Judge — August 1, 1914 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

THE DAY is hot; the sun beats down upon the sweating, siz- zling town, and fries us in our grease; and wilting mortals wonder why so many suns are in the sky, and call for the po- lice. We cannot leave our daily tasks; we have no coin stored up in casks, and we must earn our bread. So here at home, from day to day, we saw our wood or bale our hay, and wish that we were dead. We go our rounds in dismal haste and dream about the arc- tic waste where there are snow and ice. We'd like to hit the snowy track and freeze our whiskers, but, alack! we haven't got the price. We'd like to leave our office chairs and play awhile with polar bears and see the Eskimo; we'd like to go up there and look at footprints left by Dr. Cook, but haven’t got the dough. And far away the rippling sea is calling, beckoning to me, as I perform my chores. It seems to say, ‘‘Tired mortal, come and hear my white-capped billows hum, and bask upon my shores! Oh, come and taste my salty tang, and let your busi- ness cares go hang, for business cares are trash!’’ And 1 would on the seashore strut and cool my fevered system, but— I haven't got the cash. The mountainsides are cool and sweet, they do not sizzle in the heat, they do not bake or fry. The mountains seem to say, “Old scout, cut all your futile labors out, or you will surely die! Come here to us,’’ the mountains say, ‘‘and throw your trenchant pen away or plant it ’neath the sod.’"’ And I would to the mountains go and scale the heights that gleam with snow, if I just had a wad. The forest sings a gentle song to all the city-dwelling throng, the men on weary feet. ‘‘Oh, come and rest beneath my shade, forsake the clanging haunt of trade, the mart and dusty street! Forsake your business—it’s a bore—and lie be- neath the sycamore, the maple and the oak!"’ I'd gladly leave the sweating droves and seek the still, primeval groves, but I am stony broke. My wife and girls—each one a peach—are camping on the pebbly beach, enjoying daily thrills; they'll try to hold the ocean down, and I must stay back here in town, if I would pay the bills. And when they all return once more, sunburned and freckled from the shore, they'll play their heartless games; they’] tell me of the joys they knew, cavorting with a joyous CTEW—the cruelty of dames! Oh, | could stand the beastly grind and have acalm and patient mind, but that I dread the day when they, forgetting how I toiled and how I stewed and steamed ang broiled, will tell about their play! Bingles and Singles from the Olympian Sportograph ULCAN, pitching for the Olympian Lallapaloozers yesterday, was absolutely unhittable, until it was discovered that he was hurling thunderbolts. The lame god was at once ordered to the club house for violation of the rules. Atlas, who had been engaged to explain the details of the game for the benefit of the ladies’ section, has given up his job as too onerous and gone back to his old duties of supporting the world upon his shoulders. Echo was put off the grounds, af the recent game between the Minervian Muffettes and the Junoesque Jugglers, for talking back at the umpire. Midas essayed the role of pinch hitter in the game between the Parnassus Pluggers and the Elysian Fielders Tuesday. As the ash turned to solid gold the moment the King took hold of it, Minerva, acting as umpirette, ruled him out of the game. The regulations plainly state the bat must be of wood. The most graceful nine we have yet seen in action is the Muses. Mercury continues to pilfer sacks from every catcher in the Ambrosian Association. It's hard to beat a god of thieves at’ his own game. Bacchus, playing first for the Rummy Revelers, is said to be slated for the bushes. The carefree god just won't stay on the wagon. Jupiter was an interested spectator at the recent eighteen- inning tie between the Jovian Jumpers and the Thessalian Thumpers, but was compelled to leave before the finish, for fear that Juno might suspect him of having dallied along Demi-Goddess Row. Stuart B. Stone. Indignant golfer—Dam you! 1 wish I bad a gun! comicbooks.com