The Anti-Cigarette Crusaders
“I can’t understand how men can put those nasty pipes and cigarettes to their lips,” she mourned, and then bent to kiss the little bundle of life in her lap. And the poodle dog, sympathizing, snuggled closer against its mistress’ swan-like neck and wagged its little tail.
Our Rural Mail Box
Smokehouse Friends—Ye editor has received many calls for the following poems, and would appreciate receipt of correct copies of them: “Johnnie and Frankie,” “Arkansaw” and the prose of the Irishman lecturing with lantern slides the story of Cleopatra.
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Anna Dine—Snow again, Anna, I don’t get your drift.
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Mickey Finn—There is nothing to the rumor that the girls will wear blacksmiths’ aprons for bathing suits this summer.
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Howe Hevah—“The Skin Game” is not the name of a play. It is a profession indulged in by beauty doctors.
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Mac—If the brass finger bowls are not large enough, would suggest that bushel baskets be used.
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Shimmy Dancer—If you do, we’ll take off our jumper and overhalls.
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Kitty Korn—I can’t place you, but I knew your father, Pop Korn.
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