Judge — October 3, 1914 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

U -r By From SUE Paris. EAR U—Do you know anything more torture-some than a white night? That’s a literal translation from the French, isn’t it? Though, between you and me and my fountain pen, why a sleepless night should be called a white one beats my comprehension. It’s generally dark blue, with flashes of flame color, and there are catherine wheels sparking against your eyeballs as you clinch your eyelids tight in a determined effort to keep them shut in your struggle for oblivion. The bothersome part of it all is that it’s generally when you're tired-est that you find yourself wrestling with a nuit blanche! You snuggle into bed, think what delicious things cool sheets are, how wonderfully cozy is the pillow; then you switch off the light, with a sigh of utter content, and prepare to slide off the edge of the world into nothingness.’ Instead of that, you suddenly find your brain is disconcertingly wide awake. You have ideas for three serial stories running sim- ultaneously and a dozen short ones, you plan Sunday dinners for five years ahead and decide how to have your sealskins reshaped for the winter, you sketch out a witty letter for a fellow you want to im- HON press, and you remember to tell the cook AL that she put too much onion in the hash YY balls four days ago; . . . after that you realize you're still awake, and you say, “Dear me, I really must sleep now! I've got to get out early to-morrow!"’ You really mean it, too, so you close your ¢ so tightly that you can feel the wrinkles growing, and then the red blobs and dancing catherine whvels start. After that you get pins and needles all over, you jump around from one side of 3 “t's A PINE PLACE FOR BOATING” SHE ALWAYS WEARS WHITE PLANNEL *S110RT3*” fo) p e€ to “ANNAU the bed to the other, you turn over the pillow till one side's as hot as t’other, and you think . . . bad language. Next thing comes the gray line under the window blind and the chirping of a wretched bird. It may be a sparrow or a parrot or a peacock ora nightingale; but whatever it is, you'd like to wring its neck. You wonder when it would be best, {\ en casserole or simply roast; and then the breakfast bell rings, and you've got to getup! That's a white night! Does it hit U that way? But whoa! Let me see! Why have I started on this tack? Because h I've just lived through a period of sleep- { lessness, I suppose, and I want sympathy, . .. inexchange for which I'll tell you what led up to it. It may have been the coffee—which | was extra strong; on the other hand, it | may have been him! “Him,”’ in this case, is one of my | discards! (Anyway, “‘him’’ certainly fay isn’t grammar!) My most important dis- card, in fact. Him’s my divorced hus- band; in other words, my greatest Has- Been. e) We met out in the country at Chaton. | It’s acute little riverside village, about i an hour’s run on a chug-chug wagon from J Paris. It's a fine place for boating, and a smart—how I hate that word!—crowd go there week-ends to pnddle their own canoes . . . or their neighbor's! This time we were awfully gay. Gaby D was there, and Max Linder, the French Film King. I guess you've seen him at the movies in N’Yawk, too. There used to be a place on Broadway, between Thirty-third and Thirty-second Streets, where he was always on view. ... But to come back to fe “HE WAS STRANDED WITH SOMETHING BAD IN THE TUMMY OF HIS CAR” comicbooks.com