Judge — August 8, 1914 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

“ WEARING THEIR UNMENTIONABLES GIRDED UP WITH THE USUAL STRAP, THEIR COATS ON THEIR ARMS” U-r By SUE Paris. EAR U—When one comes to think of it, this is really very embarrassing! Why, we haven’t even been introduced! However, in these days of wireless communications and sichlike, we had better overlook such little pre- liminaries for once and pretend that we met last time U were over to buy frocks in the rue de la Paiz, to take a rest from Wall Street, to study irrigation in Normandy, to work at Julian's studio in the Quartier, or sim- ply in order to be able to say to your friends when you meet them on Church Parade—or at the Free Lunch Counter—‘‘Just back from Europe, son, and glad to be home! Those durned foreigners !’’ andsoon and so forth. You may take half an hour —if they'll stand for it—to air your pet grievances about Us. Or, if you prefer, U can pretend that I came up and shook you by the hand last time I was in the States. I say ‘‘last time,’’ to make it sound as if I often take these little trips; but a certain honesty in my nature makes me confess that, as a matter of fact, ‘twas the first time, and probably it will prove to be the last, unless my rich greataunt Emmeline decides to go and reap the reward of Regular Attendance and an expensive pew rate, some time before I get too old to appreciate the pos- sibilities of travel and other benefits that her sick transit (great on Latin, ain’t 1?) will confer on me. Of course, my dear U, if you don’t want to pretend that we're old pals, if you have no imagination and refuse to imag- ine what a nice little girl I am to remember (or if, in this case, U are aman and your wife won't let you), then we must fall From “BECAUSE OP THE WAY THR DEAR LITTI.E PRIZE DOGS GET THEIR STRINGS MIXED” ope to U ZANNAR back upon our mutual friends and patch up some sort of an in troduction on those grounds, We certainly have mutual friends. There are hundreds of U over here just about now, and it’s more than probable that some are related to one branch or t’other of the family juniper bush. I can’t walk down the Boulevards—our Broadway, you know, only more 80, even though I sez it as shouldn’t—without hearing the delightful accent of young America and without seeing the Rubbernecks sending up the price of caoutchoue while you wait. This is the time of year when the dwellers in Semi-detached Villas and Thirty-dollar Flats, who have saved and saved and saved and saved (I wish I was paid by the word!) for years and years and years and years, come over by the Some- thing Line—it doesn’t get free advertisement out of me—with cut rates in second-class cabins and via Antwerp, which your son’s geography book and the shipping-office agent will tell you is in Belgium. I'm awfully fond of U when you come over like that, because, although you do complain quite a lot about how very much nicer and finer everything is in the States and how sick you feel be- cause our trains are so tiny and because the ice-pitcher custom doesn't cut any in Gay Paree, you forget about your troubles pretty soon and seem to enjoy your stay nearly as much as I do when I'm in New York—or, rather, as I did when I was in New York—the first time they turned me loose on Brighton Beach in a bathing suit to play ball. I am also very fond of U when you come direct from Fifth Avenue in the Royal Suite—and “AND ALL THE REST OP OUR FE MALE CRAZINESS” comicbooks.com