Volume 2 — Drippings From the Fawcett
Reading edition
The Whiz Bang has been selling rather fair since Christmas, with the result that I was able to scrape together a few hundred bucks to make first payment on a log cabin at Pequot, Minnesota, and 80 acres of cut-over pine land on the shore of Big Pelican Lake. Accompanied by Gus, the hired man, and Andy (not Gump), an oldtime timber cruiser, I journeyed to the northland to view the future summer home of the Whiz Bang.
Upon arriving at the cabin, we were met by Fred La Page, a typical French-Canadian of the old school, and Mrs. La Page. All arrangements were gone through and I was well pleased with the outlook excepting for the lack of a cat. Now, it may seem strange that an ordinary household pet like a cat should in any way be considered, but really, friends, I was somewhat disappointed in not finding Tabby.
Ever since the Persian kitten of pedigreed fame entered into my life, I have had a natural antipathy for the felines. La Page’s excuses for not having a cat were apparently sound logic. “A cat is like a woman,” he said. “She purrs when petted, and scratches and spits venom when things go wrong. She must be contented at all times.” Which brought me back to the lines of
A Persian kitten, perfumed and fair, Strayed through the kitchen door for air, When a Tom Cat, lean and lithe and strong And dirty and yellow came along. “Cheer up,” said the Tom Cat, with a smile, “And trust your new found friend awhile. You need to escape from your back yard fence; My dear, all you need is experience.” The morning after the night before The “Cat Came Back” at the hour of four, The look in her innocent eyes had went, But the smile on her face was the smile of content.
Ah! World of Sweet Romance. How delicious are thy vicissitudes. Even the cats enjoy little escapades into the unknown mists of the dim future.
In the meantime Mr. La Page will be busy constructing several more log cabins from the jack pine of Pequot so that Whiz Bang readers may solve vacation problems this summer, and I’ll bet you’ll find plenty of Persian kittens and wily polecats scampering about the premises. And one of them shall be called “Marigold,” after the Richard Garnett poem:
She moved through the garden in glory because She had very long claws at the end of her paws. Her back was arched, her tail was high, A green fire glared in her vivid eye; And all the Toms, though never so bold, Quailed at the martial Marigold.
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A fiery steed with championship form and charming personality rarely roams long alone.
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In our last issue we published that portion of Shakespeare’s “King Lear” wherein Kent denounces Oswald, the lounge lizard, which brings my memory back to nights in 1913 when I was a police reporter for a morning paper in Minneapolis. This was prior to my incrustment upon the fertile pastures of Robbinsdale.
One evening, while “chinning” with the desk sergeant at headquarters, a policeman brought in a typical “divan dearie”—one of the sissy variety, but well dressed. The sergeant gave him a private cell and was just returning to his desk when another of the same species walked in.
“I have been informed,” said the caller in a meek voice, “that this place is a jail, and I would like to know if you have a prisoner here by the name of Harold Archibald Eaton.” The sergeant referred to the “blotter” and replied affirmatively. He informed the inquirer that Eaton was being held on a charge of flirting.
Great joy was registered by the caller, and he replied in accents sweet: “Oh, dear, what a relief! I was afraid he might have been arrested for stealing.”
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Last fall I bought a pig for $5. It cost me $5 to feed the pig this winter. This spring I sold the pig for $10. Of course, I didn’t make any money, but I had the use of the pig all winter.
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We’ve heard the old yarn about the lazy darky who harnessed the mule by simply standing still and commanding “Giddap” and “Whoa,” but the hobo that leaned against my wagon in Robbinsdale the other day wins the hand-painted jar.
He had a match in his hand, leaning against the steel tire on my wagon wheel, his pipe unlighted.
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“Jes’ waitin’ for you to start so the wheel will light this match,” he replied.
* * *
Gus, the hired man, says our old-fogy neighbor, Deacon Miller, doesn’t like my literary product. Gus saw the Deacon tearing up the Whiz Bang and scattering it over his corn field the other day. “I’m using it for fertilizer,” vouchsafed the Deacon.
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My “storm and strife” and I were recently at a little gathering. As I stood watching a whist game, a young lady—a very charming young lady—said: “Captain Billy, will you hold my hand a minute.” I obeyed with alacrity and grasped her soft white fingers, only to have her snap at me: “Sir! I meant my cards!” And my wife saw it all.
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Nobody pays much attention to a big hole in a small girl’s stocking, but a small hole in a big girl’s stocking—Oh, my!
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Patrick’s Gold Piece
For the sake of this story, we will say his name was Pat. Now Pat was a good Irishman and had attended mass at the same church for twenty-five years.
In the good old days, when a “slug” was 10 cents and a “schooner” a 5-cent piece, Pat was always visiting Casey’s saloon for a wee nip.
On this particular Sunday morning, Pat found himself in church with only a 5-cent piece and a five dollar gold piece in his pocket. During the offertory of the mass, he made the mistake of dropping in the gold piece. After service, following his custom of many years, he slipped into the back door of Casey’s for his morning’s drink.
“Have one with me, Mr. Casey,” said Patrick. They both had their drink and Pat reached in his pocket and laid the nickel on the bar.
“Come again,” said Casey, “you haven’t even enough to pay for your own drink.”
Pat then told of his mistake of putting the gold piece in the collection box. Casey promptly urged him to go at once to Father Monahan, explain his error and get back his gold piece.
On his way to the priest he kept repeating to himself: “I hate to do this; oh, I hate to do this, but I will, I need the money.” He was just about to push the bell at Father Monahan’s home, when he hesitated and again said:
“Oh, I hate to do this; in fact, I can’t do it, and I won’t do it. I gave that money to the good Father and to hell with it.”