Judge — April 18, 1914 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

H's HAIR is long, his breath is strong, his hat is old and battered, his knees are sprung, his nerves unstrung, his clothes are badly tattered, his shoes are worn, his hide’s been torn by bow-wows fierce and snarling; and yet, by heck! this tough old wreck was once some daddy’s darling! He still must hit the ties and grit. A dismal fate is his’ for if he stops, the village cops will slam him into prison. Some hayseed judge would make him trudge out where the rock pile’s lying, to labor there, in his despair, till next year’s snows are flying. The women shy when he goes by; with righteous wrath they con him. Men give him kicks and hand him bricks and train their shotguns on him. His legs are sprained, his fetlocks strained, from climbing highways hilly; it’s hard to think this seedy gink was some one’s little Willie! And yet ’tis so. Once, long ago, some dad of him was brag- ging, and matrons mild surveyed the child and set their tongues a-wagging. ‘‘What lovely eyes!’’ one woman cries, ‘*They look like strips of heaven!’’ ‘‘And note his hairs!’ a dame declares. ‘‘I’ve counted six or seven!’’ ‘‘His temper’s sweet,’’ they all repeat; ‘the makes no fuss or bother. He has a smile that’s free from guile—he looks just like his father!’’ Thus women talked as he was rocked to slumber in his cradle; they filled with praise his infant days, poured taffy with a ladle. And ma and dad, with bosoms glad, planned futures for the creature. ‘‘I'll have my way,’’ the wife would say; ‘‘the child must be a preacher! His tastes are pure, of that I’m sure,’’ she says, with optimism; ‘‘for when he strays around and plays, he grabs the catechism!’ ‘‘Ah, well,’’ says dad, ‘the lovely lad will reach great heights—I know it. I have the dope that he'll beat Pope or Byron as a poet.”” To give him toys and bring him joys, the savings bank was burgled; folks cried, ‘‘Gee whiz! How cute he is!'’ whenever baby gurgled. His feet are bare, his matted hair could not be combed with harrows; his garb is weird, and in his beard are bobolinks and sparrows. You'd never think, to see the gink, that ever he had parents! Can it be so that long ago he was somebody's Clarence? A Kiss Classified Marcella—Mr. Beanbrough is the most awkward person I know. Whenever he kisses anybody, it sounds like a pistol shot. Waverly—Seems to me it’s more like a blunderbuss. Spring—in the Suburbs O MORE with steaming kettle and with rag I'll thaw the pipes that, thawing, quickly drown The house, and, ’ere the plumber with his bag Arrives, have brought the parlor ceiling down. No more with aching back I'll toil and slave, With freezing hands and knuckles cracked and sore, To clear the snow that’s fallen on the pave, And find next morn it’s deeper than before. No more upon a crossing shall I pause, The while a trolley sweeper sprays my clothes And fills with mud and slush my cursing jaws And neck and cuffs and ears and eyes and nose. Nor shall I, coming weary from a show Or evening function where I’ve been to sup, Find that the man has let the furnace go Completely out, and I must build it up. For spring is here, with sunshine and with showers That nurse the starting shoot and opening bud, And bring the tender grass and early flowers And miles and miles and miles and miles of mud. —J.M. Knox, SAFETY FIRST Should this man fall, it would be hard to convince him that it wasn't due to his usual “* bum luck.'’ comicbooks.com