Judge — October 17, 1914 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

JOSTITIA b¥ Qrak Naser Is THERE commotion in the land? Is our old government at fault? Justitia takes his pen in hand and says, ‘‘It's time to call a halt."” 1 often wonder who he is, this citizen of many woes; I'd like to gaze upon his phiz and see his tears and punch his nose. Through all my years I've seen his name attached to roasts, in prose or rhyme, still kicking at whatever game we may be play- ing at the time. Most journals give him right of way and yield him space without a price, and feature what he has to say, as though they thought it cut some ice. Sometimes he comes in a disguise, as ‘‘Constant Reader,"’ to our view; sometimes as “More Anon’’ he tries to make us think he’s something new. But as we read we murmur, ‘‘Nix! We do not fall for such a game! Justitia’s at the same old tricks and hides behind a borrowed name !"’ Do troubles brood above our land, so thick we fear they ne'er will lift? Justitia takes his pen in hand and asks us, ‘‘ Whither do we drift?” The citizens of Pruneville Heights are full of energy and go; they labor days and study nights to make the blooming village grow. We have a hustling board of trade, whose members sweat and strain and strive to make the rival village fade and show that Pruneville is alive. And every time a scheme is planned to bring about a mighty boom, Justitia takes his pen in hand and writes a half a page of gloom. “The people are already taxed,”’ he writes, ‘‘until they’re feeling bum; this boom campaign should be relaxed, until a bet- ter time has come. These boomers, with their fuss and fret, would surely write our epitaph; the village isn’t out of debt— s four dollars and a half.’’ p elect to hire a band, to celebrate some great event, a takes his pen in hand and writes a ream of discontent. lls the Bugle with his groans and spills his pale-blue ink in ponds. ‘*We'd better save our hard-earned bones, to pay the interest on our bonds!"" We citizens of Pruneville Heights are patient, mild, we suf- fer long; but some day this old guy who writes will push the harpoon in too strong. Then we'll arise and sternly cry, ‘‘This sort of thing is getting stale!’’ We'll hunt Justitia, and he'll try a midnight joy-ride on a rail. The Real and the Unreal Detectives in fiction are always called upon for assistance, but detectives in real life simply butt in. Egg View Notes SOMEBODY accidentally lost part of a load of corn fodder along the road between here and Pollywog early Wednesday morning. Ote Gimber was three hours getting his horse by one of the shocks. , Wishing quite a lot to greatly reduce his large stock of matches, Bill Waite, our grocer, has sent off after a box of new bargain-price cigars. Tink Nitz is preparing to do doctoring while he isn’t busy at anything else. Monday afternoon an advertising drummer was in town long enough to sell him a tapeworm. Dow Ludlum has his hands full just at present, endeavoring to find the owner of a portion of fish line and a hook brung home by one of his leggerns a few days ago. —Leslie Van Every. Recommended to the Limit Proprietor of employment agency (who has been showing his supply of butlers to Mrs. Van Dammster)—The Frenchman, ma- dam, would make you a splendid butler. Mrs. Van Dammster—But I don't like his manner. he's precipitate. Proprietor—Precipitate! Oh, madam, you really do the man an injustice! He is anything but precipitate. Why, the lady he worked for last told me he wasn’t even precipitate enough to dance the hesitation waltz on a toboggan slide! I fear Some Crop “Well, Jinksy, did your wife raise anything in that garden of hers this summer?’’ asked Wilkins. “Yep; the cost of living,’’ said Jinks. “She ran the price of peas up to a dollar ten a pod.”” In Good Odor “What are her favorite extracts? “The flattering paragraphs about herself that she cuts from the society col- umns,"’ Not Cyclopedic Wife—I’m a woman — understand —who knows own mind, Husband — You don’t know much, that’s true. Same in New York Ezra—My son has just sent me a message from New York, but I can’t make out whether it says ‘‘No funds’’ or “No fun.’” Eben— What’s the difference? my TRIALS OF A GUARDIAN His ward asks his help in deciding which of her young suitors to accept, comicbooks.com