Judge — May 27, 1911 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

FARMER. THE Oo Voices of the Night. By EUNICE WARD. Fat old lady—‘‘Mercy on us! I can never climb up there!’’ Stylish maiden—‘‘ Heavens, Gladys! Have you seen my puffs of hair?’ Drummer (firmly )—‘‘ Beg your pardon, Sir, the lower berth is mine.’’ Youngster (shrilly )—‘‘ Look up, marmar! Peek-a-boo! Say, ain’t this fine?’’ Infant—"Ow-wow, ow-wow, ow-wow!"? Mother—‘‘Tweetums, don’t ums cr; Chorus—‘‘Porter, fix this window !"" “Porter, is this bedding dry?"’ “Porter, make that man stop snoring!’’ ‘Porter, does it always jar?’’ Weary foreigner (in wonder) — “This they call a sleeping car!” Probable. Teacher—''Why didn’t the dove bring back the olive leaf the first time?” Johnny—'Please, mum, ‘cause olives are an acquired taste.’’ HIS is just a little story de- signed to cheer those who are disheartened by their pros- pects in life and to show that often the very things that seem the worst turn out in the end to be all for the best. I cannot think of a worse job or one more useless than being window-dresser “THE PASSING SHOW.” “ALL FOR THE BEST." By ELLIS PARKER BUTLER, Author dow-dresser, anyway. were running a crematory. I should consider it a waste of money. If I were running a crematory, I would not have any windows; and if I had, I would not want them dressed. Old Johann Bith ran a funeral parlor, which is a very different thing from a crematory. A Funeral Parlor—it should be spelled with I wouldn’t, if I capitals—isa swell undertaker shop, with a young church in a back room. It under- takes the entire funeral, church service and all, on a regular schedule of prices. Youcan have anything from the seventy- six-dollar quality up, and the em- ployes have to be a rather mournful First duckling—" 8AY, MA, THIS BEATS A MOTOR BOAT, ALL RIGHT.” in acrematory. For a cheerful, ambi- tious young man, being window-dresser in a crematory can have little attraction. It is what I might call a fool job. Ido not, in fact, hesitate to say that being window-dresser in a crematory would rank with the job of peddling shoes to codfish, Elias Gregory Bith had no such job. I don’t believe there is a crematory in the United States that employs a win- lotof men in order to be ‘‘in the pic- ture,’’ as we artists say. This old Johann Bith ran just about the swellest Funeral Parlor in the United States, and he was the first man to think of having a Permanent Repository for incinerary urns. It was a great hit. Anyway you look at it, the urn contain- ing the ashes of anybody is not a cheer- ing thing to have around the house, and the crematories are usually so far from the civic centers that they are hard to "Pigs te Pig reach. It wasa fine thing to have the urns reposit in the Bith Funeral Parlors, right in the business district. You could stop in and have a look at the par- ticular urn in which you had an interest on your way to business or on your way to do some shopping, and the white urns —some were marble and some white bronze—looked very well on their white shelves in the white Permanent Reposi- tory room. Well, this old Johann Bith had a daughter who was so sweet and pretty and plump and cheerful she might have been the daughter of a humorist, and her third cousin, Elias Gregory Bith, fell frantically in love with her. He simply had to have Susan Bith; but, as she was an only child, old Johann said—and quite properly—that she must wed only a man who would come into the business and THE ENTERING WEDGE, _ -@ comicbooks.com