We have no desire to see America a nation of male toe dancers. Let there be “prize fighting” if it is to help save the country from the bigotry of the organized minority. If we don’t look out we’ll soon be as unprotected as a toke point oyster on the half shell—and it will be the folk who are raving about prize fighting that will do it. * * * * * My hip is often my castle. * * * * * Ikey’s New Bank Ikey was talking to his Yiddish merchant friend in the latter’s store when the dealer’s young son toddled in and said, “Papa, give me some money.” The father reached in his pocket and handed the boy a quarter. His friend appeared rather shocked at the show of liberality. “Why, how much spending money do you give that kid every week?” he asked. Levy replied, “Only three quarters.” “Don’t you think you’re too extravagant with a child?” “Oh, no,” answered Levy, “I showed him how to put the quarters in the gas meter and he thinks it’s a bank.” * * * * * Report From London They were holding an inquest upon poor Sandy McHarris, whose body had been taken from the Thames. Eleven of the jury were for returning a verdict of suicide, but the twelfth, a brither Scot demurred. “Hoo could it be suicide?” he asked. “Ah’m for a vairdict o’ ‘Accidental death,’ maisel. Ye’ll notice that the puir laddie had a bottle of whisky on him, and it was nearly full.” Verdict in accordance with the evidence. * * * * * “Say, Gus,” asked a neighbor, “I heard that the foreman has had a fever. How’s his temperature today?” Our hired man scratched his head and decided not to commit himself. “Taint for me to say,” he replied. “He died last night.” _Smokehouse Poetry_ _In the November issue Smokehouse Poetry will bring back to memory that Civil War classic, “Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late.” This beautiful and touching poem was written by an officer of the Confederate Army to the most beautiful and brilliant belle of Savannah, the fiancee of the officer’s companion in prison. The woman had written a cold, heartless letter, but her fiance had died before the letter was received and the poem was in answer to it._ _Tonight your home may shine with lights,_ _And ring with merry songs,_ _And you be smiling as though your soul_ _Had done no deathly wrong._ _Your hands so fair, none would think_ _Had penned these words of pain,_ _Your skin so white, would God, your heart,_ _Were half so free from stain._ _In addition to this noted classic, Whiz Bang will reproduce “Down In the Lehigh Valley,” which is well known by name among Smokehouse fans. And, in parting, folks, don’t forget that the Winter Annual will contain the greatest assortment of Smokehouse poetry ever put into print. Send your dollar in before you are too late._ * * * * * The Prisoner’s Prayer