Ye Gods! What'd John L. Have Said to Hair Curling and Brow Arching?

(Click the graphic for better view.)

1920

My dears, you should see that pompadour!

And that isn't half of it. He's having his eyebrows daintily arched, too!

And, to cap it all, his cheeks are adorned with the best grade of milady's rouge carefully handpainted over a field of perfumed pink powder. 'Tis even hinted that for a time he considered wearing a lace-covered corset to accentuate the lines of his form-fitting suit of clothes, but this has later been indignantly denied.

No, Genevieve, your guess is wrong. It isn't Launcelot de Slushe, the hero of "Nine Oceans of Tears" in the movie — it's no less a personage, they say, than Jack Dempsey, heavyweight fistic champion of this universe.

Dempsey won't say whether it's the influence of his recent trial at the movies or the success of his next opponent, Georges Carpentier, the bearcat boulevardier of gay Paree, but —

The erstwhile training camp, 'tis whispered, exudes an odor of lilac toilet water and face powder. Electric curling irons are said to adorn the walls where boxing gloves once hung. Cauliflower-eared attendants no longer take to road work and handball — manicuring and eyebrow-arching is the order of the day now, according to latest reports.

So much did Dempsey admire his first marcel wave at the hands of a Los Angeles society barber that he returned to have his brows arched and has since made it a regular practice, if Los Angeles advices may be believed.

But, ye gods! What would the shades of John L. Sullivan and Bob Fitzsimmons say if they could return to earth and see a modern fistic champion?

—The Saturday Blade, Chicago, Jan. 3, 1920, p. 10.

Wicked Humor — A Great Satire On The Ways of Tramps

1878

A Sarcastic Mendicant

"I'm very hungry," said a haggard tramp, with very red eyes, as he stood obsequiously at the side entrance of a Court street house. "Won't you please, ma'am, be so good as to give me a little something to eat? Anything will do — odds and ends — cold or warm — it don't matter, for I'm not one of them high-toned fellers."

"My husband has forbidden me to encourage idleness by giving away any more provisions," replied the lady of the house. " He says you fellows have a sort of Free Masonry way of letting others know every house at which you have been fed, and it is sure to bring a troop of lazy vagabonds upon us who would starve before they'd lift a hand to work. So you will have to move on and get your breakfast some place else."

"But I'm not a vagabond, ma'am; I'm a hard-working, industrious man. I came up on a boat from Memphis to see my sick mother who lives out near Camden, and isn't expected to live. I was robbed on the boat of every cent I had and all my clothes, while I was in bed. The captain gave me these old things. I don't like to beg, but Camden is a good stretch from here, and I can't walk it on an empty stomach. Think of the outstretched arms of a poor sick mother toward her absent child, and put wings on my feet with a few cold potatoes. I'm just at that point where I can eat 'em without salt."

"I can't do it. They all have a story about like that. The last man I fed had to go to Columbus inside of twenty-four hours to save an innocent man from hanging, but two days afterward I saw him down town so drunk he couldn't hold his mouth shut."

"Well, I never drink. If I hadn't been robbed I could show you my Murphy ribbon that I've worn till it's raveled into strings. Long years ago I swore at my mother's bended knee — the same one who moans on her couch of pain because I'm not with her — that I would never touch the blighting cup, and I hain't, from that time up to this minute. Can't you help me to get there in time to comfort her declining hours with the joyful tidings that I have been steadfast through all temptation, by giving me the cold grub you had intended to dump into the garbage box? I'm awful hungry."

"I can't help it. I must obey my husband — his orders were positive," said the woman, snappishly.

"Well, you're the most extraordinary woman I ever saw if you do. But say, can't you give me the paper the beefsteak was brought home in, to chew as I go along. It may fool my stomach for awhile and make it brace up by thinking something better will be along presently. You'll do that much toward easing a fond parent's anxious heart, won't you?"

"No, I won't."

"Well, then give me a newspaper and let me sit by the fire and read the advertisement of a meat market, and show me the place where it tells all about provisions. Even that would give me a feast — for the imagination — which has been about the extent of my living lately. You won't believe it, maybe, but it's a fact, that all the nourishment I've had for two days is the bill of fare painted on the outside of the Fifth-street restaurant. Can you think of that and keep your stale bread on the inside of your cupboard?"

"Yes, I can; and I want you to make yourself scarce without any more palaver, or I shall send my boy to call a policeman," exclaimed the indignant woman.

"Even the photograph of a chicken would be some comfort," said the man, by way of banter, as he moved off, "and if you don't use soap in your dishwater a few potatoes sliced up in it would be regular barbecue for me." — Cincinnati Breakfast Table.

'Squaw Enters Happy Hunting Grounds' (Suicide), Worthless Husband

Reno, 1905

A YOUNG SQUAW TAKES HER LIFE

HATTIE JONES GOES TO THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDS BECAUSE OF HER WORTHLESS HUSBAND

Hattie Jones, a young Indian squaw, has gone to the happy hunting grounds and her erstwhile faithless husband, who has the more pronounced ideas of the Mormon church, will have the opportunity to woo his new found love.

Hattie's heart was broken because her husband played fast and loose with other squaws of the lodge, and because of this she took her own life.

It is a rare occurrence for an Indian to commit suicide. The death of the woman was reported to the police yesterday morning and after an investigation by the officers it was found that she had taken a quantity of wild parsnips the night before and this was the cause of her death.

Hattie was happy until a few weeks ago when the first papoose came and then her man took to caring for another squaw and made life miserable for Hattie.

The Chief of Police acted the big chief to the departed squaw and tried to fix up the domestic infelicity and get things running smoothly in the family affairs, but as soon as her husband, John Jones, would get out of sight of the police station, he would hurry to the side of another comely squaw by the name of Hattie Moore, and then Hattie's troubles would begin all over again.

On Thursday night Hattie's rival called at the Jones' tepee and gave the former a severe beating. This was resented by Hattie, who immediately drew a knife and proceeded to cut up the Moore squaw, when the latter and a number of friends who were along fled.

Hattie was arrested at the time of the cutting, but as soon as the facts in the case were made known to the officers, she was released.

The husband and his paramour were placed in jail yesterday but as no evidence of crime has been found, it is probable they will not be prosecuted.

—Daily Nevada State Journal, Reno, NV, Feb. 26, 1905, p. 1.

Comment: The article is so cold and callous, so unbelievable that they thought making Indian jokes would be a good way to handle a matter like this.