Judge — September 5, 1914 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

«s]'LL LAY me down and sleep,’’ I said, ‘‘for I have fantods in my head, and I am weary from life’s scrap, and so, methinks, I'll take a nap."’ The house was still when thus I spake; no voices made the echoes wake, no clamor shook the drowsy air, and silence brooded everywhere. And so upon my couch I lay, and sleep o’ertook me right away; but ere I sprung a dozen snores, the hired girl started slamming doors. I sought her where she rushed around and made this carnival of sound. “‘Oh, bonehead damsel,’’ I exclaimed, ‘‘what sort of scheme is this you've framed? You knew I wished to take a doze; then why such foolishness as those? I'll try and get to sleep once more, and if you slam a single door, to bring me back from dreamland’s spheres, I'll pinch your hair and pull your ears.”” Once more upon my couch I lay and dreamed I was a bale of hay; but ere I'd fairly hit my gait, the grocer’s boy brought up a crate of canned tomatoes and such goods—of wienerwurst and breakfast foods—and slammed it on the kitchen floor, and I sat up and sweetly swore. My soul was bruised and sore and sad, and I pursued the grocer’s lad and seized him firmly by the coat, and then his pantaloons I smote. ‘‘Gadzooks!’’ quothI. ‘You measly wretch, you wicked youth, can you not fetch a case of prunes to my abode, but you must drop your musty load, so it will rouse me from my sleep and jar the house from donjon keep clear to the upper barbican? Canst not pursue a saner plan?’’ But little boots it what I said; once more I lay me’ on my bed and beckoned to the slumber god and drifted to the land of Nod. But ere I'd slept -a single verse, another racket, vastly worse than anything I yet had known, broke up my nap and made me groan. My next-door neighbor, christened John, came forth to mow his weedy lawn. His mower shrieked like souls in pain and clattered like a railway train. I rose and saw him toiling there, and from my window threw a chair, which broke three ribs and maimed an arm and did him other kinds of harm. “I see,’’ I sighed, ‘that he who'd sleep when he is tired can only weep; it’s no use going back to bed—a man can’t sleep till he is dead." Something to Worry About HEN we have nothing else to worry about, we spend our spare time trying to figure out whether the unknown cor- respondents who sign their names simply ‘‘B. Mayo’ or “P, Hasenpfefferschinkenbier”’ are of the masculine or femi: persuasion. It is exceedingly embarrassing to write to ‘My dear Mr. Mayo’’ and receive an indignant reply from an out- raged suffragette, who looks upon the word ‘‘Mr.”’ as an inef- faceable insult. But it is just as embarrassing to write to ‘‘My dear Miss Hasenpfefferschinkenbier’’ and receive in reply a note written with a pen that might have been used for a spade and indignantly insisting upon the rights and privileges of a mas- culine address. But how are we to know whether ‘‘B."’ stands for “Bridget” or ‘‘Bill,'’ or whether ‘‘P."’ stands for ‘'Pris- cilla’’ or **Percy’’ or **Pat’’? Old Wine in New Bottles Dad (from the hall)—Why, Marjorie, how dim the light is in here! Freddy (the fiance, not a college graduate in vain)—Yes, sir. Professor Munsterberg has a theory that brilliant light benumbs the intellect. We are experimenting to find the degree of illumination by which the attention is kept vivid and the mental functions active. EVASION “* Elizabeth, will you marry me? “Ob, look! I saw a fish jump then comicbooks.com