Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 27, November, 1921 — Drippings From the Fawcett
_Drippings From the Fawcett_ _Ye Editor is now touring these great and glorious United States in quest of the Famed Pedigreed Bull, and in this issue we are intending to give a wider variety as a result of our visits to the East, South and the golden West.
_ _We had the pleasure of spending an afternoon at the New York studio as a personal guest of D. W.
Griffith, in addition to peeping behind Broadway’s scenes, and at this writing we are “courting Satan” in the domain of Fatty Arbuckle et al. , California’s movie camps.
_ _If we seem to carry too much gossip in this issue from Hollywood and Los Angeles, please pardon us.
We’ll be leaving soon for the deer hunting grounds in Minnesota, but in the meantime, of course, we will have to go to San Francisco, “The City of Health, Wealth and Beauty,” for first-hand information on Movieland’s latest and biggest sensation!
_ Well, Kind Readers, I woke up the other morning with a grouch and the reason for it is just this: Gus, the hired man, jumped his job and I had to do the morning chores myself.
At that moment I could waft forth onto the silvery air the sweetest scent you ever scented.
To make matters all the worse, one of the cows kicked over the milk pail when I was half through the job.
She also added insult to injury by swishing her mucky old tail in my face.
But to get back to Gus.
Really, I don’t think he played exactly fair.
After he had enjoyed several aeroplane rides and a wonderful trip to New York and Atlantic City, he became obsessed with the idea that the sun rose and set in his face—that it was his bounden duty to hang up the moon and take down the sun each evening.
Really, Fellow Soaks, I couldn’t get him even to feed the pet monkey which I gave him as a present for assumed faithfulness.
Previously I had a confidential talk with him regarding a boat which was badly in need of a coat of white lead and tar.
He became quite haughty at the idea that I should expect him to act as Indian guide and hired man at the same time, so he threw his hands in the air and yelled: “I’m through.
” And I guess he is through, for the last time I saw him that morning he was spinning away to Minneapolis.
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.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest, Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before, And one by one crept silently to rest.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and ’twas—the Grape.
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse—why, then, Who set it there?
=YESTERDAY= this Day’s Madness did prepare;
=TOMORROW’S= Silence, Triumph, or Despair: Drink!
for you know not whence you came, nor why: Drink!
for you know not why you go, nor where.
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot— I think a Sufi pipkin—waxing hot— “All this of Pot and Potter—Tell me, then, “Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?
” “Why,” said another, “Some there are who tell “Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell “The luckless Pots he marr’d in making—Pish!
“He’s a Good Fellow, and ’twill all be well.
” Ah, with the Grape my fading life provide, And wash the Body whence the life has died, And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf, By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
=Ah Love!
could you and I with Him conspire= =To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,= =Would we not shatter it to bits—and then= =Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!
= And when like her, or Saki, you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass, And in your joyous errand reach the spot Where I made One—turn down an empty Glass!
* * * * * “It won’t be long now,” insisted my new Jewish farm hand, Ikey, as he grabbed the axe this morning to cut the daily supply of wood.
