The Whiz Bang Farm,
Rural Route No. 2, Robbinsdale, Minn.
To Our Readers:
With this issue, Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang discards swaddling clothes and
starts bounding on its second year of existence. In this number, which we
have termed “Our Annual,” the writer has taken the liberty to review many
of the stories and poems from the 12 previous issues. It is obvious that
a new publication must start with no circulation. If it strikes a popular
appeal in the heart-chord of human existence it succeeds; otherwise, it
sinks into journalistic oblivion.
Thanks to a legion of loyal readers and volunteer scribes, The Whiz Bang
has weathered the colicky and diarrhoetic stage of life. Our eye-teeth
have been cut and the worst is over. This little family journal of uplift
has no one to thank but its readers. It is your magazine and it is you
who send in the snappy articles to fill its pages each month. Again we
extend our heartiest thanks.
We are now spread from the mackerel munching macaroons of Manhattan’s
bright isle to the squawking squabs of sunny California; from the wily,
wicked pole-cats of Northern Minnesota to the perk and prim creoles of
feverish Orleans.
On this month, the month of our birth, the editor feels as happy as a kid
sucking a lollypop and smearing its chin with an ice cream cone. All we
lack to complete the illusion is about three fingers in a wash-tub. Adios
until November rolls ’round.