Judge, 1893-11-04 · page 3 of 16
Judge — November 4, 1893 — page 3: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two distinct elements: **"Practical Scientists"** (top): A romantic scene where a man suggests casting a kiss for each shooting star, but the woman protests it's too cloudy. He counters that astronomers calculate ten million stars fall nightly—wasting time watching them would be foolish. The satire mocks pseudo-scientific reasoning used as romantic pickup lines, poking fun at men who misappropriate scientific facts to justify amorous behavior. **"A Pastel in Prose" and "The Joke That Failed"** (bottom): A story about November farm life—hens not laying eggs, snow, cold—featuring a boy's failed prank involving an egg and his father. The sequential comic panels illustrate the punchline's disappointment. This appears to be rural humor about farming hardships and childhood mishaps rather than political satire.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
PRACTICAL SCIENTISTS. * Now for every shooting star to-night I shall exact a kiss.” “* But, George, it's so cloudy to-night we can’t see them.” —"We don't need to. Astronomers calculate that ten million odd stars fall every night, and it would be a waste of valuable time for us to watch ‘And they don't.) A PASTEL IN PROSE. [7 WAS the last week in November and fresh eggs were thirty-six cents a dozen. Snow covered the grass, frost-bitten long since, yet tempting to a hen. Ice covered the path to the hen-house. The maple boughs rattled like the passementerie trimming on the wrap of Lucrece. It was the last week in November. Alll day long the hens lingered in the hen-house. At noon the sun sent a beam of warmth across their pen, The old hens fought to stand in it. The rooster sank into himself until his hackles looked like an Elizabethan ruff. It was the last week in November and fresh eggs were thirty-six cents adozen, All day long the hens lingered in the hen-house. For three weeks no eggs had been laid. Snow covered the grass and a hen needs green food and warmth. Outside, the passementerie boughs rattled like dice thrown for drinks. It was biting cold. For three weeks no eggs had been laid. The hens stood on one foot each and longed for spring. Some sought the hay in the nests for warmth. The rooster crowed coldly and the hens shook their heads at each crow. Did you ne‘er notice it? The ground was chilly. They stood on the other foot each. A pullet crept out of a dark nest and, cackling much, flew to the ground. Outside, little Johnny rattled the latch like a maple bough incrusted with passementerie trimming. Then he came in. The pullet cackled. The rooster echoed the pullet’s cry. Little Johnny felt in the dark nest. Fresh eggs were thirty-six cents a dozen. “Hurrah!” he cried.“ My pet pullet has laid an egg.” He ran out. It was the last week in November. Snow covered the grass. Ice covered the path from the hen- house. Little Johnny slipped on the ice and fell and the egg exploded. It was the last week in November and fresh eggs were thirty-six cents a dozen. —cuarurs aarrant Loowis THE JOKE THAT FAILED, comicbooks.com