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Over Two Years –

Over two years have elapsed since the last Amateur Quill slid out of the AAPA bundles and greeted amateurdom, and a rainy afternoon plus a reminiscence through old A. J. magazines could have but one answer – an issue of the old rag. After a hasty conference it was decided mechanical arrangements could be made and another Quill would hit the December mailing.

A. J. Mags Record History

A great deal of ink has gone through the press since the old Washington hand press coughed out the last Quill and a glance at current world events and at some old issues of A. J. magazines reveals some interesting facts. The far-sightedness of some authors is apparent in foreseeing present world happenings and writing them in their journals. A cross section of history may be viewed by going back through the files and reading the essays of one, two, or three years ago.

Editorial Drool

The poem on page 3 was written by the author when he was in Durance Vile for felony, arson, grand and petty larceny, bigamy, bootlegging and other things too numerous to mention… The next issue of the Quill will probably see daylight in January – if it’s lucky.. Copies of the above mentioned poem may be had by sending a top off of a garbage can to the editors.

Any of Bill Nye’s Works?

If any ajayer knows where the editors may obtain any of Bill Nye’s books, will they please communicate with the Quill and give the information.

Kansas Kracks –

A woman at Moline named her three turkeys Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin. She did so, she explained, so she wouldn’t mind killing them for the holidays. – Moline Advance

Canada reports a hermit 90 years old who has never seen an automobile. That’s one way to live to be 90 years old. – Kansas City Kansan

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The Prisoner of the Osawatomie Crock
by Bud Weaver

Farewell, farewell, O little crock,
Farewell unto your battered lock,
Farewell unto the jailers four,
Whose manly arms opened the door.
Which sent me to my doom.

Farewell, farewell, my cheery fire,
Little flame of my heart’s desire,
Farewell my one electric light
Which guides my way throughout the night
I’ve spent in this here can.

Farewell unto the cold damp floor,
Unto the rustic squeaking door
And to the dingy walls so gray
Which stop the rising sun each day
From reaching to my cell.

But hark, throughout the evening still
Comes Mike and Burt and tricky Bill.
They are my merry jailers three,
Whose job it is to set me free,
To take me from the cooler.

With saddened heart I turn, and slow
Towards the squeaking door I go;
For each of us knows all too well
When I have gone from this hotel
That we shall meet no more.

I write of all this woe and stuff,
For a prisoner’s life is not so tuff,
And so it’s thus, that even I
Regain my freedom with a sigh.

(With apologies to Byron)

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“I do not agree with a word you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.” – Voltaire

The Amateur Quill – Printed in the interests of Amateur Journalism by Bud and Donald Weaver, Osawatomie, Kansas.
Duck Bradley, Stooge

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