Judge — August 29, 1914 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

Introducing a Press Humorist By EDGAR A, GUEST <oGHAKE hands with Mr. Melntyre; Permit me to present Jim Brown; Here's Harry Smith and Freddy Stire, And here's the best known man in town. He’s in the pa- per every day; I think he scribbles on his cuff. We all read what Eddie Guest, a. 9.» he has to say— He writes the Gossip's funny stuff. “You've never heard of him before? He runs the Chips and Shavings line. I very often look it o’er, And some of it is really fine.’’ Then, with a giggle and a grin, “That column surely you recall. The Gossip—every day it’s in. Well, here’s the guy that writes it all! “To look at him you wouldn't think That he could write a ‘pome’ a day; His job would put me on the blink— I'd never know what next to say. T have a cousin who can write— She once dashed off a lovely song, And did it in a single night— But this guy does it right along."” Bet when the paragrapher dies And goes above to meet his fate, Some dweller in the heavenly skies Will grab him at the golden gate And rush to introduce him to The good St. Peter, stern and gruff, And giggle out before he’s through, ‘*He wrote the Gossip’s funny stuff."’ Thoughts on Dress By CLARA C. THOMAS HE PRESENT styles may demonstrate that woman has no knowledge of art, but one must admit that they show she often has an understanding of beauty. It isn’t so necessary to reform the mode as it is to reform the woman, Modistes say that skirts are going to be full, but if they are to be any fuller than now, something is bound to give way. The men who roar if their wives evince any visible means of support are the kind that prefer a visible typewriter. The reason that so many women adopt the twenty-seven-inch waistband is so that they can tell how their waist measure is only nineteen. If hoop skirts and crinolines come in style again as prophesied, there will be an awful panic among the owners of the apartmentettes, A Summer Resort Litany By LEWIS ALLEN FROM rotund, florid gentlemen who tuck their napkins inside their collars, as though they were going to order a hair- cut instead of a dinner, and from little girls who cling to the pi- ano for hours, grinding out “The Maiden’s Prayer’’— From guests who return to the hotel in their autos at three a.m, and merrily honk their auto horns beneath our chamber windows, and from triple-chinned women who wear single-piece bathing suits— From the bride who holds the only Louis Allen Browne, a. 9. 4. aR, ea 7 * gal UALR A TOE DANCER "phone in the house for an hour each morning, asking if ‘‘lovey-dovey hubby’’ slept well and if he loves his ‘‘ittie dickie duckie,’’ and from the desk clerk who loses our letter containing a check, but publicly posts our duns from the tailor— From fresh green peas containing hunks of solder, and from dining-rooms which are invariably closed three minutes before we get down to breakfast— From hotels where ‘‘a mosquito is never seen,’’ and from restaurant strawberry shortcake one-half an inch thick— From the human jellyfish who rocks the boat, and from the timid shirtwaist- department heiress who screeches like an asthmatic calliope ‘y time she sees a grasshopper— From the native waitress who brings our soup cold and our ice cream hot, and from the precocious child who throws wet sand over us when we stroll on the beach— From resorts where they fry the steak and send to Chicago for their eggs, and from the maudlin lovers who hold hands and make goo-goo eyes at each other and attempt to play bridge at the same time— From the children who screech and play tag around us while we try to sleep in the hammock, and from the landlady who is always telling us what a fine, select and much better set of boarders she had the previous year— Sufferin’ Vacations, deliver us! True! Ry WILBUR D. NESRIT DEAR Jupce—I am trying to think something bright, But you know I'm right when I state That the clever- est things we can speak or can write Are the ones that we think of too late! Wilbur D. Nesbit. a. on. comicbooks.com