Judge — February 5, 1910 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

THE MANUSCRIPT. By EDWIN L. SABIN HOLD a bit of manuscript From out my cerebrum equipped ; My cerebellum the inditer Upon my faithful old typewriter. One afternoon unheralded It issued from my aching head— ‘As mythologean avers Minerva did from Jupiter's. All armed was she; and verses, you Shall likewise fare, without ado; child of mine has ever failed To be exceedingly well mailed. Now born, I wonder what shall be, Sweet manuscript, your destiny. The humor in your lines concealed— Will it to “* readers" be revealed ? Or, ventured as a serious flight, (With one or two revisions slight), Will you attract the approbation Of some religious publication ? Or, finally, in meaning dense, Devoid of humor and of sense; Unfitted for aught else, 1 ween, Be taken by a magazine, There to be used, as chance may hap, Like rags, to fill, forsooth, a gap! [erro BANG Unnoticed all, perused by none Except the proofreader—not one! But go your way, and straight essay Genius To be by turn dull, grave, and gay; receptive void "” — And after many a strange rehash At last be alchemized to cash. THE FORM OF DEVOTION. “Te Italian stood by his truck with a tired, tragic look, while urchins, with common faces transformed by rapt in unwashed ‘out expression, anticipating cent luxurie lingered around. It was the worship of Isis.—14 reschs Hanswt IN NEWSPAPER CIRCLES, First reporter (going out on his three hundred and forty- seventh assignment in three days)—‘* They say Napoleon used to take two hours’ sleep a night.”” ond reporter (coming in from his three hundred and sev- eighth) —‘*He probably 4 that much with all the work he had.""—F p. atom A LITTLE TRAGEDY OF LOVE. By WILLIAM J. LAMPTON HE HAD told him that her father utterly disapproved of him and had issued peremp- tory orders that he should not come to the house. She trembled as she told him and there were tears in her eyes, for she feared that even then papa might be within hearing, possibly reach, of her loved one. But he was brave. When Love was in the van, { What cared he for any man? He was indeed no fair- weather lover, and the storm and stress made him much stuncher in his devotion to the one girl in all the world for him. “What boots it, dearest?” he whispered to her, soft and THE WASTE-BASKET. Yes, sir; great genius must have an outlet! In every brain there is a waiting, eager, Editor (interrupting) —"* That is so. And in every office there is a waiting, yawning receptacle also. Send along your effusions, Mr. Genius !** low, taking her to his manly bosom, breathing into her shell like ear. ‘* What boots it 7”"—— “1 do!’ thundered papa, appearing upon the scene, rear entrance; and there was a dull, sickening thud which indicated that he did. THE MAGAZINE POET'S VERSES. HEY'RE modest as a violet, And never give a hint Of anything off-color, yet They don’t look weil in print. WASHABLE, Artist—"' Be careful, because the paint is fresh !"" Mollycoddle—* Never mind ; I shall wash my hands later.’ comicbooks.com