DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Little Wit, issue 5, August 1940

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Little Wit, issue 5, August 1940

page 6

   'Well, the European war seems to be going the way you said it would. But do you still believe that war will have to spread around the world before we can have peace?'
   'You misunderstand, for I use wrong word maybe. Not war but strife, quarrel. Until different people learn they have different interest, war and peace both impossible. Life without struggle only old man's dream of death. Men seeking death, but will not find. God determined to give life.'
   'Ah, you are one of those rare creatures, the optimists, the universalists, who say we're going to heaven whether or no. But wouldn't men as a whole be better off if some men died to stay dead? That's what they always ask a universalist.'
   'How can all men be better if some men worse? And God be very worse if admit he fail in even one case. For own glory heaven must rescue all its creature.'
   'Sounds like Calvinism. The words are the same, but the tune is so different!'
   'Like hundredth psalm to tune of Green Sleeves?'
   'You said it, or at least you quoted it. And I agree, I think, with W.S. that the new tune fits the words better. But we can't let this conversation drag on. I am only stenciling six pages this time. What are your plans?  Going back to Stockton?'
   'No, guess I work in peaches here in Oakdale. Can't pick fast, can't travel fast with box or tray, but sure can sort dried fruit.'
   'Something in the nature of an editor or a critic. Well, I'll be seeing you now and then.'
   So my collaborator, Mr. Chugchug, has taken up his residence in the Filipino hotel across the tracks, and can be depended upon to enlighten my readers at least once more this year, twice, I hope.

Magnificent Inducment

   Mrs.: I'm too fat! . . . I tell you, you gimme a dollar for every pound I reduce?
   Mr.: I'd give you a thousand for every pound you slough off, if I had a lotta thousands . . . I'll give you a dollar for every thousand pounds you lose. 
                         L.O.O.P.

It's just as well that poets don't make wages:
Had we no bars, how could we see our cages?

6            August 1940    LITTLE WIT

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'Well, the European war seems to be going the way you said it would. But do you still believe that war will have to spread around the world before we can have peace?' 'You misunderstand, for I use wrong word maybe. Not war but strife, quarrel. Until different people learn they have different interest, war and peace both impossible. Life without struggle only old man's dream of death. Men seeking death, but will not find. God determined to give life.' 'Ah, you are one of those rare creatures, the optimists, the universalists, who say we're going to heaven whether or no. But wouldn't men as a whole be better off if some men died to stay dead? That's what they always ask a universalist.' 'How can all men be better if some men worse? And God be very worse if admit he fail in even one case. For own glory heaven must rescue all its creature.' 'Sounds like Calvinism. The words are the same, but the tune is so different!' 'Like hundredth psalm to tune of Green Sleeves?' 'You said it, or at least you quoted it. And I agree, I think, with W.S. that the new tune fits the words better. But we can't let this conversation drag on. I am only stenciling six pages this time. What are your plans? Going back to Stockton?' 'No, guess I work in peaches here in Oakdale. Can't pick fast, can't travel fast with box or tray, but sure can sort dried fruit.' 'Something in the nature of an editor or a critic. Well, I'll be seeing you now and then.' So my collaborator, Mr. Chugchug, has taken up his residence in the Filipino hotel across the tracks, and can be depended upon to enlighten my readers at least once more this year, twice, I hope. Magnificent Inducment Mrs.: I'm too fat! . . . I tell you, you gimme a dollar for every pound I reduce? Mr.: I'd give you a thousand for every pound you slough off, if I had a lotta thousands . . . I'll give you a dollar for every thousand pounds you lose. L.O.O.P. It's just as well that poets don't make wages: Had we no bars, how could we see our cages? 6 August 1940 LITTLE WIT