Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 19, April, 1921 online

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Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 19, April, 1921

_Say, “Hello!”_

Stop a minute and say, “Hello”
As down Life’s Road you go;
For a kindly word and a cheery smile
Will shorten the way by many a mile
For some poor fellow who’s moving slow.
Stop a minute—and say, “Hello.”

—_Whiz Bang Bill_

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_Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang_


_America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and

April, 1921 Vol. II. No. 19

Published Monthly by
W. H. Fawcett, Rural Route No. 2
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota

Entered as second-class matter May 1, 1920, at the post-office
at Robbinsdale, Minnesota, under the
Act of March 3, 1879.

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year

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


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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

Patrick’s Gold Piece

For the sake of this story, we will say his name was Pat. Now Pat was a
good Irishman and had attended mass at the same church for twenty-five

In the good old days, when a “slug” was 10 cents and a “schooner” a
5-cent piece, Pat was always visiting Casey’s saloon for a wee nip.

On this particular Sunday morning, Pat found himself in church with only
a 5-cent piece and a five dollar gold piece in his pocket. During the
offertory of the mass, he made the mistake of dropping in the gold piece.
After service, following his custom of many years, he slipped into the
back door of Casey’s for his morning’s drink.

“Have one with me, Mr. Casey,” said Patrick. They both had their drink
and Pat reached in his pocket and laid the nickel on the bar.

“Come again,” said Casey, “you haven’t even enough to pay for your own

Pat then told of his mistake of putting the gold piece in the collection
box. Casey promptly urged him to go at once to Father Monahan, explain
his error and get back his gold piece.

On his way to the priest he kept repeating to himself: “I hate to do
this; oh, I hate to do this, but I will, I need the money.” He was just
about to push the bell at Father Monahan’s home, when he hesitated and
again said:

“Oh, I hate to do this; in fact, I can’t do it, and I won’t do it. I gave
that money to the good Father and to hell with it.”

_Chaplin’s New Love_

_Enter now the halcyon days of romance for our noted picture
entertainer! Charles Chaplin has lived down the shattered
memory of Mildred Harris and is now romancing with a girl of
seventeen; Mary Pickford is a victim of gossips; “Midsummer
Madness” breaks record for naughty films, and the story of
comedienne assaulted by picture director comes to light. These
newsy nuggets sum up our monthly gossip from the inside circles
of Hollywood and Universal City._


Lest anyone imagine that Charlie Chaplin is wearing mourning weeds as a
result of his recent and widely advertised marital tribulations, forget
it! Charlie has been busy making much over a dainty frail of seventeen or
eighteen, who came west to work in an Anita Loos picture. It is said that
Charles finds a delightful communion of spirit in the acquaintanceship
which has developed between himself and the pretty girl.

Does Chaplin care for wild women? This is a highly personal question.
Few women apparently have any appeal for him. Most of them seem too
thick-headed and lack the lustre of wit and conversational powers that
make headway where a high-strung, keen-minded man is concerned. It
has been quite noticeable that the object of Chaplin’s recent devotion
bears none of the eye, ear or leg marks generally supposed to feature
the extra smart ladies. This girl is modest appearing and, what is more,
modest acting. She doesn’t smoke, nor drink; and, so far as anyone knows,
doesn’t chew nor swear. She goes about with Charlie but indulges in none
of the frivolities.

Not to swear is regarded as remarkable among the movie dames. Most
of them could tame a Captain Kidd pirate and make a buccaneer hang
his head in a bucket of blushes. Young lady clerks or stenographers
quite frequently are told to leave the room when an irate movie girl
enters. It may be that Chaplin is experiencing a state of austerity and
aloofness from ordinary mundane affairs which a man often does experience
after his soul has somewhat been seared by the white iron of social
cruelty—whatever that means.

Anyhow Charlie is not intending to commit suicide as a result of the
parting from Mildred. The women flock after him if they get half a
chance. He realizes this fact, but seemingly attributes it to the lure
of his name and wealth. As a matter of fact, Chaplin at his best would
attract many women. He has a winsome way, as they say. Truth of the
matter is that this young favorite of film fortune is quite lonesome, not
knowing who is or who isn’t his friend, either man or woman. He is paying
the stern penalty which fame frequently exacts.

There was considerable excitement in the studios and bungalows recently
when a rumor went forth that Mary Pickford had been seen at the Orpheum
the night before with her former husband, Owen Moore, and one of Owen’s
brothers. Several persons swore that this remarkable sight was witnessed.
Truth probably is that one of the Moore boys, not Owen, was in the party
or happened to be seen talking with Mary. At last accounts Owen Moore was
in a New York hospital.

One of the naughtiest plays seen in some time came to light when
“Midsummer Madness” appeared at a Los Angeles picture house. It came just
in the midst of a campaign for picture censorship. This Midsummer Madness
play would better have been called a Midwinter Nightmare or “The Passion
Play.” William De Mille produced it.

The picture is supposed to teach a lesson to husbands who work too much
and fail to properly Romeo their wives. Cutting out what it is supposed
to teach, it was produced for the purpose of getting the money by showing
two young married people—not married to one another—deciding that they
would have a grand time in a lonely cabin.

It chanced that just as the supreme sacrifice was to be made, the lady
looked up and saw her husband’s picture on the wall. This broke up the
meeting and nothing much happened. Just how the lady chanced to open
her eyes cannot be explained, as one of the local newspapers has been
printing a series of articles to the effect that when women are being
kissed they keep their eyes tightly glued.

The newspapers unanimously proclaimed this a great play, teaching moral
lessons. The film ends “happily,” of course, with the wronged husband
satisfied that he hasn’t been cheated beyond a pardonable degree.

Many people may have wondered what became of a girl who several years ago
was probably the most noted of the film comediennes. She didn’t seem ever
to be the same following an episode between herself and one of the big
producers, a man nationally known.

The story was never published, but a penitentiary term stared this big
gun in the face had the girl died. It seems that the producer had a well
oiled case on her, but became enraged one night when, upon visiting her
home, he discovered another man had made considerable inroads, so far as
appearances went.

The best dope—and the newspaper folk knew of it—is to the effect that the
famous producer dragged the girl around by the hair and gave her such a
mauling that she was in bad physical condition for some time. The story
goes that the girl’s sister was given a substantial bonus to make herself
scarce, but remained in town, vowing that if her sister died she would
expose the whole mess.

The man whom the producer caught with the girl comedienne was married.
This would have added to the complications. Fortunately for everyone
concerned, the girl survived, though it is said her health never has been
so good. The repentant producer treated her handsomely in a financial
way, but she has never risen high in pictures since and apparently has
left the films for good.

_Whiz Bang Filosophy_

Eat, drink—and be careful.

* * * * *

A Miss is as good as her smile.

* * * * *

Home is where the mortgage is.

* * * * *

Man proposes and woman imposes.

* * * * *

Fine feathers make fine feather beds.

* * * * *

Oh, for the gland, gland days of youth!

* * * * *

There’s many a slip between the cop and the nip.

* * * * *

Many a girl has a good beginning and a week-end.

* * * * *

No skirt should be so short as to expose the knee plus ultra.

* * * * *

One of the proverbs of politics is, “Money makes the mayor go.”

* * * * *

Some men court, then marry, and then go to court again.

* * * * *

People who live in glass houses should dress in the dark.

* * * * *

There’s many a good thing lost by not asking for it—think it over.

* * * * *

Just because your sweetheart is “crummy,” don’t think he is a baker.

* * * * *

As long as truth is naked, people will continue to take liberties with

* * * * *

The front door of the business man’s office says “Push.” The front door
of the city hall says “Pull.”

* * * * *

A laugh, a sigh; a smile, a tear; a giggle, a sob; a joy, a pain; a gain,
a sacrifice—that is the synthesis of Love.

* * * * *

Wives should never nag their husbands. A hubby is like an egg—if kept
continually in hot water he will become hard-boiled.

* * * * *

Don’t imagine that you can avoid a courting stunt by paying attention
to a widow. She’ll expect as much fuss and “ootsy-wootsy” slush as a
16-year-old maiden.

_Adventures of Sven_

_“Inside doings” in the motion picture camps of California,
with real characters and true incidents, will be reeled off
to Whiz Bang readers in this and subsequent issues under the
character title of “Svens Peterson’s” letters to his Minnesota
friends, with Whiz Bang Bill as the interlocutor. The Whiz
Bang has increased its regular staff of war correspondents
in Hollywood and Universal City now to four crack writers,
who will bring to the readers of this great family journal
first-hand gossip from the dressing-rooms._

Hallo! Uncle Billy:

Ay aint bane pretty gude writin’ faller, anyhow Ay yust take a chance. Ay
skol tole you Ay yust got gude yob in moving picture studyo hyar in Loose
Angels being actor faller.

One time in Minneapolis, faller tole may Ay yump yust so high lak Douglay
Bareflanks so Ay yust sall may team an’ kom out hyar. Ay hang round
studyo for ’bout sax week looking for yob. One day, faller with long
chin an’ punkin-seed mustache kom out an’ hire me. He skol take all may
clothes away for tray dollar a day to be Indian. Nother faller he paint
me with whitewash brush all over red an’ before he paint me he grease me
all over with lard so brush she slip gude You bat Ay look lak hal! Some
girls jump and squeek when Ay kom out from dressing-koop. Pretty quick
after Ay hang round for ’bout two hours in hot sun with lard frying on
may back a faller called Director git sober up an’ tal me Ay skol stand
by log house made of gunny-sack. Nother faller he soak me on head with
tommy-axe for rehersal an’ ay bane be knock out. After we skol have
rehersal ’bout fourteen times Ay git pretty mad an’ Ay yump on him’s neck
an’ bust him’s yaw an’ den Director faller he yell “CAMERA” an’ a faller
start grinding krank lak machine-gun. Nother faller turn switch-light
on me so Ay skol go blind an’ den Ay gitting mad lak Devil an’ Ay lick
Director an’ bust up camera an’ kick slats out of some extra fallers
hangin’ ’round. Log house she fall down an’ bust up switch-lights an’ set
fire on studyo. Faller run out from office an’ slip me tray dollar quick
lak lightning an’ Ay lose may clothes an’ watch an’ Ay aint give a dam.
Nother faller give me pants so Ay aint skol go to yail an’ nother faller
hire me for prize-fight picture next week to lick Bulls in Montana.

Ay skol let you know how Ay git long just so quick as Ay am Star. Ay show
them fallers how gude Swede actor put up moving picture show, Ay bat your

Your old friend,


Post Chips—Please can you tole me where Ay can get gude book about how to
shooting craps?

Post Chips agan—If you know gude steady girl that likes to git marry Ay
skol start own kompany out in Hollywood.

_Midnight Madness_

_Reverend Morrill, the author of this article, is now touring
the West Indies and Cuba and soon will bring home with him a
message of truth. He will picture to Whiz Bang readers the
volatile life of our Latin neighbors._


Pastor People’s Church, Minneapolis, Minn.

Paris is the paradise of pleasure. Cafés and cabarets invite on every
hand. One night at Montmartre I went to “Le Cabaret du Neant.” As I
entered, a green lantern overhead flung its deadly pallor on me. Two
waiters dressed like undertakers met me and ushered me into a room where
the walls were draped in black, the tables were coffins, and the cups
were skulls. Like the mummies at Egyptian feasts which reminded the
revelers of death, I saw a skeleton in the corner of the room, and the
chandelier over my head was festooned with bones. Funeral tapers served
as lights on the coffin-lid table, and to dead march music pictures on
the wall were transformed from life into sickness, decay and fleshless

Here death was ridiculed, but I thought this micawberesque surrounding
and setting was but an analogy of much cabaret, roof garden and café life
in America.

Late hours lure. The cup of foaming pleasure is mixed with tears of pain.
Excitement and absence of restraint drain vitality so that carousers
are unfit for life’s practical duties of business, home, society and
religion. Midnight dissipation breaks down the reserve of virtue and
becomes a vestibule to vice through which throng fevered bodies, stifled
wits and sodden souls. Surely they show, as the mask is removed, faces
that are anything but gay. Sin has pleasures, but they are only “for a
season.” Soon the lights fade, the sweet turns bitter, apples of Sodom
turn to dust and ashes, and we have nothing but grief and pain for
promised joy.

Women rule. Cherubim of hell, they sit around in scanty costumes that
show what they are supposed to hide, and eat and drink, talk and look
and leer with a flushed and overwrought animation of mind and body. De
Musset’s confession is ours, and first astonishment gives way to horror
and pity. The masked ball is but the scum of libertinism; the feast is
ennui trying to live; the palace of sin is filled with yawning mouths,
fixed eyes and hooked hands.

If we believe with the Mohammedan that heaven here and hereafter is
pleasure, and so smile at debauchery and defy death, we will live to
shed tears hotter than blood, dream dreams that reflect the flames of
a literal hell, and have a moral nature as hideous and deformed as our
bodies, so twisted with disease that the undertaker must change the shape
of the coffin to fit the limbs.

_The Seven Ages of Man_

From “As You Like It”

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women in it are merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time may play many parts,
His acts being,—“Seven Ages.”

At first the infant, mewing and puking in the nurse’s arms;
Then the whining schoolboy,
With his satchel and shining morning face,
Creeping like snail, unwillingly to school.

Then the soldier, full of strange oaths
And bearded like a pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble, reputation,
Even in the cannon’s mouth.

Then the lover, sighing like a furnace,
With a woeful ballad made to his mistress’ eyebrow.

And then the justice, in fair round belly,
And good capon lined,
With eyes to see, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances.
And so he plays his part.

The sixth age, slips into the lean and slippers pantalon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well filled, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks,
And his big, manly voice, turning again to childish treble,
Pipes and whistles in his sounds.

Last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history
is second childishness and mere oblivion, sans eyes,
sans teeth, sans taste, sans everything.

* * * * *

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Online LibraryVariousCaptain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. II. No. 19, April, 1921 → online text (page 1 of 4)