Alan Mays' photos with the keyword: speech balloons

Buster Brown and his dog Tige on a valentine postcard, circa 1907, by cartoonist Richard F. Outcault (1863-1928). For another Buster Brown valentine, see Here's a Wireless Telegram—Be My Valentine . "I want you to be my valentine. It doesn't seem to be a secret. R. F. Outcault. Raphael Tuck & Sons, Limited. London, Paris, New York, Montreal."

Private William Lengle, a soldier stationed at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, during World War II, filled in the blanks on the front of this Dick Tracy postcard, added a message on the back (see below), and sent it to a friend in Shoemakersville, Pennsylvania. Lengle jokingly claimed that he knew "jo-jo," a nonsensical martial-art name that sounds similar to jiu jitsu , and that he was learning "love." "Licked again Junior? Why don't you pick up a few pointers in self defense from Pvt. Lengle. A good soldier knows jiu jitsu, and jo-jo--right how he's learning love." Postmark on the back of the postcard: "Fort Bragg, N.C., Jul 28, 1943." Message on back: "Dear Ralph, Just a few lines to let you know I am fine. I hope you are too. Ruby [Ralph's nickname?], how are things getting along. I hope fine. I am still here and boy if they don't soon send me out, I'll go crazy. Ruby, we are painting just now and that ain't so bad, so I hope to get shipped out pretty soon. Well I'll say so long because I must go and box tonight so keep 'em flying, Your pal, Bill."

"Greetings from the Philco Convention, Atlantic City." An undated real photo postcard. As far as I can determine, the convention took place in 1953.

"What time is it down there?" "Just eleven." "It's twelve up here—you know eleven and twelve make 23." Handwritten: "Did this ever occur to you?" So what does the mother mean by yelling "eleven and twelve make 23" down at the couple hanging out on the hammock in the front yard at midnight? To understand the humor of this postcard from 1909, it helps to know that a fad about the meaning of the number "23" became wildly popular in the United States in the early twentieth century. Beginning around 1906 or 1907, "23"—along with "23 skidoo"—came to be used as a shorthand way of telling someone to "scram," "beat it," or "get lost," usually with a humorous or joking connotation. Referring to "23" in unexpected ways—as on this postcard or on a valentine —and even placing "23" in surprising places (like on the front of a painted automobile prop in a novelty photo) was a humorous way to let others in on the joke. So it's obvious that mom is keeping tabs on her daughter as she watches the couple from the second-floor window. And her reference to "23" makes it clear (to those in the know, at least) that she wants the guy to skedaddle. Postmark, address, and handwritten note on the other side of this postcard: Omaha & Ogden R.P.O. [ railway post office ], Apr 1, 1909. Miss Hazle Hainline, Grand Island, Neb., 222 W. 6th St. Hello Girlie, wish I could have had the pleasure to set and hear you sing and play tonight. How is mama and dad. Tonight is the first I have eaten since I left your place. Haven't been hungry. Mora. 113 Pub. by Keller Bros., Portland, Or.

A Prohibition-era comic postcard that depicts a man dreaming about a change to the Volstead Act that would allow the sale of beer and create work—and prosperity—for brewers, farmers, and other laborers. As Wikipedia explains, the Volstead Act "was enacted to carry out the intent of the Eighteenth Amendment , which established prohibition in the United States " and banned the production and sale of alcoholic beverages beginning in 1920. Prohibition lasted until 1933, when the Twenty-first Amendment was ratified in order to repeal the Eighteenth Amendment. Franklin Delano Roosevelt used " Happy Days Are Here Again " as his presidential campaign song in 1932, and the repeal of Prohibition took place soon after Roosevelt took office. Signs and captions: "Free lunch today. Good old time lager beer. Free beer tomorrow. Happy days are here again." Dream of Prosperity Last night I dreamed that the Volstead law had been amended permitting the sale of beer (Oh! what a grand and glorious feeling!). Immediately 100,000 carpenters, bricklayers, and laborers went to work building and refitting breweries; 50,000 brewery truck drivers, helpers, vatmen, and coppersmiths were hired; and 100,000 printers were put to work printing beer labels. Bottle works and barrel makers engaged thousands more. Bookkeepers, stenographers, clerks, and salesmen found ready employment by the hundreds of thousands. Thousands of farmers left the city and returned to farms to raise hops and barley. 150,000 musicians went to work in the beer gardens. There was no unemployment. The country hummed with industry. The tax secured from the sale of beer was placed in a fund that was used for an old age pension. Then the scene changed–I saw 1,000,000 bootleggers holding a protest meeting. Disgusted, I then awoke.