Judge — March 16, 1912 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

chopper, vacuum cleaner, and coffee grinder.”” “But how about that whirligig at the back? That ain’t good for nothin’,’’ objected Mr. Squires. “That,’’ explained Boggs, ‘‘that, hitched onto the same motor that runs the farm machinery, acts as an electric fan in summer and makes an efficient device with which to automatically shoo flies away from the din- ner table.’” Mr. Squires scratched his head. ‘‘Wa-al, put me down fer twoof 'em, if you want to,"’ he de- cided finally. ‘Say what you will, the mod- ern airship is sure a great invention,” As of Old. They put Noah up for the Mariners’ Club; But, in face of his well-known trip, He was blackballed unanimously, they say, Because he had grounded his ship! Justified. “The hour of twelve has struck!’’ hissed the ghost. “T don’t blame it,”” replied the materialist. “It was worked to death long ago.”” A Slur. “See, I am familiar with your music,’’ re- marked the amateur at the musicale the other evening. “It seems so,’’ replied the popular composer. ‘‘You are taking liberties with it.”” Preachers. 66] NOTICE,’ said Shagbark Jones, “‘that when a church goes into the show business, it drops into the ten- twent-thirt class right away, so far as the show is concerned. They wasn’t built for that. Not that I want back the old gloom-and-grief kind of preach- in’. No, sir! A mournful preacher ought to be sent missionary to the un- tamed cannibals, with a knife and fork tied round his neck, and a pure-food label pasted right under his necktie. “I don’t blame the preachers for “No, Ethel, I won't be able to go calling with you this week. tryin’ to get full churches. A desert island ain't interestin’ to nobody until there’s some people on it; but it sort of seems to me that, as soon as they began puttin’ pews in churches and puttin’ numbers on the ends of the pews, the good clothes begun crowdin’ out the poor ones, There's never been a theater suc- ceeded yet unless it had a gallery where you an’ me could sit and feel at home. NOT TO BE INTERRUPTED. “One trouble is the preachers is ever- lastin’ whalin’ their congregations. I’ve got a mighty clear notion myself that I'm a miserable sinner, but it braces me up once in a while to have somebody tell me I've got a couple of good points left. A feller don’t want to be whaled all the time. I knew a boy once that whalin’ cured, but he was about the only one. His teacher whaled him for bein’ late at school, and it cured him from bein’ late. late at school ag’in. He was never He stopped goin’.’” Ellis Parker Butler. Baker—‘Any new ideas at the Bul- lions’ motor dinner?” Barker—‘‘Yes; in the middle of the table a fountain of gasoline was play- ing.’” I'm frightfully busy."* Those Thin Skirts. The wintry winds are keen, I wot, As across the streets the women go. Warm coats above—but, oh, great Scott! It must be awful cold below! A Careful Young Man. “‘You want to marry my daughter?’’ “I'm not certain, but I'd like an op- tion on her hand, sir.” Differences. Progress is the dif- ference between pres- ent-day monarchs and the people they claim. Cold steal is the dif- ference between your scales and those of some icemen. Soul—brief or other- wise—is the difference between wit and vul- garity. Failure is the differ- ence between one and one’s egotism. Charlo C Jones. T. R.’s Favorite Song. KathleenManeuvering, It may be four yeazs, It may be for ever. Shooting Affray. This is how a Ken- tucky editor, who is too busy to be a funny man, fixes up a local item: “Tom Stewart and Charlie Liddan engaged in a shooting affray at short range with Win- chesters on Monday af- ternoon,near town. They fired four shots, Charlie killing the dog on the fourth. They had it tied toa fence post. The dog belonged to John Garner and looked mad before it was killed.’” Her Furs and Feathers. Phil writes a check for Phyllis’s furs— From Philip bursts a sigh: “Peace to your ashes, little brute! You were not skinned as I!’ Phil writes a check for Phyllis’s plumes— From Philip breaks a cry: “Strat on, old bird! Hold up your head! You were not plucked, but I!’” Variation of an Old Maxim. Eternal partisanship is the price of political patronage—The Office-seeker. comicbooks.com