Judge, 1912-12-07 · page 19 of 44
Judge — December 7, 1912 — page 19: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous short story (not a political cartoon) about a prank on Christmas Eve. Young Bob Jenkins hides a dressed turkey in an old hen house and leaves a note inside it. That night, an elderly Black man—apparently planning to steal from the Jenkins family—discovers the turkey by reaching through a window. The cold bird startles him repeatedly: it swings into his face, appears to "shake hands" when the fowl moves rhythmically, and generally confuses and frightens the would-be thief into thinking he's encountered something supernatural ("de debbil"). The story trades on racial stereotypes common to early 20th-century American humor: depicting a Black character speaking in exaggerated dialect, superstitious, and engaged in petty theft. The "joke" relies on the reader finding humor in his terror and confusion—typical of the era's offensive entertainment conventions.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
By CHARLES C. JONES [ WAS the day before Christmas, and on that after- noon the Jenkins family moved the chickens from the old hen house to the new. The old building was a de- tached structure which stood a hundred feet from the stables, well back and off to the right from the big house. There was reason for the move, or, rather, a number of reasons; and every reason of them all was white of teeth and eyes, dark-skinned, and spoke the soft, rolling dialect of the dark part of Dixie. The matter had been discussed freely in the Jenkins household; but after a decision had been reached and carried out, young Bob Jenkins conceived a plan of his own, of which he made no mention to the others, That afternoon he killed and dressed a turkey, hiding it carefully in an out-building, and late that evening he came into the deserted kitchen with the turkey under his arm. He took a piece of paper from the pad which hung on the wall, and hastily scribbling a few lines on it, he placed it carefully inside the drawn fowl, and taking up his burden again, he went out as and a long arm slid into the interior of the building. The hand groped around over the bare poles until the tip ends of the fingers encountered the cold, clammy body of the turkey, which was suspended from the roof by a cord tied around its long neck. There was a startled, smothered ejaculation, and the hand was withdrawn hurriedly; then, after a little, it went in again, followed cautiously by the head and shoulders of the figure, which had slipped out of the shadow. Half way in the window the figure lost its balance and lurched forward, and the outflung hands struck the body of the turkey, swinging it well away from the window; then the body swung back and thumped square- ly into the face of the intruder—one outstuck leg of the turkey passing on each side of the face. There was a surprised grunt, and the night-prowler, feeling his face gripped in some strange embrace, scrambled backward. “Fo' de Lawd’s sake, what’s dat?’’ snorted the intruder; and there fas no answer. Then the hand stole in again and cautiously gripped one of the quietly as he had entered. There was a light snow falling that night, and the landscape was black in the shadow and blurred in the open, when there came a soft rustle in the bushes behind the rail fence twenty yards back of the old hen house, and a stooped, alert figure slipped out into the open. The figure was not Santa Claus, although it had white ir and carried a sack; for the white hair was kinky, it was a thin figure, and the sack was empty. The figure came on slowly, varefully, pausing every few steps to reconnoiter, and at last it entered the patch of shadow directly behind the old hen house; then, after a moment or two, a hinge creaked very, very softly, “* Fo! de good Lawd, Mister Bob, what is yo’ talkin’ "bout?’’ stiff legs. Before the hand had time to progress farther, the fowl began to move, up and down, evenly, rhythmically; and to the figure in the window the sensa- tion was exactly that of a hand- shake. There was another hasty scramble, then a low-toned, half- chattered speech outside the win- dow: ‘‘Ef I don’ leave dis place, de debbil is sho’ gwine to cotch me!’’ But desire conquered fear, and the investigating hand came in again. This time it touched the cord and slid slowly down to the neck of the turkey, then it caressed each part of the fowl in turn, and at last it drew the body of the turkey over to the window, clip- ped the cord, and dropped the comicbooks.com