VOL. IV.
MORAVIAN FALLS, NORTH CAROLINA, JULY, 1913.
NO. 5,
Git Yer Gun.
It y ouster wuzent quite the thing,
But new demands have risen;
Hooray, Bull Mooser, get your gun
Your Big Chief Ted's got his'n.
A forty-four is what you need
Its voice is so expressive !
Then all the world will recognize
That you are a Pergressive.
Take out a 'license," buy a gun,
A.nd don't be over-powered;
'Twill make you look so big and brave,
You low-down, dirty coward.
POOR OLD PAGE.
That feller Walt Page, what
Woodsaw Wilson has sent to
represent the Benighted States
at the Court of Saint Jim, is evi
dently a mighty poor man.
Directly after his appointment
he announced that he would not
try to live high or go the gaits
over in London. He assured us
that he would live the simple life
and try to save up enough of his
salary to give him a little start in
the publishing business by and
by.
And he shore to goodness is
keeping his word. Instead of
renting a respectable house for
his family to live in during their
stay in London, Page has actually
moved into a little old shack
which rents for only $20,000 a
year!
Think of that, will you? The
very idea of any respectable
white man, to say nothing of the
Benighted States Minister to Big
Britain, trying to live in such a
rat-hole as that! Only twenty
thousand dollars a year for house
rent! If Mr. Page ain't able to do
better than that, the Benighted
States ought to furnish him. a
decent house and pay the rent.
Of course the fact that several
million families in England and
America live in one-room palaces
that wouldn't rent for five dollars
a year ain't got a drotted thing to
do with it. Two nations have been
disgraced and sawsiety outraged,
and all for the sake of trying to
save a little house rent. It does
beat bobtail!
ti ' , m . ran rr
UNCLE YANKEE DOODLE
SAM.
Whoop, hooray!
Here I am, what's left of me.
My name is Uncle Yankee
Doodle Sam.
Don't I look like a june sweet
ner? I shore do feel like one.
I have been celebrating my
birthday.
That's what's the matter with
me.
My birthday is the Fourth of
July.
You've heard of it, I reckon.
At least you shorely have smelt
it some time or other.
It smells sorter like burnt
powder and old rags.
Does your birthday smell that
way?
No? I didn't think it did.
Guess mine is peculiar in that
respect.
They made the Fourth of July
just for me, and had it all ready
and waiting for me to be born on.
Wasn't they kind?
And it has been a "red letter
day" ever since.
The "red" comes from the
wounds made by firecrackers and
things.
I came here swimming in blood,
and have taken several baths in
it since.
Have become so attached to
the color and smell of blood that
I always want a few bucketfuls
to drink on my birthday.
And my nephews are always
willing to furnish the "red."
Maybe I ain't proud of my
nephews.
Just hush your fuss!
Why, hang-take it, I love them
so well that I would be perfectly
willing to seeevery one of them
die for me.
Fact is, they just about as well
die as to live the way most of
them have to live. -
But don't tell anybody I said so.
Most of them ain't got sense
enough to know the difference.
I could lriake life easier for my
nephews if I wanted to, but,
confound it all, what's the use?
They might get too well satis
fied with life and wouldn't be so
willing to die for me.
That's a little Yankee trick . I
learned a long time ago.
Ha, there!
Mind your eye!
Clear the track!
Here comes your Uncle Yankee
Doodle Sam, sorter disfigured,
but still in the ring!
Whoop-to-golly!
Wow!
Cracklety-fizz!
Bum!
Kissing The Cat.
A young father of my acquain
tance has an awful cute little girl.
One day he asked her for a kiss,
and she replied:
"Now, look here, daddy, I'll
tell you how we'll fix that. I'll
just kiss the cat, and then you can
kiss the cat after me, and get my
kiss off of the cat's nose."
That's the way a lot of so-called
Christians treat their Lord. They
give all their kisses to the devil,
and then tell the Lord that if He
wants any of their slobber He'll
have to go to the devil after it.
If you can't laugh, just grin.
VOTES FOR WOMEN!"
On general principles, I have
long been in sympathy with the
cry of "Votes for Women," but
doggon my skin if some of the
militant madams ain't just about
to turn my stomach.
Frinstance, I see it stated that
a young female suffragette in
England is so hog-wild . on the
subject that she has had the
words, "Votes for Women," tat
tooed on her cheeks. Now you
know' when a thing is tattooed in
the flesh it stays there. It shows
up like a black cow in a snow
bank, and the only way under
heaven to get it off is to skin the
victim and paint the place with
tar.
It is hard to believe that any
normal woman could have such
little regard for her looks as to
have her face disfigured in that
way. The woman who did it must
be a cross between a Chinese
mud god and the devil's grand
mother. She must have been so
tarnal-nation ugly that she
thought any kind of disfigure
ment would help her looks.
Now it seems to me there could
be no harmjn letting all good
sensible women have the ballot.
We men folks must admit that
they are intellectually our equals
and morally our superiors, and if
they could make any bigger
failure in government than we
have made, it would be worth a
good deal just to see it.
But confound these big-mouthed,
masculine, shemale straddle
oodlums who go bellering around
over creation trying to take
things by main force and awk
wardness! Nary drotted one of
that set will ever get the ballot
if I can have my way.
I am willing to give a woman
anything under heaven that she
asks for in a womanly way,
whether it be a kiss or a king
dom, but Lord deUver me from
these bigt-mouthea1 bawds and
sexless politicians!
V