While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing; Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm. If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season, At my door, an endless line would straightway form, Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid, It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare, For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar, That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair. Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters, By arresting them and placing them in jail; Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated, Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail, So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party Of my own without a solitary care, Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers, In my little home-made bar beneath the stair. * * * * * I Doubt If You Don’t _When the Whiz Bang first made its debut into the world in 1919, we published the poem, “I Don’t.” Now steps up a contributor and offers an answer to it. Both of them have punch and pep, so we are offering these twin sisters of poetic mirth for your approval herewith.—The Editor._ I Don’t My mama told me not to smoke— I Don’t. Nor listen to a naughty joke— I Don’t. They made it clear I must not wink At handsome men nor even think About intoxicating drink— I Don’t. To dance and flirt is very wrong— I Don’t. Wild girls chase men, wine and song— I Don’t. I kiss no boys, not even one. I do not know how it is done. You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun— I Don’t. * * * * * In Answer to the Above When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own, With none to gossip about it; Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it. When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize, With a velvety softness about it; Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it. When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm, With a wonderful plumpness about it; Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm; Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it. * * * * * A Ballad of Forsaken Wives By Mrs. Henry Mobley. My husband’s gone and left me In the hills of Brown; Forsaken me on account of Others of this little town. He’s always been a blacksmith; I treated the man well; The last words he told me Were, I’d better go to hell. It was awful hard to swallow, Hard to get it down. Now he’s forsaken me for Others of this little town.