Judge, 1912-02-17 · page 5 of 24
Judge — February 17, 1912 — page 5: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a satirical diary entry by Robert W. Edgdon mocking a child named "Little George" (likely referencing George Washington, given the "crossing the ball floor" reference and later mention of presidential ambitions). The humor targets the child's grandiose self-importance and precocious behavior—breaking furniture, shooting crows with his father's pistol, and declaring intentions to become President. The satire critiques both the boy's violent antics and his inflated sense of destiny. The embedded illustration titled "AT LAST THE TEST" shows a domestic scene where a wife tests her husband's devotion with rhetorical challenges about sacrifice—a separate social satire about marriage expectations. The overall piece uses childhood misbehavior as a vehicle for broader social and political commentary typical of Judge magazine's satirical approach.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
THE PITFALL. Little George’s Diary. EBRUARY 22d. Got up betimes, this being my busy birthday. I am six to-day. Just read the papers to see if that fact was mentioned, and am amazed to see how slow thuse editors are. Now, if I had been an editor, I should have arranged to have a set of drawings—Little George Washington, the son of his father, crossing the hall floor; Little George at the head of his wooden soldiers, or Little George smash- ing the crockery ware in a nasty fit of passion, because his pet hen had laid a china egg. Then I would have told how Little George received the interviewer in his Sunday suit, and led him round the garden so as to show an intel- ligent interest in the pigs and cows. I tell you, those fellows know no- thing about their business. I see it’s up to me to make things hum to-day. It’s no use having my nurse do a Sunday supplement ar- ticle, because those things aren't invented yet; so that’s one up against her. Pop’singreat form. Said onac- count of me axin’ questions, as the Irish might say, he would give me alittle axe. I see my way clear to do a historical stunt. No doubt whoever reads this will be sur- prised at my brightness, but I may say confidentially that I have both eyes very firmly fixed on the fu- ture, as I have been told on very reliable authority that people will be rather pleased to have known me or anything about me. Lorry —of course, he’s my elder brother —I need say no more—but he woul Hubby By ROBERT W. SNEDDON. thinks I’m going to be a preacher; but I'm not. I’m going to be—well, you'll see afterward. The axe has a fine edge. That sounds like a sentence out of the grammar, but it’s merely a keen adherence to the truth. Truth! I have a bully idea! Bully is one of my new words. It does not, as one might suppose, refer to a ruffler or swaggerer, but is a term of determinate qualification. Now to try my little axe and the edge aforesaid. Seems to cut the woodwork pretty well. I fear I have chopped off the leg of the table. Still, it was worth it, and I am conscious of having done something well and effi- AT LAST THE TEST. Wife—' George, before we married, you told me that you Id go through fire and water for me."" “ And so I would, dearie, willingly."" Wifte—"' Then go and discharge the cook."” ciently. The table has now three legs. I think I may let it go at that. I think Fido’s tail is just a trifle too long. It mars the periodic atmosphere of the room. I have just found out that Fido is wiser and quicker at a getaway than the table. 1 have now broken the gold- fish bow] which was an ornament to the chamber. Still, it is better that the fish should die now than linger to the ultimate of adolescence. This is going to be some day, if indi- cations point anything like—set fair for mischief. You don’t catch me going down to posterity as a goody-goody who was the pride of the village. No, sir- ree! Perishthe thought! IfIam to be President—what is a Presi- dent, I wonder—I never heard the word before, but it seemed to come off the end of my pen just as quick as quick—I'’m not going to have all the old Jennies in the country saying, ‘‘What promise he gave!’” I have just shot an old crow with father's pistol. The crow didn’t seem to like it. Sam—that’s one of, our niggers—is going to have crow pie to-night. It is pretty cold this noontime. Pop is off to town, riding on his little pony; mother is making tarts in the “kitchen, and I’m off to jump over the moon. Sam has puta fine razor edge on my little axe. I wish I had an Indian to scalp, but they’ve got wise to my winsome ways since I gave a cayenne sandwich to Kik- apoo Pug. Seems to me I might inspect the (Continued in advertising section.) comicbooks.com