Right at this point, I must get somewhat confidential. My opinion of Gus is that he was lonesome for Robbinsdale—and its nearby suburb, Minneapolis. Breezy Point at Pequot, Minnesota, is thoroughly dry on account of its location in the Indian territory. When Gus is thirsty, he’s good and thirsty and it is my honest belief that some day in the future he’ll come back to the old homestead again.
Well, Gus, if you ever read these lines, Good Luck to you and God bless you—though I do feel like saying Gosh Darn you instead.
* * *
Every now and then it falls my lot to awaken with deep emotions of remorse. When the harvest of a misspent night has been reaped and garnered, the “morning after” invariably finds me with a sort of null and void feeling. Here I am in the old red barn of the Whiz Bang farm endeavoring to gather some fertile copy for the November issue. My poor, fatigued brain refuses to move to action. It is quite comparable to the brain of a univalve mollusk. I can find but one palliative for my purely personal woes and that is the twentieth amendment.
Oh, for the days of Omar Khayyam. His immortal Rubaiyat is a masterpiece for the “rounder.” Had he lived in this modern generation a different title would have graced his writings. We would probably be reading a booklet entitled “The Philosophy of An Old Sport,” or probably that short and sweet title, “Wine, Women and Song.” Whenever I feel like a fatuous fathead, a certain degree of relief always can be gained in perusing Omar’s bull. And so today, while I have a look of languor like a homesick bum, I am repeating herewith some of his verses which may find an appeal to “The old sport who sat in the grand stand chair.” Here they are:
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep
And Braham, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.