Bill Bone: author, entertainer

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Bill Bone Author Entertainer


BILL BONE Entertainer

That You May Know Him
IT IS INDEED REFRESHING, as well as very unusual, to find one who brings to the Lyceum world the products of his own brain—creations instead of imitations.  But such a one is found in Bill Bone, who has said:

I think a feller ought
To never borry thought;
But dig his ideas out
Afore he tries to shout.


He is a combination of philosopher, poet and humorist, all so beautifully linked together in one man, that you find it difficult to tell in which he excels.

His philosophy, at all times practical, finds its way through the highest veins of thought and reason in such an unbiased manner that you are at first surprised at the simplicity of his argument then strengthened by the soundness of his logic.

His poetry, quaint and homely, touches alike the humor and pathos, enlivens the natural, ridicules the artificial, finds a heart in nature and a home with the common folks, adding to the beauty of his happy songs the poet's fancy and the artist's presentation.

His humor, clean, wholesome, original and most refreshing, carries with it a two-fold mission—to entertain and to instruct, and yet it is not so much the laughter as the truth that follows after.  A man who believes in the eternal fitness of things—that if he would reach the heart, he must do it through a smile and not a scowl, through a laugh and not a howl, that we must look up and let the sun shine in if we would have the soul shine out.  In all his Medley Talks there is a unique blending of poetry, humor and philosophy, entertaining, instructive, stimulating, touching the heart-strings of sentiment and filled to the brim with the spice of life—variety.  An evening with Mr. Bone means to laugh, to think, and to believe, and like many others exclaim: he is so splendidly different.

A man of pleasing personality, positive in his message, eloquent in his delivery, with a purpose in his heart and a soul in his work.  As he well says in one of his poems:

he man that wins the human race,
That pens the sacred scroll,
Must have a Soul behind the face,
A God behind the Soul.




BILL BONE Offers
MEDLEY TALKS
under the following suggestive titles

Sunny Smiles Backlog Philosophy and Home Spun Yarns Tune Up


Humorous—but not all screams
Logical—but not all themes
Poetical—but not all dreams





BILL BONE Poet-Entertainer

AS OTHERS SEE HIM

Burlington, Ia.—The apostle of cheerfulness.—
Hawkeye.


Litchfield, Ill.—In a class by himself.—
Herald.


Farmington, Ia.—Original and immensely different from other entertainers.—
News.


Kalkaska, Mich.—He is far more than an ordinary funny man.  Back of his poetry, jokes and witty sayings there is a deep truth that shines out like the evening star.—
The Kalkaskian.


Clinton, Ill.—Three times at Weldon Springs, his home chautauqua, and no reader ever more completely captivated his audience.—
Register.


Joliet, Ill.—His rapid and fluent delivery with his versatility and endless variety of original poems shows a rare talent not often found in a humorist.—
News.



A SAMPLE TRIBUTE
WE HAVE KEPT most press notices out of this circular for a change.  Notices by the hundred, and long ones, too, might be used, for we have received plenty of them.  But here is a brief notice clipped from a recent issue of the Findlay, Ohio, Morning Republican, which fairly describes Mr. Bone's entertainment:

Bill Bone, poet-philosopher and humorist of the first grade, appeared before a fair-sized audience at Findlay College, Thursday evening, in his delightful chat, entitled Sunny Smiles.

Mr. Bone reads poems of his own composition, binding them together with anecdotes and witticisms.  His humor is laugh-compelling and his original philosophy of life contains quaintly put truth that finds lodgment in the hearts of his hearers, making them better for having heard him.  His audience, Thursday night, was most appreciative and applause was frequent and hearty.

The entertainer was introduced by Prof. J. N. Traxler, and won his audience from the start both by the merit of his poems and his own personality.  His philosophy of the good and bad in life is wholesome and is based on the fact that for every negative there must be a positive—for every abnormal, a normal condition.  Thus if we see here a wrong or a lie we know from the very fact that there is such a condition, there must be a right or a truth, or the abnormal condition could not exist.  A few lines from one of his poems about the bashful freckled face boy and his sweet-heart will illustrate his style of humor:

Now as I kept a-growin' larger as fer size,
The freckles kept a-gettin' bigger 'round my eyes;
But Mandy, bless her heart, she understood, I guess,
An' chose a bigger polka dot with every dress
She bought: her polka-dotted gowns a keepin' pace
With this abundant growth of freckles on my face.




Abe Lincoln

NOT MUCH for looks, so bony, lank and lean.
Ungainly, too, and clumsy-like and green,
Perhaps, in worldly ways; so tall and slim,
It took six feet and four to measure him.
A giant?  Yes, in master mind and heart,
A child in tenderness, a freak in art;
Not much for handsome, no redeeming points,
Just made of crooked bones and wabbly joints
Creation used in making worn out jokes—
The odds and ends that's left of handsome folks
Was his make up; the Architect, it seems,
Might not have carried art to such extremes,
But handsome is as handsome does, and grace
Is oftimes hid behind a homely face—
As this great figure, clad in homespun dress,
Was ever handsome in its homeliness.
With heavy laden heart, he swapped his jokes,
And stood as one among the common folks;
And man dare not deny that God can place,
A mighty soul behind a homely face.



Punkin Pies

BUZ MILLER said to me, he'd bet 'at his
Big toes wus sore ez my toe wus; Gee-Whiz!
I guess I wusn't long in callin' Buz,
Soon show'd him mine wus sore'n his'n wus:
'Caus' I'm the manager uv our great show,
Un' what I say, you bet, hez got to go;
What Buzzy says don't cut no ice with me,
When I'm ring-master un' manageree
Combined: jump in the cage when lions roar,
Un' beat 'em with my fist till they is sore
Ez my big toe; make 'em so sorry.  Gee!
They lick my hand to 'pologize to me.
They's awful differcult to cure; my ma
Says they is toughest thing she ever saw;
But then don't 'peer to matter what she tries;
Don't nuthin' help 'em much—'cept punkin' pies;
Naw!  you don't put 'em on the sore, you dunce!
You take 'em inwerdly—whole pie at once;
Jes' souse yer face in one up to yer eyes,
Un' then say punkin, unkin, punkin pies.





DEAR Friends: I write poetry and yet my life has not been a sweet jingling song of many verses.  I have had numerous reverses that did not jingle and do not pose as a natural born poet.  My parents are sensible people and not responsible for my rhythm, rhyme, and poverty.  No heredity in my geneology and no poetic germs on the old family tree.



They tell me that poets are born.
So doubt of my birth is dismissed.
I thought that we hatched from an egg,
And hen-like just scratch to exist.



Here is just a bit of the poetry:


THUMBS UP OR WIGGLE-WAGGLE

When she put on that polka-dotted dress of her'n
And then begun a hitchin' up to me, Dad-burn!
There was no use a standin' back on freckles, sir;
I up and just begun a hitchin' up to her—
A wearin' of that polka-dotted dress so fine,
And me this homely polka-dotted face of mine;
But Mandy, thoughtful like, she understood and got
That dress to match my face; God bless the polka-dot!
When you're in love and out of fix with school or books
And face a hurtin' so you're sorry for your looks,
It's comfortin' to have a girl like Mandy Brown,
Say wiggle-waggle; thumbs up; Simon says, thumbs down.



PICTURES IN THE RINGS OF SMOKE

Perhaps 'tis but a dream; a drowsy, smoky yesterday,
And yet I see it all, the pipe, the fire, the Milky Way;
The hazy atmosphere, the clouds above dare I define,
Are naught but rings of smoke that crown a precious face divine:
Just puff the earth and sky so full, I fancy like it makes
These foggy, misty, morns.  Ah me!  a world of smoke it takes
To form the clouds above; I s'pose I made the sky so blue;
The stars are sparks from this old pipe that shine for me and you,
Just making rings of smoke and watching them float into space;
In ev'ry ring I see a picture of my sweetheart's face,
Just as it smiled in girlhood days beneath that shady oak—
My pipe goes out.  Alas!  her pictures vanish with the smoke.



MOTHER'S WRINKLES

Well, mother, boys, is getting old, she's wrinkleder than you,
But I ain't scusing o' the looks o' her, she's handsome, too;
For ninety years she's lived, put' nigh, and age adds sich a grace
I'm proud o' her—I'm not ashamed o' that old wrinkled face;
Her eyes don't sparkle much, no dimpled cheek nor golden curl—
She's just old grandma now, that's all, she ain't no little girl
Like once she was; folks say she's homely like and out o' style,
But law!  it's mother's face, them wrinkles wrinkle out a smile
That's heaven like to me; there's something 'bout her looks divine—
She's my old sweetheart ev'ry day, she's mother, and she's mine.
I know it's just a plain, old, wrinkled face, with lips drawn tight,
But where's the harm in wrinkles when the face is wrinkled right?
It's age that makes them, yes, but has your face been treated fair?
It ain't the wrinkles, boys, that counts, but how'd you put 'em there!
And have you worn a smile, or has it been a scowl or frown,
And do the wrinkles wrinkle up, or do they wrinkle down?
Now mother's face is wrinkled up, the wrinkles make her smile,
And that's how mother's han'some, boys, the wrinkles give her style.





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THE COIT LYCEUM BUREAU, Citizens Bldg., CLEVELAND, OHIO
Arthur C. Coit, President   Louis J. Alber, General Manager