Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang, Vol. III. No. 29, January, 1922

They’re Going Fast!

Whiz Bang’s greatest book—The Winter Annual Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22—hot off the press. Orders are now being mailed. There will be no delay as long as the supply lasts. If your news stand’s quota is sold out—

PIN A DOLLAR BILL

Or your check, money order or stamps
To the coupon on the back page.

And receive our 256-page bound volume of jokes, jests, jingles, stories, pot pourri, mail bag and Smokehouse poetry. The best collection ever put in print.

REMEMBER, FOLK

Last year our Annual (which was only one-fourth as large as the 1921-22 book) was sold out on the Pacific Coast within three or four days, and not a copy could be bought anywhere in the United States within ten days.

So hurry up! First Come will be First Served!

Pin your dollar bill to the coupon and mail to the Whiz Bang Farm; Robbinsdale, Minn.

Don’t write for early back copies of our regular issues.

We haven’t any left.

Captain Billy’s
Whiz Bang

America’s Magazine of
Wit, Humor and
Filosophy

JANUARY, 1922 Vol. III. No. 29

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

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

Price 25 cents $2.50 per year
ONE DOLLAR FOR THE WINTER ANNUAL

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.

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.

Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the fighting forces of the United States

Drippings From the Fawcett

After an extended trip of two months, which led me throughout the North American continent, it was a rare treat to settle down again to routine duties on the Whiz Bang farm. The main street of our own little “Gopher Prairie” looked mighty good to a tired and worn out farmer. ’Twas indeed a pleasure to view the Howard lumber yard, with its red fence and shed, and to grasp the sturdy hand of our village postmaster and storekeeper, Bud Nasett. J. J. McCormick, who is depot agent and telegraph operator, not to mention baggage smasher for genial drummers, greeted me at the station.

“How are you, Bill, you old son-of-a-gun?” or words to this effect, was the whole-hearted way that Mac welcomed back a wayward and prodigal pilgrim.

Arm in arm we walked along Main Street to Gus Urban’s meat market to inquire as to the price of livestock. Mr. Urban, in his usual jovial embonpoint manner, informed us that cows brought five cents a pound, but that bull was priceless. I disagreed with Gus, insisting that my recent journeys in quest of the pedigreed animal had left me “flat broke.”

Directly across the street, neatly encased in imitation granite blocks of concrete, is our only bank, the Security State of Robbinsdale—and it hasn’t gone “bump” for nigh onto four years. In the reorganization which followed the last crash, Joe Roche was selected as cashier and Joe has since successfully piloted this financial bulwark of our happy little village. Joe also manages the Robbinsdale baseball nine. After making a small “touch” at the bank it was home and the farm.

My welcome back was so pleasant that the words of that rural gem—“The Little Old Home Town”—went Whiz-Zing through my jaded mind.

There are fancier towns than our little town;

There are towns that are bigger than this,

And the people who live in a little old town

Don’t know the excitement they miss;

There are things that you see in the wealthier town

That you can’t in a town that’s small,

And yet, up and down, there is no other town

Than your own little town after all.

It may be true that the streets ain’t long,

Nor wide and maybe not straight

But the neighbors you know in your own little town,

All welcome a fellow—it’s great.

In the glittering streets of a glittering town,

With its palace and pavement and thrall;

In the midst of a throng you will frequently long

For your own little town after all.

If you live and you work in your own little town;

In spite of the fact that it’s small,

You’ll find it a fact that your own little town

Is the best little town after all.

* * *

Bobby Nelson, our neighbor’s boy, is the worst kid in the world for betting, and the unusual feature of it is he usually wins. Bobby’s father took the matter up with the school marm to see if she couldn’t break him of the gambling habit, promising her a reward if successful.

The other morning when Bobby came to school he wanted to bet teacher she had a wart on her right knee and the school marm, knowing better, and thinking she had an opportunity to win a bet from Bobby and by so doing, discourage his betting habit, accepted Bobby’s challenge. After school that evening teacher proved Bobby was wrong and won the two dollar bet.

She then called on old man Nelson.

“Mr. Nelson, I have broken Bobby of the betting habit. It was a little embarrassing, but this is how it was—Bobby bet me two dollars I had a wart on my right knee and in order to make him lose and cure him of the betting habit I accepted his challenge.”

“Lady! Lady! Why did you do it? Bobby bet me this morning ten dollars that he would see your knee before the day was out.”

* * *

In naughty old New York you need cold cash to have a hot time.

* * *

The other day I went to an Irish wedding and the people who attended were very ill mannered. Why, I never saw such impolite people. We were all seated around the dinner table and when they brought the turkey in to serve, everybody made a grab for it, but the two legs I got tasted very good.

* * *

Out in Idaho it is reported that the natives are making booze in this manner—women chew corn and then “gob” it into a hollowed-out section of a tree trunk. Water is added and the mess allowed to ferment, after which it is imbibed to intoxication. Some drink, we would pause to remark!

* * *

A friend of mine told me the other night he slept in a wagon standing in an alley, and when he woke up in the morning he had nothing but a dime in his pocket. He was thirsty and he also needed a shave, so he decided to toss the coin to see whether he would get a shave or a drink. He tossed up the dime, and when it came down he missed it and it rolled near a sewer grating, coming to a standstill just half over the edge of the grating.

“Gee,” he exclaimed, “that was a close shave. I guess I’ll get a drink.”

* * *

We asked Gus what he thought of Helen of Troy, but he said that he had stopped running around with those laundry girls.

* * *

Our Robbinsdale druggist insists that Minnesota Swedes are the most advanced settlers in this country.

“Formerly we thought the Swedes were crazy for drinking pure alcohol,” he said, “But present day events prove them to have been about twenty years in advance of the rest of us.”

* * *

A stranger got off the train at our neighboring town of Coon Creek and went up to the town druggist and asked for whisky.

“We’re only allowed to sell spirits for medicinal purposes,” said the druggist.

“That’s what I want it for,” the stranger insisted, “this town gives me a pain.”

* * *