MARVELOUS things are promised for us farmers with the practical development of radio dynamics. AccoiJing to John Hays Hammond, Jr., we will soon be milking the cows, bedding down the Pomeranians,
setting the guinea hens and plowing the south 40 by means of the invisible reins from the heavens. It will be the bantam rooster's left tonsil — as the vaudeville jokesters say — when Olaf, my ploughboy, can sit on the fence beside a can of snoose and tell the gang-plow where to head in merely by doing a little table tapping o \e barb wire with a 20-penny spike. The possibilities of ether vibration also are great in the way of bringing music, instruc- tion and oratory to the hayseed's fireside. I can picture Maggie, the cook, Ikey and Olaf and the rest of my hand-assorted farm folk and parchesi players gathered around a wireless trumpet after the noon lunch listening to a dramatic reading of a Sears-Roebuck catalog or a song "When the Corn Harvest Is Bloom- ing," written by some famous chiropodist. Unless the scientists have been looking too long at the moon, this radio business will make old-fashioned agriculture look like one of Paine's ring-tail spasms. Home life on the farm will be something besides Maggie grab- bing two brooms like a pair of oars and rowing herself through lakes of farmyard fungi, flanked by milk pails, dirty overalls, feather dusters and other implements of comfort de- struction. All that will be done by wireless as soon as the weather gets cool enough for the radio experts to think without getting palpitation of the antennae. I have never bragged much about my rural Eobbinsdale bungalow since I came back from my trip to the West Coast last fall. Out in Los Angeles I spent an evening with my oil friend, Eobert Henderson, in his Los Angeles mansion and Bob has the finest layout I have ever sp^n. As I sunk up to my shoe tops in Turkish rugs I couldn't help but admire the Japanese for wanting to come over and pick the currants out of our cake. However, even if we simple coun- try folk don't have fountains in the sun room and statues of Pan playing a saxaphone solo on a thermos bottle stuck around in our front parlors — home is where your heart is. This wireless business ought to bring the Whiz Bang farm closer to Robbinsdale and that in itself is enough to make my farmyard domicile sparkle like an effervescent bottle of apple juice. What is prettier to look at than that? You don't have to drink it. Wherefore, I say, bring on the radio plow- ing; the radio-furnace and the self -cranking ouija boards even though it does mean mid- night recitals by amateur radio reserves, com- bined with national casket makers' statistics and interpolated remarks by W. J. Bryan on "The Office Socks the Man." AFTER a dame has paid eight bucks for a pair of stockings, you can't blame her for showing $7.50 worth of them. AN INDIAN from the Leech Lake Reserva- tion near Breezy Point recently toted a winsome copper-colored maiden to the sky-pilot at Pequot to get married. The min- ister asked the bride-to-be if her "big chief" had any property. Her answer was: "Nothing." "And you, are you any better off?" Again a negative reply. "Then what on earth do you want to get married for?" queried the reverend gentleman. "Him got blanket. Me got blanket. Too damn cold sleep one blanket." WITH the advent of summer the farm and woodland warblers are in full song. Which probably is why I met Olaf com- ing around the house the other night. "What have you been doing there?" I asked my Swed- ish Svengali. "Listening," replied Olaf. "At What?" "Listening to the cook 'Oo' was Olaf's quite unanswerable explanation. If there were any cooks-ooing about at that time of the night they should have been in their cook-oo clocks getting some sleep. It has struck me, anyway, that the cook-oos and the buzzing and feathered folk have an exaggerated idea of when the day begins. Long before dawn the cocks start the morning sym- phony with their lusty crowing. This seems to awaken envy in all the melody makers. You hear the br-r-r of the flicker; the blackbird fol- lows with his liquid music; the jolly little wren is on hand with his morning twitter; the blue- winged jay softens his call a little to welcome the daybreak, while in the background there echoes the busy chirp of the ever-present spar- row and the soft melody of another wonderful bird, Pedro junior, calling to his twenty wives. That little pest, the mosquito, is up so early he meets himself going to he* My Irish farm hand,Ikey, has the mosquito A cch so badly that I noticed when he was eating Maggie's hot cakes the other morning he scratched his cakes and poured the syrup down his back. Ikey must have been out listening to the cook-oos, also, or else the Robbinsdale mosquitoes have special relish for kosher meat. Anyway, his nose folds up now like a patent golf bag car- rier and his eyes look like wormholes in a snow drift. He blames his Scotch plaid expres- sion partially on the mosquitoes and partly on Neighbor Sol Markee's 22-year-old son, Alf. Alfred came over disguised as an alms giver on a food train and hornswaggled Ikey into a $10 bet on his game cock against Neighbor Markee's pet eagle. According to Ikey's description of the fight by rounds, the first went to the eagle by the flick of a talon. In the second the eagle knocked Ikey's entry for a row of hand-painted chicken coops and after he had him down he bit one of the game cock's feet off. Ikey lost his $10 and his rooster is out a foot. That ex- plains why my farm-hand is madder than a woodpecker on a marble tree and why his dis- position squeaks like a dry axel. THE night after the game cock incident Tom Howard, of the Howard Lumber Company, Robbinsdale, dropped in for a round of bridge and Ikey was invited to make a fourth. Heart r v eing led, he threw away a club. "Failing?" asked Tom Howard, his partner. "Don't drag in business," retorted my He- brew hay handler. AMES J. JEFFRIES' and Dick Ferris' new, religion is certainly liberal enough, with wine, tobacco and dancing allowed. Now if only they will announce "no collections," the empty church problem will be solved. Here's hoping Whiz Bang readers will soon address me as "Apostle Bill." My application for Minnesota Apostolic appointment is wait- ing approval of Messrs. Jeffries and Ferris, et al. * * * MINNEAPOLIS clothier is advertising suits for small boys "with the pants cut wide at the bottom 'flapper style.'" If it hadn't been for the advertisement some of us hicks from the farms and small towns wouldn't know to this day just what kind the flappers are wearing. E ARE contemplating a boxing tourna- ment on our farm with a "beautiful lamp" as a trophy. THE modern American college should be given credit for teaching our young men the proper system for asking for money from home in such a diplomatic manner that we old codgers consider it an honor to give it to them. T MAY be called a hair net but a lot of poor fish get caught in it.