She Quit the Union
A party went to the opera and occupied a box. One of the men saw a raveling on the shoulder of one of the ladies. He picked it, and it kept on coming. He pulled and pulled till he had a tremendous mass, which he threw behind the door. Some days after the men met and talked it over. One of them said: “My wife had a good time, but she cannot figure out how she lost her union suit.”
Highty-tighty Aphrodite
At present, partly owing to what is very modestly called “barefoot” dancing, a severe season of clothelessness prevails; and the aforementioned exercises afford the public quite a fair idea of “the most admirable spectacle in nature”—that is to say, bowlegs, knock-knees, thick ankles, spray feet, shoulders scraggy or pudgy, knees bony or lumpy, and weirdly shaped legs.
The modernist poets also have been seized by the mania for nudity—but let us hope that with them it is rather theory than practice; for the average literator is not usually “a dream of form in days of thought.” One mocking rhymester thus makes game of such poetic aspirations:
All the poets have been stripping,
Quaintly into moonbeams slipping,
Running out like wild Bacchantes,
Minus lingerie and panties.
Never knew of such a frantic
Belvederean, corybantic,
Highty-tighty Aphrodite,
Stepping out without a nightie.
One of these modernist bards puts her own fancies into the brain of an old-time lady, stiff in pink and silver brocade, as she walks in a prim garden awaiting the coming of her suitor. She would like to leave “all that pink and silver crumpled on the ground”; for,
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin.
Thus divested of raiment, “I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,” and her lover, seeing her, would pursue “till he caught me in the shade.” A writer of free verse is more candid; it is herself she would disrobe. “Since the earliest days I have dressed myself in fanciful clothes,” she says, trying to express herself in this manner; but now she is weary of putting “romance and fantasy into my raiment.” She realizes that “my clothes are not me, myself”; hence the stern resolve:
I think I shall go naked into the streets,
And wander unclothed into people’s parlors.
The incredulous eyes of the bewildered world
Might give me back my true image ...
Maybe in the glances of others
I would find out what I really am.
Doubtless she would; but perhaps not exactly as she means it. Wandering “unclothed into people’s parlors,” if police vigilance could be eluded, might be a way of seeing ourselves as others see us, since the owners of the parlors would probably be startled into candid comment, instead of, as usual, waiting until the unclad back of the visitant was turned. It would be a happy arrangement if only the truly symmetrical would indulge in semi-nudity. Such exhibitions are a form of female vanity; but if the average woman will but realize it, she owes any admiration she may excite to the saving graces of clothes. If she is wise she will foster the illusion. As a poet of another era expressed it, “Oh, the little less, and what worlds away!”
In the Grip of a Dream
The dreamer is with us. From early youth there comes anon a time when the sense of great loneliness and mysticism leads one out to the wilderness of the Dream God. Conceptions of dreams and of love are two difficult tasks, but Robert W. Chambers seems to have made greater headway than other authors. In his book, “The Danger Mark,” he thus describes the feelings that passed over poor, troubled Geraldine:
“We’re pretty young yet, Geraldine.... I never saw a girl I cared for as I might have cared for you. It’s true, no matter what I have done, or may do.... But you’re quite right, a man of that sort isn’t to be considered,” he laughed and pulled on one glove, “only—I knew as soon as I saw you that it was to be you or—everybody. First, it was anybody; then it was you—now it’s everybody. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she managed to say. The dizzy waves swayed her; she rested her cheeks between both hands and, leaning there heavily, closed her eyes to fight against it. She had been seated on the side of a lounge; and now, feeling blindly behind her, she moved the cushions aside, turned and dropped among them, burying her blazing face. Over her the scorching vertigo swept, subsided, rose, and swept again. Oh, the horror of it!—the shame, the agonized surprise. What was this dreadful thing that, for the second time, she had unwittingly done? And this time it was so much more terrible. How could such an accident have happened to her? How could she face her own soul in the disgrace of it?
Fear, loathing, frightened incredulity that this could really be herself, stiffened her body, and clinched her hands under her parted lips. On them her hot breath fell irregularly.
Rigid, motionless, she lay, breathing faster and more feverishly. Tears came after a long while, and with them relaxation and lassitude. She felt that the dreadful thing which had seized and held her was letting go its hold, was freeing her body and mind; and as it slowly released her and passed on its terrible silent way, she awoke and sat up with a frightened cry, to find herself lying on her own bed in utter darkness.
* * *
In France, we are told, the English officers stepped about as though they owned the whole d——d country, whereas
The Americans walked about as though they didn’t give a d——n who owned the country.
* * *
New York liquor spotters have discovered liquor in baby dolls. That’s nothing new. Lots of baldheads have been buying wine for baby dolls in New York for generations!
Questions and Answers
Dear Captain Billy—I am 15 years old and have a sweetheart who is just 18. He owns a flivver and wants me to go riding with him. Should I?—Lizzie.
Walking is healthier.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I have a girl friend who insists on writing to me and demanding an answer. What shall I do?—Charlie.
Tell her to enclose a stamp.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—My husband is going out with another woman all the time. What can I do to keep him home nights.—Mrs. Brown.
Take the other woman in as a boarder.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I am a young lady attending a church college. Do you think it would be all right for me to wear skirts 15 inches from the ground.—Marie.
That depends on your height. If you are six feet tall it would be all right, but if you are only 29 inches “tall,” Not Yet Marie.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—What would you call the unoccupied side of an old maid’s bed?—Simple Susan.
No Man’s Land.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—My daughter has a sweetheart who just got back from France. He talks to her in French and says: “Villa vouz promenade,” or something like that, and then they go to some park. What does that mean?—Anxious Father.
That’s all right, old man. Your daughter’s sweetheart was only asking her to take a walk.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—What’s good for cooties?—Returned Soldier.
Bread crumbs.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Please explain the uses of salpeter.—Tommy.
You are hereby referred to any soldier who will tell you its principal usage is in the manufacture of high explosives.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—What’s worse than a cow with the cooties?—Hi Ball.
A horse with a buggy behind.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—We are organizing a new lodge in ’Frisco to be known as the “Ancient Order of Modern Cavemen.” Will you kindly suggest a motto for our lodge? Yours truly—Rough on Cats.
My suggestion is: “Catch ’em young; treat ’em rough, and tell ’em nothin’.”
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Why do they use castor oil in racing automobiles and aeroplanes?—Eunice.
To make them run, of course, Eunice.
* * *
Dear Bilious Billy—What would you write about if the country went wet again and you didn’t have the dry reformers to poke fun at and kid about?—Reginald Pewter.
We cannot tell a lie—we wouldn’t be able to write during the first few weeks.
* * *
Dear Whiz Bang—My husband, a returned soldier, did not get home until 3 o’clock this morning. He said he was at the Fort all night playing golf. Do soldiers play golf in the middle of the night?—Worried War Bride.
Yes, Worried Wifie, they do. One of the favorite sports of the naughty doughboy is the game known as African golf. Two galloping dominoes are used in place of a small ball. Instead of the greens, the latrine floor is usually garnished with greenbacks and set off in silver. “Big Dick” and “Little Joe” act as caddies and there is more cussing at a “flock of box cars” than a minister foozling a putt. I indulged in a friendly game of dancing dominoes last night with my old buddy, Mr. “Eighter from Decatur.” “Jimmy Hicks” and “Long Legged Liz” were there, but before I got through I had “fever in the South” and “crapped” out several points under par.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—Please tell me what is golf?—Ignoramus.
Well, Ig., golf is a game where old men chase little balls around when they are too old to chase anything else.
* * *
Dearest Billy—What’s the difference between a bachelor and a worm?—Andy Gump.
Somebody told me there was no difference—the chickens get them both.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I have been married a year and am the mother of triplets who are now three months old. My husband has asked me to take dancing lessons this winter because he says he cannot afford to have any more children and that dancing will keep one’s mind off maternal cares. What do you think about it?—Triple Trixy.
Dancing’s all right, Trixy, providing you tango in the morning, fox trot in the afternoon and hesitate at night. Fine exercise, I say.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—I am struggling with myself to keep from falling in love with a handsome football player because I heard that football players were so terribly rough.—Troubled Tillie.
Move to the South Sea islands where it’s too hot to play football, or else to Norway where the summer sport is fishing and in winter it’s too cold to fish.
* * *
Dear William—I recently met a cute little second lieutenant on the train and am very anxious to get in touch with him. He said his name was Joe Latrino and that he was in the Sanitary Corps. How may I find him?—Winsome Winnifred.
Write to him in care of the Captain of the Head, U. S. Navy.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—What is the difference between Spanish Flu and Spanish Fly?—Swede Harriet.
Spanish Flu is a disease. Spanish Fly is a drug, technically known as cantharides and is used as a plaster to cure rheumatism.
* * *
Dear Billy—I am infatuated with a handsome young man from Akron, Ohio, but when he comes to visit me in a neighboring village he acts so embarrassed and appears always to be in a mood of deep thought. Do you suppose he wants to pop the question but hasn’t the nerve?—Hellenic Helen.
Now, Hellenic Helen, how in Hell’s Gate or Helena do I know? Overlook his seeming taciturnity and remember that “deep rivers move with silent majesty; small brooks are noisy as hell, and actions speak louder than words.”
* * *
Dear Doctor Billy—Please give me the definition of the spinal column.—Slippery Lizz.
It’s a long disjointed bone, covered with knots—your head sits on one end and you sit on the other.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—What is meant by “bigamy?” Dandy Dillon.
Bigamy is a form of insanity which causes a man to pay three board bills instead of two.
* * *
Dear Billy—What’s the definition of a “humdinger?”—Iva Hangover.
A man who can make a deaf and dumb girl say: “O, daddy.”
* * *
Dear Bilious Billy—I was married last June and my wife wants me to obtain some polish in my manners so suggests that I take music lessons. What do you think about it?—Silas Hopkins.
It’s a very good idea, Si. You’ll soon gain a musical education by playing second fiddle. But beware of the jazz.
* * *
Dear Skipper—Why is a certain specie of beans called Navy Beans?—Battle-Axe Liz.
I dunno, Liz. You might as well ask me why I labelled The Whiz Bang an “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull.” No reason at all.
* * *
Dear Bill—They say there are germs on money. Do you think, then, it is safe for a poor working girl to carry her salary home in her stocking?—Sadie Woolworth.
Perfectly safe, I’d say. A germ couldn’t live on a working girl’s salary.
* * *