted jar.
He had a match in his hand, leaning against the steel tire on my wagon
wheel, his pipe unlighted.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“Jes’ waitin’ for you to start so the wheel will light this match,” he
replied.
* * * * *
Gus, the hired man, says our old-fogy neighbor, Deacon Miller, doesn’t
like my literary product. Gus saw the Deacon tearing up the Whiz Bang
and scattering it over his corn field the other day. “I’m using it for
fertilizer,” vouchsafed the Deacon.
* * * * *
My “storm and strife” and I were recently at a little gathering. As
I stood watching a whist game, a young lady—a very charming young
lady—said: “Captain Billy, will you hold my hand a minute.” I obeyed with
alacrity and grasped her soft white fingers, only to have her snap at me:
“Sir! I meant my cards!” And my wife saw it all.
* * * * *
Nobody pays much attention to a big hole in a small girl’s stocking, but
a small hole in a big girl’s stocking—Oh, my!
* * * * *