The famous race horse, Man o’ War, receives more personal attention than
any being, human or otherwise, since Cleopatra. He has a retinue of
servants and is housed more expensively than the Gaekwar of Baroda or the
Jhilwar of Jhock.
* * * * *
Love isn’t blind--just near-sighted.
_Whiz Bang Editorials_
“_The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet_”
Did you ever feel embarrassed? We did, the other day when the boss cow,
Ethelbert, kicked over our bucket at milking time and ripped our trousers
in front of the chickens. Write to us about your embarrassed moments
and let’s console each other. For instance, Gus, our hired man, was in
Minneapolis the other day getting his usual supply of moonshine and was
riding on the street car to the depot.
“I noticed a girl sitting across the aisle that I had met while in
swimming at Lake Minnetonka last summer,” said Gus when he got home,
“I had not seen her since until then. I tipped my cap and said ‘Hello!
How are you?’” and for a minute she looked at me blankly and then burst
out: “Oh, why, hello! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.’ Of
course this attracted the attention of the passengers and I found it more
comfortable by getting off the car at the next stop for another little
drink.”
Now, of course, that may have been only Gus’s alibi for coming home
intoxicated.
* * * * *
I had a similar experience myself last time I was in the city. A girl
was telling me how embarrassed she was. “Do you know,” she confided, “I
was standing in a doorway fixing my garter when a gust of wind came along
and blew the hair from off my right ear. I was so embarrassed, don’t you
know.”
* * * * *
Newspapers tell of a woman who, in order to become a mother, obtained
a divorce and married another man for a year, after which she and her
child went back to her first husband. This is an exception. Some women,
it seems, now are inclined not to trouble with the divorce proposition at
all.
* * * * *
Diogenes grabbed his trusty lantern and hiked from the Presidio of Frisco
to the Bronx of Manhattan searching for an honest man. Old Diog was a
wise bird; he never even looked for an honest woman.
* * * * *
He seeks relief in vain who will not follow advice.
We always remember those who have done us a favor when we want another
favor done.
Running down other people’s reputation won’t run up your own.
The trouble with the average man is that he seldom increases his average.
Many a “good fellow” is so stingy with his family that he’ll stand
between his wife and a show window.
When holding a straight flush it is better to stay in and raise and win
than not to have raised at all.
* * * * *
The pretty manicurist, Louise,
Has very many beaus;
She calls these fellows, if you please,
Her manicurios.
Holding hands is dangerous business. The hand is the lightning conductor
of love and lust. The manicurist, like Othello, would find “occupation
gone” if hand-holding were practised by men or old women. It is the sex
element that usually attracts and holds.
Many modest and decent manicurists go regularly and professionally to the
homes of their patients, or are found in office, parlor or barber annex
position. Anywhere and everywhere they are pure and true womanly.
People who won’t work with their hands are known by the manicures they
keep. Nails are peeled, pared, polished and painted, while the owner’s
rough mind lives in the cellar and garret of mental and moral poverty.
Manicuring is a society luxury for men and women who form the polished
horde of bores and bored. The world is still deceived with fuss and
feathers and people who hide grossness with fair ornament.
The manicure is a necessity for musicians, doctors--and dudes and
darlings in society who, beyond the actual care of their body, in food,
dress and drink, think their hands were only made to wear gloves, rings,
be manicured, held or united in a “good catch” marriage.
The rich are manicured who have money to burn. The idle are manicured
who have time to waste. The idiots are manicured who have no idea of the
value of time or money. Libertines are manicured who play guilty Fausts
to pure and innocent Margarets. Hotel leechers and loafers are manicured
who forget mother, sister, wife or sweetheart.
They have no time or money for church or charity, but sit by the hour
holding a girl’s hand, looking into her face, trying to fan a spark of
passion into their burnt-out cinder body while with hand, foot, eye and
tongue they try to make a date.
The word “hand” means to hold or seize and is to man what the claw is
to the bird, fin to fish, and hoof to horse. The hand is marvelously
made with 27 bones, 8 of which are in the wrist, 5 form the palms, and
14 the bones or phalanges, or fingers. The hand was made for work, as
proved by anatomy and Scripture--“Go to work”; “Work earnestly with
both hands”; “Handsome is that handsome does”; and black or white hands
are fine which do good work. Angelo carving marble, Raphael painting
Madonnas, Shakespeare writing immortal dramas, Beethoven copying heavenly
symphonies, Washington drawing his sword for liberty, and Lincoln penning
the Emancipation Proclamation, spent little time or money in manicuring
parlors.
Beautiful are the hands of wife, sister, man or friend which have
directed, lead and lifted us by pitfall, through marsh and despair to
mount the height on which we stand--hands perfumed with prayer, baptized
with tears, clasped with affection, and generous with charity.
The man ought to be horsewhipped who uses the words “hard,” “homely,”
“unmanicured,” of the hands of a father, calloused that they might give
daily bread; hands of a mother, blistered and aching for work never done
until they are crossed white in the coffin and God gives them rest; baby
hands which twine around the trellis of our hearts and are unclasped by
Death.
* * * * *
Another “international marriage” has gone the way of many spectacular
predecessors--through the divorce mill.
In this it is hardly noteworthy. Experience and commonsense alike
indicate that such unions rarely can be successful. The base allurements
of a British title on one side and American gold on the other, are not
the sources in which wholesome happiness finds its inspiration.
But in quite another way there is something worth noting in the divorce
proceedings through which Consuelo Vanderbilt has freed herself, at last,
from the disreputable ninth duke of Marlborough. It is the revelation,
through her simple letters, of the true nobility of birth which does not
rest upon a “Burke’s Peerage” or an “Almanach de Gotha.”
Miss Vanderbilt married this highly decorated fortune hunter in 1895.
Two children were born to them. For their sakes the American wife, with
womanly reserve, suffered much indignity during many years. Eventually
driven to a separation, she still endured in silence, without resort to
the unsavory publicity of divorce, reflecting upon her growing sons.
These children came of age last winter. The wife then made a last brave
effort toward reconciliation. There was a brief reunion--ending in a
disgraceful visit of the 45-year-old duke to Paris with a 25-year-old
female companion.
Blood will tell--the plain American kinds and likewise the tainted blue
sort that trickles through “noble” veins.
* * * * *
Noah was building the ark. A gang of “drys” hung around criticizing the
job.
“Ever built an ark before?” asked the leader of the gang.
“Nope,” replied Noah, pounding away.
“By what right do you assume that this boat will be a success?” asked
the other. “This has always been a dry country and there has never been
any need for a so-called ark. What experience have you had with your
so-called ark upon which to base so absurd a claim as that it will float?
Don’t you know that umbrellas and gaiters have gotten us through the
thunderstorms for the last forty years? There can be no hope of success
for your so-called ark.”
But Noah kept on building away. Then came the Deluge, and for once in
history, the knockers got what was coming to them.
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_Smokehouse Poetry will lead the February issue readers through a variety
of red-blooded gems, including, for instance, a bright little jingle
from the pen of a new Kipling. His name is Carl M. Higdon and his first
offering is “The Shimmy Shaker,” and what it lacks in veteran polish is
made up in breezy sway. Such as thus:_
_She could shimmy on a mountain,_
_She could shimmy in a pool;_
_When it comes to shimmy shaking,_
_She’s a shimmy shaking fool._
_Last month we promised to give you a full portion of George R. Sims’
tragic masterpiece, and so here we offer it for your approval._
’Ostler Joe
By George R. Sims.
I stood at eve when the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,
Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of wanton eyes;
Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurley height,
Whose face was as fair as a summer’s day, and whose heart was as black as
night.
Yet a blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust,
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in that one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,
Joe, the ’ostler of “The Magpie,” and fair Annie Smith were wed;
Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a face as fair as snow,
He was anything but handsome was the “Magpie’s” ’ostler Joe.
But he won the winsome lassie, they’d a cottage and a cow,
And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow;
Sped the months, and came a baby--such a blue-eyed baby boy!
Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.
He was rubbing down the horses--gave them then and there,
All a special feed of clover, just in honor of his heir;
It had been his great ambition (and he told the horses so)
That the fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.
Little Joe, the child was christened and like babies grew apace,
He’d his mother’s eyes of azure, and his father’s honest face;
Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky,
Love was lord of that small cottage and the tempest passed them by.
Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam,
He caught a glimpse of Annie in her bright and happy home;
Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child.
And he nodded to the baby and the baby laughed and smiled.
So at last it grew to know him (Little Joe was nearly four),
He would call the pretty “gemplum” as he passed the open door;
And one day he ran and caught him and in child’s play pulled him in,
And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.
’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung,
’Twas a woman, weak and wanton, and a villain’s tempting tongue;
’Twas a picture deftly painted for silly creature’s eyes,
Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.
Annie listened and was tempted--was tempted and she fell,
As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depth of hell;
She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of gentle sloth,
Yellow gold for child and husband--and the woman left them both.
Home one eve came Joe, the ’ostler, with a cheery cry of “wife!”
Finding that which blurred forever all the story of his life;
She had left a silly letter, through the cruel scrawl he spelt,
Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and
knelt.
“Now, O Lord, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame,” he cried;
“For I ought to seen her trouble and a-gone away and died;
Why a girl like her--God bless her--’twasn’t likely as her’d rest
With her bonny head forever on a ’ostler’s ragged vest.
“It was kind o’ her to bear with me, all the long and happy time,
So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;
If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you see
I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m kinder o’ strange with Thee.”
Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown,
Joe, the baby, died that winter and the man was left alone;
Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,
Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.
Far away in mighty London rose the wanton into fame,
For her beauty won men’s homage and she prospered in her shame;
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,
And her rivals paled beside her as the stars beside the sun.
Next she trod the stage half naked and she dragged a temple down
To the level of a market for the women of the town;
And the kisses she had given to poor ’ostler Joe for naught,
With their gold and priceless jewels rich and titled roues bought.
Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height.
Then the darkness came on swiftly and the gloaming turned to night;
Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow,
Of the thousands who had worshipped, never one came near her now.
Broken down in health and fortune men forgot her very name,
Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;
And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an actress lay
Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.
One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,
And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face;
Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,
And the weary head lay pillowed upon the breast of ’ostler Joe.
All the past he had forgiven--all the sorrow and the shame,
He had found her sick and lonely and his wife he now could claim;
Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,
He could clasp his long-lost darling and no man could say him nay.
In his arms death found her lying, from his arms her spirit fled,
And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside his dead;
Never once his love had faltered through her sad unhallowed life,
And the stone above her ashes bears the sacred name of wife.
That’s the blossom I fain would pluck today from the garden above her
dust,
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin, nor the blood red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot,
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life where all else was parched and hot.
* * * * *