“What’s up?” asked the foreman of the composing room, as he entered the
sanctum for “copy,” and noticed the editor’s swollen forehead, broken
nose, puffed red eye and tattered, dusty coat. “Did you fall downstairs?”
“No,” snapped the editor, pointing to a paragraph in the paper before
him. “It’s on account of the Smith-Crapley wedding. It ought to read:
“Miss Crapley’s dimpled, shining face formed a pleasing
contrast to Mr. Smith’s strong, bold physiognomy.”
“But look how it was printed.” And the foreman read:
“Miss Crapley’s pimpled, skinny face formed a pleasing contrast
to Mr. Smith’s strange, bald physiognomy.”
“Smith was just in here,” continued the editor, as he threw his
blood-streaked handkerchief into the waste-basket.
_How To Make Love_
_The Whiz Bang has received a call for help from an anxious
swain, who, being too bashful to write his own love croon,
sends us a dime and asks us to write his speech to The Girl.
Ordinarily we do not perform such high-class service for a
dime, but to assist America in returning to “normalcy” we have
decided to fix it up without war tax and at reduced prices.
Therefore, Mr. Fallin Love, we are offering for your approval
Captain Billy’s “How to Make Love.”_
Dearest, most darling of girls, rosebud of my heart and cream of mine
eyes—My little dream girl, how I would love to hold you in my arms
tonight and press my lips against those ruby cupid bows of yours. I long
for you every hour of the day, and at night I yearn for you. I feel as
though your spirit is always with me and I lean on it for support in all
my undertakings.
Your smiling face is an inspiration to me at all times and your voice is
like the chimes of Normandy in my ears. Your smiles are like the sunshine
in Flanders Field in spring. Dearest love, I cannot live without you.
Life would be as barren as the desolate hills of the Arctic. Dreary were
the days until I met you, sunshine of my life and rose of Nippon. I adore
you.
I fall at your shrine and worship you. There is not a thing I would not
go through to reach you. Every time I think of your smiling face, the
gates of Paradise are lost in oblivion. There is not one, oh Rose of the
Moon, that could take your place in my heart. The days of the cave man
are over. If they were not, it would simply be a revival of the survival
of the fittest, and I would be compelled to steal you away. As it is, we
will have to use diplomacy. Sweetheart, will you loan me a dollar?
* * * * *
O everybody has his toddy
Nane they say hae I;
Yet all the same I can’t complain
Since Tom came home with Rye.
* * * * *