Judge — November 2, 1907 — page 5: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS | BETWEEN A CHRISTIAN SCIENTIST AND A BOIL ON THE NECK. HE SCIENTIST—I seem to experience a boil’ on my neck. Do you believe you are there? t The boil—Certainly Tam. I've come for a week or so. The scientist—1 suppose it is out of the question, although of course it is immaterial to me personally, to persuade you of your own non-existibility. The boit—Quite so. I am an un- usually active boil, if I do say it as shouldn't, and non-exisitibility is not one of my weaknesses. The scientist Nevertheless, you are not and not is you—and that proves it. In the bright lexicon of science there is no such thing as a boil on the neck, The boil—You surprise me! The scientist—Absolutely no such thing whatever; so T advise you to go away. The boil—But if Ido not exist how can I go away? An active departure performed by a non-existent quan- tity- The scientist—You exist only in my imagination. The boil—Ah, then I do exist somewhere. Well, that’s something. The scientist—1 shall permit you to exist there no longer. You have now ceased to exist. Go away! Do you hear me? Go away! The boil—I suppose you wish me to go away and exist in somebody else's imagination. That is possibly scien- tific, but is it altogether Christian ? The scientist—I don't care whether it is Christian or whether it isn’t. Oh, dear! what am I saying? Boils are so irritating! I mean that I don’t believe in you, and I won't believe in you! So there! The boil—No? Then may I ask why you are talking with me? Iam a simple boil, and I ask only for informa- AMONG THE PROVINCIALS. tion. If you don’t believe in me, how did you know Tam Mr. New Yorken—"'I see they attacked King Alfonso in the street and tried to im."* here? Mrs. Tennyment—'" I didn’t know it, That's the trouble with living in a back flat. The scientist—Will you go away, or shall I read | never see anything.” Mother Eddy to you? The boil—Eh? The deuce! The scientist —We will begin with seventeen pages from “Science and Health.” Then we will proceed * to—— The boit—Never mind—never mind! I'm going. Good-day! The scientist—There! didn’t I tell you you were non-existent ? RALPH REXGENGREX, YE OLDE-TYME BUCKE WHEATE CAYKE, H, welcome back again the days— The glorious days of fall— When Frost rides through the autumn haze To hold the land in thrall! The morning chill, with snow entrain, The ice upon the lake. Oh, welcome to our board again, Ye olde-tyme bucke wheate cayke! Farewell the pleasant picnic spread— The lunch along the shore! ‘The festive festival has fled, THE WHYFOR. 46 JONES just refused a cigar. I thought he was an inveterate smoker?” “Oh, that's all right. He's only sworn off until after Christmas, so his wife won't give him cigars.” SMOKE UP. THE two-cent-cigar industry is safe. The Indian jute-crop is estimated at 10,000,000 bales, nearly 2,000,000 more bales than are needed for bags and wall-decoration. IN DOUBT. PROFESSOR TRIGGS has got himself in the papers again through some unfortunate indiscre- tion ; but whether it is a case of trig- amy or plain philanthropy we have not beer informed. THE CAUSE AND EFFECT. Jeavous surror—"' Of course he clasped you in his arms when the boat upset?” Faswion-pLate—* No; Just the opposite."’ Jeatous surtor—'* Just the opposite? What do you mean?" Faswtion-ptare—" Why, the boat upset when he clasped me In his arms." The clambake days are o'er. All drinks with ice and mint eschew ; Cold luncheons, too, forsake. Ah, here’s a morning's health to you, Thou toothsome bucke wheate cayke! Adieu, ye patent breakfast food ! Thou clammy bun, away! Banished the prunes, forever stewed ; The buttered toast 's passé! No more I'll set me down in fear To wrestle with the steak. Welcome instead, with song and cheer, Ye blithesome bucke wheate cayke! Now let the rattling grid be heard, Announcing another day— ‘The muffled sound of batter stirred, ‘The good old-fashioned way. For healthy appetites profound Each chilly morning makes. Welcome, ye golden, crispy mound Of olde-tyme bucke wheate caykes! DOW. CAMERON SHAPER, comicbooks.com