Volume 2 — Drippings From the Fawcett

The modern city can be likened to that grim monster of old dreams to whom a tribute of maidens was offered. The main difference between them lies in the fact that his appetite for girl-flesh had its limitations, but the appetite of the city had none. From this vast charnel house of hopes, beliefs and ideals files upward a steady stream of damned souls that once belonged to women-children, pure in thought and deed. The crushing of one or a thousand of these “wee modest crimson-tipped flowers” beneath the ploughshares of city life and temptation excites only passing remark.

The girl of the city has much more actual animation than her sister of the country. This is due to the food that is eaten and the social conditions of excitement that surround her. The country girl lives upon plain food and has normal hours of rest and relaxation. She does not encounter the sights or sounds that would tend to divert her attention from high thoughts to matters forbidden.

Such sights and sounds are never absent from the city girl. She cannot go into the business part of the city and walk two blocks without being reminded of her sex. Men eye her with glances of suggestion and invitation.

* * *

You don’t have to go to West Point for strategy. A negro preacher in his pulpit one Sunday said he had a few remarks to make before the collection basket made its peregrination.

“Now, brethren and sisters,” he began, “there is just one brethren here that is untrue to his church, untrue to his Lord—and worst of all, untrue to his wife. Unless he puts a five dollar bill into the contribution box I will be compelled to call his name out.”

When the basket had returned and a recount had been made, the books showed forty-two five dollar bills and a two dollar bill with a note pinned to it saying, “I will hand you the other three in the morning. Please don’t give me away.”

* * *

“Only a Mother Could Love a Prohibitionist’s Face.” That is the inscription which appeared on one of the banners in the Anti-Dry parade which I had the pleasure of witnessing in New York City while en-route back from the big fight which ye editor attended.

* * *

Around Robbinsdale they get up early. Two farmers, jealous of their rising records, became boastful and one allowed as how he got up before three o’clock. The other rose at two the next morning and called at his neighbor’s house, hoping to find him in bed. The farmer’s wife came to the door.

“Where is your husband?” inquired the sleuth.

“Why, he was around here early this morning, but I don’t know where he is now.”

* * *

Gus, our hired man, insists that Deacon Kingdon is a good shot.

“He is so good with his gun that he hit the bull’s-eye the first time,” Gus exclaimed.

“Very good,” exclaimed Maggie, our cook.

“Yes, but he had to pay for the bull.”

* * *

Pinkham’s Home Broo

Pursue a wild bull frog thirteen miles, carefully gathering the hops. Then add:

Ten gallons pickle brine

Two quarts shellac

One bar home-made soap

One pint sweet spirits of nitre.

Boil mixture three weeks, then strain through an I. W. W. sock to prevent mixture from working. Bottle and add one jackass to each pint to give it the proper kick.

* * *

This Is For Railroaders

Casey, a section boss on the Great Northern railway, in making his report to the superintendent, used considerable profanity, so the superintendent said: “Casey, I have lady stenographers here and if you must use that profanity, after this you must write your own reports.” “A train from Duluth came lickety skoot and passed me hand car by. Some son of a gun left open a switch and it piled them ten cars high.”

* * *

Georges Carpenter lost a battle last July, but he won a greater prize than the golden purse and the coveted belt offered at Jersey City. The handsome Frenchman showed America the smile of Napoleon; the stoical smile of defeat.

As one of the multitude witnessing the brief clash of France and America at Boyle’s Thirty Acres, permit me to remark that Carpentier did not live up to his reputation as great pugilistic champion, but he more than met his reputation as a great red-blooded gentleman.

The American won, but the applause usually due the winner was lost in the outburst of surprise of the multitude. Carpentier, instead of hanging his head at the defeat of his hopes and aspirations for the title, hid his sorrow behind a great big boyish smile. He wore that smile through the blood-stained rounds, and it radiated as the gong clanged.

The soul of fighting France was behind that smile; the same as the smile of Napoleon as he handed over his army to Wellington at Waterloo, and the likeness of Joffre at the first battle of the Marne. It puzzled his primitive opponent. Dempsey was bewildered—his face revealed his knowledge that behind that smile was a superior intellectual being.

* * *

What good is alimony on a cold night?

* * *

Many who “kiss and make up” don’t like the taste of the “make-up.”