  Dear folk: We have some dandy stuff in store for you. Among the masters who are writing for Whiz Bang the coming year are J. Eugene Chrisman, author of “Poppies, Hell,” with his “Chi Slim,” “Keyhole Stuff” and others; H. A. D’Arcy, author of “The Face Upon the Floor” with his “Trapper’s Story,” “Charlie Wong” and others; Frank B. Lindeman, the prospector-poet with his ode “To a Mountain Rat” and others; and last but not least, some almost forgotten masterpieces of James Whitcomb Riley, whose “Passing of the Old Smokehouse,” was one of the many hits of our Winter Annual, Pedigreed Follies of 1921-22. * * * The Blanket StiffBy Gifford and Whitney. The Western trail is a gittin’ dim; The Sage-brush seems unreal; My insides’re weak and gittin’ slim. Sure wished I had a meal. My feet are growin’ weary; My head is hangin’ low; My eyes are a lookin’ teary. Gawd! But it’s hard to go. There’s two thousand ties to a mile, And fifty more miles to go. I’ve counted those ties with a smile, Keeps time from a goin’ so slow. Now—they seem a mile apart. I can’t help feelin’ cold. Got an achin’ down around my heart I guess—I’m a gettin’—old. Know what the gangs a doin’ now, Way down in Elephant Slough. They’re sittin’ around a can o’ chow Helpin’ themselves tuh stew. I kid myself, I ain’t et fer a week, But I know it’s dang sight more. My throat is dry—my insides squeak— I’m hungry—clean to th’ core. I ain’t th’ kind that’ll stoop to yell, When bad luck comes my way. I’ve lived and sinned. I’m bound for Hell. But—guess—I’ll kneel and pray. The Bo got down on rough worn ties; Lifted his head in prayer, And knelt there pleading to the skies— A whistle sounded through the air. The Hobo heard and tried to rise, Saw the train comin’ fast. His muscles failed—and from the ties, He welcomed this—the last. It’s only a blanket—stiff ye hit, Sent another bum to Hell. Had I better report on it? I guess I might as well. No, Con, don’t make out no report. Let’s plant him by the steel. The Bum’s bound for an unknown port, And tracks will make it real. The Western trail is a gittin’ black. It’s time we moved along. They buried him beside the track— The hot western wind for the psalm. The Bo woke up in a nice white gown; Clean, just like he’d had a bath. Instead of the ties that held him down He followed a golden path. * * * The Girl From Over “There”By Budd L. McKillips A pistol shot, a darting pain Like red-hot needles through her brain, And ere the smoke cleared from the room Another soul groped through the gloom. With fleeting glance the policemen came Looked through her purse, took down her name; Reporters never wondered why Or reasoned how she came to die. In silent morgue, somber and drab— With folded hands, on sheeted slab— No mourners crowded ’round her bier To say a prayer or shed a tear. Yet scarce a week before and she Had smiled and looked on life with glee Dreamed dreams of everlasting bliss And reveled in her lover’s kiss. His mistress? yes but oft he’d said He loved her madly, soon they’d wed; Love-blind she hung on every word While ugly rumors went unheard. Then came the day which like a thief Stole joy and filled her heart with grief; Cursed by the man she called her own, She woke to find her dreams had flown. Tired of his toy he now defamed And thrust her from him, unashamed, To find refuge among her kind; Then went to meet his latest find. Black as the night from pole to pole The world seemed to her aching soul; With heart bowed down and racked with pain She sent a bullet through her brain. In restaurant where bright lights shine A man laughs loud, made gay with wine He beams on one with youth abloom— The fairest creature in the room. The violins wail and cymbals clash, The dancers whirl and diamonds flash; His heart is light and free of care As tambos beat and trombones blare. Forgotten is the long ago, The whispered love-words, soft and low Each word a lie, each kiss a snare For her long since passed over “there.” Unnoticed by the merry crowd A figure enters clad in shroud, Her ghastly face a lurid glow— The dead girl’s face of long ago. The music stops, unseen she flits To where a laughing couple sits A choking shriek, a gasp for breath— A man lies still and stark in death. A hush falls o’er the crowded room There comes a breath as from a tomb— The eyes now set in glassy stare Had seen the face from over “there.” * * * The Ballad of Yukon JakeBy Edward E. Paramore, Jr. As originally published in Vanity Fair. Oh the North Countree is a hard countree That mothers a bloody brood; And its icy arms hold hidden charms For the greedy, the sinful and lewd. And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust That sears the Northland soul, But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn, Is the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal. Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit’s name, In the days of his pious youth, Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist church By betraying a girl named Ruth. But now men quake at “Yukon Jake,” The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal, For that is the name that Jacob Kaime Is known by from Nome to the Pole. He was just a boy and the parson’s joy (Ere he fell for the gold and the muck), And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay On a farm near Keokuk. But a Service tale of illicit kale— And whiskey and women wild— Drained the morals clean as a soup-tureen From this poor but honest child. He longed for the bite of a Yukon night And the Northern Light’s weird flicker, Or a game of stud in the frozen mud, And the taste of raw red licker. He wanted to mush along in the slush, With a team of huskie hounds, And to fire his gat at a beaver hat And knock it out of bounds. So he left his home for the hell-town Nome, On Alaska’s ice-ribbed shores, And he learned to curse and to drink, and worse— Till the rum dripped from his pores, When the boys on a spree were drinking it free In a Malamute saloon And Dan Megrew and his dangerous crew Shot craps with the piebald coon; When the Kid on his stool banged away like a fool At a jag-time melody And the barkeep vowed, to the hardboiled crowd, That he’d cree-mate Sam McGee— Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name Of Yukon Jake, the Killer, Would rake the dive with his forty-five Till the atmosphere grew chiller. With a sharp command he’d make ’em stand And deliver their hard-earned dust, Then drink the bar dry, of rum and rye, As a Klondike bully must. Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose Of Dangerous Dan Megrew, And becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder The lady that’s known as Lou. Oh, tough as a steak was Yukon Jake— Hard-boiled as a picnic egg. He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt, And drank his rum by the keg. In fear of their lives (or because of their wives) He was shunned by the best of his pals An outcast he, from the comraderie Of all but wild animals. So he bought him the whole of Shark Tooth Shoal, A reef in the Bering Sea, And he lived by himself on a sea lion’s shelf In lonely iniquity. But, miles away, in Keokuk, Ia., Did a ruined maiden fight To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church By bringing the heathen Light. And the Elders declared that all would be squared If she carried the holy words From her Keokuk Home to the hell-town Nome To save those sinful birds. So, two weeks later, she took a freighter, For the gold-cursed land near the Pole, But Heaven ain’t made for a lass that’s betrayed— She was wrecked on Shark Tooth Shoal! All hands were tossed in the Sea, and lost— All but the maiden Ruth, Who swam to the edge of the sea lion’s ledge Where abode the love of her youth. He was hunting a seal for his evening meal (He handled a mean harpoon) When he saw at his feet, not something to eat, But a girl in a frozen swoon, Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair, And he rubbed her knees with gin. To his great surprise, she opened her eyes And revealed—his Original Sin! His eight-months’ beard grew stiff and weird And it felt like a chestnut burr, And he swore by his gizzard—and the Arctic blizzard, That he’d do right by her. But the cold sweat froze on the end of her nose Till it gleamed like a Teckla pearl, While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell, Down the back of the grateful girl. But a hopeless rake was Yukon Jake The Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal! And the dizzy maid he rebetrayed And wrecked her immortal soul! Then he rowed her ashore with a broken oar, And he sold her to Dan Megrew For a huskie dog and some hot egg-nog— As rascals are wont to do. Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth With scarlet cheeks and lips, And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs That come from the sealing ships. For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss They will give a seal’s sleek fur, Or perhaps a sable, if they are able; It’s much the same to her. Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree, That mothers a bloody brood; And its icy arms hold hidden charms For the greedy, the sinful and lewd. And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust That sears the Northland soul, But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn Was the Hermit of Shark Tooth Shoal! * * * God Bless the “Y.”A mud-spattered dough-boy slouched into the ‘Y’ hut where an entertainment was in progress and slumped into a front seat. Firm, kindly, and efficient, a Y. M. C. A. man approached him, saying: “Sorry, buddy, but the entire front section is reserved for officers.” Wearily the youth rose. “All right,” he drawled, “but the one I just got back from wasn’t.” * * * A Test For YouOn our recent visit in Los Angeles we became contaminated with Ham Beall’s filosophy. (Note to the boys: This was written just before Ham went on the wagon.) He is not drunk who from the floor, Can rise again and drink once more; But he is drunk who prostrate lies, And cannot either drink or rise. |
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