OCR Interpretation


The Rio Grande rattler. ([McAllen], Hidalgo County, Tex.) 1916-1917, January 26, 1918, Image 10

Image and text provided by New York State Military History Museum

Persistent link: http://www.nyshistoricnewspapers.org/lccn/sn87030234/1918-01-26/ed-1/seq-10/


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8 THE WADSWORTH GAS ATTACK a n d RIO GRANDE RATTLER THE DREAM OF THE EDITORS We, the editors, came w a lking past Di­ vision H e a d q u a rters tow a rds the building in which T h e G a s A t t a c k has its editorial sanctum . We saw a long line of officers w a iting outside. They were all commis­ sioned officers. ‘W h a t’s the excitem ent?” we asked a by­ stander. '‘Are they giving away promo- m o tions?” “No. The officers are w a iting their turn to get into T h e G a s A t t a c k office to see the editors. They’ve all got contributions they w a n t to subm it.” “Well, well,” we m u rm u red casually. “They’ll have to w a it their tu r n .” We w ent into our office, rolled up our sleeves, and shouted to the w a iting line. First, a Lieutenant. “Now you can come in. W ho’s first? Oh, it’s you, is it, L ieutenant? L e t’s see, you have here an article on trenches for us. H ’m. I t ’s neatly typed, and fairly well w ritten, but you lack the punch. More short sentences, straig h t to the point. And you don’t seem to have handled your sub­ ject as well as we’ve been accustomed to having these things done. Now here’s an article by Private Jones. Look at th a t as a contrast. It’s better in every way. If you officers could only learn to w rite as well as some of these privates do, we would p rin t more of your stuff. Sorry, Lieutenant, but we can’t use this article of yours. How­ ever, we thank you for subm itting it. Try us again, won’t you? Ju s t pass out around to the right, please. W ho’s next? Then, A Captain. “Good afternoon, C a p tain! You don’t mind standing, do you? T h e re’s only room for one of us to sit a t a time. Ju s t let me glance over your contribution and I’ll tell you in a moment w h e ther or not we can use it. It seems to deal w ith the relation of artillery and infantry. T h a t’s a good subject, and w e’d like to p rin t more a r t i­ cles on topics of th a t nature. But, Cap­ tain, you’ve gone at it entirely wrong. You begin w ith a long-winded introduction th a t takes up most of your article, and you don’t get anyw h ere until near the end. Ju s t take up one of the copies of our magazine for last m o n th and exam ine th a t article we printed on page ninety-seven. It’s by P r i­ vate Smith. It’ll show you how these a r ­ ticles should be w ritten. Now, after you’ve studied this other article, look at yours again. Now re-w rite it so it’s fit to print— if you can. Then come back and we’ll give it the once-over again. You’ve just got to keep at these things. T h a t’s all the criti­ cism we have tim e to give you to-day. Good-bye, Captain. Don’t get discouraged. And a Major, Too! “Come in, Major. W h a t are you holding in your h a n d ? A poem, eh? Stand at ease a m inute, Major, and I’ll look it over. H ’m. T h a t rhym e in the fourth line is atrocious! And here in the second stanza your m eter goes all to pieces. Now, Major it’s my un- THE GIRL FROM. YOUR OLD HOME TOWN. I was born somewhere in Heaven, On a street th a t they call Broadway, But the w isest fall for the bugle’s call— So I signed my life away. It made me m ighty sorry, Bud, To leave my I’ll old home, For you’re wise to the sighs and the terrible cries Of a New Y orker th a t has to roam. But when they said you’ll spend the W inter In the balmy, Sunny South, I thought of Irving Berlin and his barrels of tin, And his songs in everyone’s mouth. I thought of his hundreds of lyrics, Of wonderful, dear Dixie, And I w a sn’t so sad, in fact I was glad For it looked like a Palm Beach spree. A-living in a refrigerator, A-singing a snow bird’s song, W h a t’s that? Magnolias and cotton?—Yon Tilzer you’re rotten, And Irving B e rlin—you’re all wrong; If you really had to w rite som ething, If you had to put choruses down, W hy not sing of the one good thing: The girl from my own home town. She’s made the sam e old camp-fire Look like the lights of Broadway, And her New York pep and her big town step Ju s t brushes all the South aw a y ; For she made the drab-colored gloomy tent Seem ju s t like a cabaret, And the crackling sound of the frost on the ground Was a tune a jazz band m ight play. So Buddy, take this message From a boy who is far away, To the m a n who rhym e s about foreign climes—■ Oh, don’t forget Broadway! PVT. IRA D. BRALL, CO. D, 102d Engs. pleasant duty to tell you th a t you’ll never get on as a poet. W e’ve got no less than forty-seven privates who are turning out bet­ ter verse than this every day. In fact, we get more verse than we can use. W h a t we w a n t is prose. T ry some of th a t and see if you can’t tu r n out som ething w o rth while. Good-bye, M ajor.” We got up and w e n t to the door, from which the long line of officers still stretched a quarter of a m ile away. “Sorry, but we can’t see any more of you to-day. Call to-morrow, or send in your stuff by mail. W e’ve got to put our feet on the desk and sleep the rest of the after­ noon.” C. D. WADSWORTH FABLES Fable of the Boy Who P a rted His H a ir in the Middle. (W ith apologies to Geo. Ade.) By P rivate Howard A. H erty, Co. A, M ilitary Police, Camp W adsw o rth, S p a rtan­ burg, S. C. Artem u s Perw inkle was a Goof. In other W o rds he wore Tortoise-shelled Specs and liked the Smell of Sachet. He also wore a Size thirteen Collar. His favorite H e a d ­ piece was a Yellow and Black H a lf-H a t and to M atch his B u ster Brown collar, he sport­ ed a Scream ing red Bow-tie resem b ling a Nosebleed. Long after he acquired the right to w e a r garters on his biceps, N u rsie would safely lead him by the H and across the T racks to School. A fter school was over, he’d Sit on T e a c h ­ er’s lap, and they’d eat the F ruit he brought in the morning. W h en he brought his T e a c h e r an Apple, she K issed him. H e never brought W aterm elons. A rtie grew up to be a Cicero Hound. W h en the Low Brows of the Community would be Strangling them selves in a Play­ ful game of Football, our Gentle Hero would be cultivating Callouses on his Inverted nose, reading “The Development of A rt D u r­ ing the R enaissance.” As a Mixer, A rtie w as a Flivver, but as a Patrician, he was There to the Steenth Power. As he grew up he becam e W orse. H e hated Girls but was very fond of Old Ladies arid Em b roidery. To ask A rtie about Fril- ton’s chances against W illard or Joe Jack ­ son’s best batting Average would be a W a n ­ ton W a ste of B reath. As a H u m an Being, he Sinned and Fell short, but to hear him Strum a U k u lele or discuss “The N o thing­ ness of Zero” was an Education. His idea of E x trem e D issipation would be to leave the H ouse w ithout R u b b ers or carry a Forbidden box of M atches. Most of the R e g u lar Guys about Town were undecided as to w h e ther to em b race him or Kick him. He was queer and al­ m o st as U n p o p u lar as a Top Sergeant. sfs $ * They had him in K h aki, Somewhere in France. The door had been left open and A rtie had been Caught in the Draft. The Hun had been O p erating a Mean Stam p ede over H elpless Belgium when Uncle Sam peeled off his Coat. Uncle Sammie th o r­ oughly spanked the Boches and among those to R e turn Home was Artie. He had so m any B ravery Medals sprin­ kled over his Chest th a t he was actually Round-Shouldered. Now he lies on his Back at N ight and Rocks him self to Sleep. MORAL: Even a Pom e ranian will growl if you step on his toes.

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