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And while we're speakin' on the subject o' argyments-there was one held here last week thet fer internashunal complikashuns an' oratorikal pyro-tecknicks, hed W. Wislon's w.k Piece Conference an' a fee-male Bolshefistick con-venshun a lookin' like an' a soundin' like a deef an' dumb Quaker meetin'. The text was Re-ligion. The bruthers what tuk part A elder from the Pressabeeteerin Church, a perfessor o' He-brew langwidges an' a e-pistle o' Nitchy, the kulchur feller who believes in the sur-vival of the wittiest, which was how the argyment ended.

was:

I've noticed aroun' the Cactus San thet the T. B. what whistles the loudest usually has the most trouble,—teebeeickally speakin'.

Say Bill Whittle, sez I when I saw him next time, what kind o' singers an' dancers was them injuns down et the Santa Fe Siesta? "Wall," re-plied Bill, openin' up his barlow an' carefully skulpterin' a tooth-pick out of a match, "o' course, Ike, I kin only jedge them Fiester injuns by com-parin' their lungwistic an' terpa-scorpion de-bilities with the singin' o' Jennyveve Jasper, of the Baptist quire, an' the jiggin' o' Rabbit-foot Zeke down at the Red Dog sa-loon. So, usin' thet fer a hitchin' p'int an' answerin' yore queschun et the same time, I'll state without any resyvashuns or a-men-ments, thet as honey-fidey singers them injuns was durn fine dancers; an' as dancers, they shore hed gran' voirses."

One of our fellers came right out last week an' said as how he was tellin' the world an' all con-sarned, thet from thet time on, he was a reg'lar flamin' Bolshevikee Red. An' then he wonders why, a little while later, thet big Bull-snake went an' tuk after him.

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A snake ain't the only anymile what's got a stinger fer a tongue. Fer instance, them varmints known as gossipers. The Cactus San has its share, but don't ever fergit thet while you are stingin' the other feller thet maybe he is stingin' you jest as hard. And then, as the back-east fellers would say, it's all so dern un-fair and un-hunterlike, because the feller what is bein' talked about it allus the last to hear the talk, an' the harm is done before he has hed a chanct to fite back. If you kaint say it right plumb to his face, then don't say it to enybudy elses.

An' then this last thought, an' I'm th'u: Don't fergit thet Sunday mornin' ain't the only time when you kin git out in the fields an' watch Mother Nachure bathe the faces of her children-flowers with the fallin' dew, or to lissen to the birds a singin' themselves awake; thet it ain't the only time when you kin marvel all over agin at the mistery of the blue sky or at the granjure of the way-off mountain peaks with their night-caps o' snow still on;thet Sunday ain't the only day o' the week when you kin steal away to some see-cluded spot where it's quiet and peaceful-like an' there, as you set alone, let yore soul lissen to a sermon which would be mighty hard an' deefeekult fer a city-preacher to duplikate.

BU

HOPE

BET MY TEMP GOES TO 103 TO-MORROW, AN MY PULSE Will Go WITH IT-| THAT WILL MAKE ME LOSE WEIGHTTHEN I'LL GET WEA AND MORE COLD'AN PLVERESY OR PNEUMONIA, THEN I SPOSE I'll die. THEN MY BUSINESS Will Go "BANG" AND MY CHILDREN WILL STARVE AND ETC.

VAN SLTHE

DON'T GO TO WORRYIN'.

Many a fine day is spiled by thinkin' of what a big temp you might be goin' to have to

morrer.

An' right along the same line might be said: Don't go to worryin' too blame much about "steppin' out" on yore feet, until you git on 'em.

"Do you expectorate?" asts the doctor. "Vy--Vy, yes," re-plies Izzy, "vat kind o' rates hev you?"

The war on Germ-any may be over, but the war on Any-germ will go on wuss than ever. The big idear is: The only good germ is a plumb dead germ.

If the doctors and Sans would pay as much attention to the T. B.'s health account as they do to his wealth account, thar'd be a heap less hollerin' about the high cost o' chasin'.

In some Sans a feller would think that the nurses an' doctors was a payin' the patients to stick aroun' instid-?

A lot o' T. B.'s are like me on this oil investin' bizzness, sez Bill Whittle, the speerit is willin' but the cash is weak.

The Arkansas mule trader wuz givin' his son instructshuns on the boy's fust trip out. Sez he: "The fust mule trader you meet, skun him. If you meet him agin, skun him the second time, an' then, if he don't ever come back agin you'll know you've got him skun fer life." All o' which couldn't hep but make me think o' the T. B. When you-all meet the T. B. germ, skin him. If you run into him agin, skin him the second time, an' then, if he don't ever bother you agin, you-all will know you've got him skun fer life.

Out on the range when a stray colt or a lost calf drifts into another herd, they ain't sniffed at an' moved away from like they was a passel o' lepers. But let a stray T. B. drift into a strange community-wall, we're glad to say it ain't quite so bad as it used to be, thanks an' much o-bliged to them Nashunal T. B. Fellers.

Our traffic po-liceman (shore, we got one, an' the only one in the state, I'm a sayin'), whose name is Dutch George, got mixed in his signals tuther day an' before he knew it he had a reg'lar Fifth Avynew jam on his hands. Then a'ter he got the ve-hicklers a jerkin' back an' forth, an' collidin' into each other, an' cussin' like a troop o' Cuss-sacks, an' ginerally messed up an' mixed aroun' an tangled four ways to Sundee, why GeorgeGeorge, mind you-he gits sore, throws down his hat an' club an' dignity on the ground, an', glarin' at them pore scrambled Fords and Shofers thet hed bean a doin' the best they could with George's chineese signals, yells: "Vell, vell! Do someding, do someding!" ... Kinda re-minded us o' some T. B.'s we know: After they hev messed up things ginerally with their lives with high livin' an' bright lights; after they hev plumb broke ev'ry rule o' health an' common sense an' incidentleee thar own bellows, they stand thar in front o' the doctor yellin' all the time, "Well, do something, do something," jest as tho the dock hisself was responsible for thar condishun. An' then when the M.D. tells them what damphools they hev been makin' o' themselves an' thet the best he kin do is the best he kin do, they go off crabbin' and a blamin' the world for thar condishun, which they an' nobuddy else is responsible for.

An' to come right down to brass facks, jest what would happen to the doctors and nurses and Sans if the T. B.'s should ketch the strike epydemic an' de-mand a few little things they ain't been gittin' but hev paid for? Who'd win thet strike?

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Most T. B.'s we hev known spelt their last "DON'T HOLD THE HAND THAT FEELS YOUR Will with a capital B.

PULSE."

Many a girl who sez she will be a “sister” to a T. B. offen turns out a'terward to be his wife.

VAN SIY Ke

SAID SHE WOULD "BE A SISTER"-TURNS OUT TO BE HIS BRIDE.

Life, that is T. B. life, ain't in my opinion one d-n thing a'ter another a-tall. The way I got it figgered out is, thet it's one thing damned up agin tuther to ob-struck the ca'm an' easy flow o' the River o' Life. Thars the Worry Dam an' the Gloom Dam, an' the Envy Dam, an' the Sapishun Dam, in fack thar's a whole raft o' Dams. The moral is: (to imitate Admiral Faragut) Damn the Dams an' keep the current o' Life flowin' free an' unobstruckted.

You-all hev heerd of the Pan-American Society an' the Pan-Germanic Assosheashun, but I'll bet you ain't heerd of the Pan-Sanatorium outfit. Shore, thar's one. The Head Panner is usually the feller what pays the least and gits the most, an' what he don't pan about the San ain't jest wuth panning a-tall. Fair criticism is O. K. if you take it to the San headquarters, but when you tote it aroun' to the other patients it's not only on-fair to the management but it's dern small chicken-feed stuff.

"GREAT FUTURE FOR MILK GOATS" reads the headline. I kaint see it, sez Bill Whittle as he went to figgerin' up his diary bill.

Symptomaniacs are all right as far as they go, but the trouble is they go too dern far.

Feller made me mad as an in-sane hornet tuther day. He called me a near-beer human. "Wall," speaks up Bill, "what'd you do, lick him or somethin'?" No, sez I, I didn't. In the fust place he was biggern I wuz, an' in the second an' last place, what he said wuz so dag-gone true.

Dropped in to see Bill Whittle tuther mornin' an' found him goin' over his monthly bills. Thar was the San bill an' the doctor bill an' the laundry bill an' the clothin' bill -well you know the list as well as we do. Wall, the more Bill got to figgerin' on the bills the wusser mad he seemed to git until at last I saw jest plain an' ondiluted murder in his eyes. An' so, thinkin' as how I'd git his mind offen the subject, I sez: Bill, speakin' o' things in gineral, what's yore idear o' Jestice. But, sufferin' wild cats, instid o' making' him ca'mmer, he jest rared up on his hind laigs an' scatterin' them billy dues all over the room, he roared out like a herd o' trombones: "Jestice! Jestice. I'll tell you what my idear o' jestice is. It's shootin' up about fifty millun of them dag-gone, goldurned, slickdushin' Profiteers, an' then gittin' acquitted of it!"

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DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A T. B. AND JAIL- THE MOST VALUABLE IS THE "GOLD BUG.” BIRD. (Note that the illustrator shows a tendency to disagree with the author.)

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