Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, March 1922 · page 10 of 68
Captain Billy's Whiz Bang #31 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page from the satirical magazine features the editor, "Captain Billy," responding to reader questions with humorous exaggerations about his rural life. The joke hinges on his admission that he's guilty of the absurd allegations—owning a prize bull named Pedro (now dead), living near a real town called Robbinsdale, and having kept a couple's car seat as collateral during a theft report. The page then shifts to publishing a poem by "Gus," the editor's hired man, about a wandering tramp. The satire here appears gentle: Gus aspires to poetry while working as a farmhand, producing sentimental verse about homelessness and hardship. The editor's framing—suggesting Gus is inspired by the "whiff" of pine forests—gently mocks the man's romantic pretensions while publishing his work anyway. This reflects *Whiz Bang's* lighthearted, rural-focused humor and small-town perspective.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
8 Captain Billy's Whiz Bang “Is Pedro your honest-to-goodness pedigreed bull?” “Is there actually a town named Robbins-dale?” “Did a honeymooning couple really leave their automobile seat with you when they went to the village constable to report the theft of their car?” It was necessary to plead guilty to nearly all the allegations heaped on me. Of course, poor Pedro is no more, he having “kicked the bucket” last July, and Gus, too, has sorta back-slid. Gus always was an in-and-outer anyway. * * * Gus, my old time hired man, has busted into poetry again. The old boy must be getting a whiff of the pine forests about Breezy Point Lodge. Well, here you go, Gus,—we’ll publish this one: *I am only a poor old wanderer;* *I have no place to call my home;* *No one to pity me, no one to cheer me,* *As friendless and sadly I roam.* *It is tramp, tramp along though I’m weary;* *To rest through the long, long day;* *Through the rain and the snow I must tramp to and fro,* *For it’s the poor tramp’s way.* *How I long for a place by the fireside,* *When the night it is cold, chill and damp;* *Vacant places I see, but there’s no room for me,* *For I’m only a poor old tramp.*