Judge — February 13, 1915 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

shrivel any mortal soul! I'll have to go and get a frau, though I must search from pole to pole! I’m tired of club and billiard hall, of hoarding-house and reading-room; a bachelor’s resorts are all so wearisome and full of gloom!"’ He hunts o'er all the countryside and scorns the counsel of the wise, and pretty soon digs up a bride, who's gifted with two starry eyes. And ere the orange wreath is old, he goes around with brooding brow. ‘‘I see,’’ he mutters, ‘I've been sold; I'm loaded down with fetters now. I swapped my freedom for a chain, I drew a booby prize from fate; now I do nothing but explain why I came home three minutes late. I’m fed on milk and musty prunes, and when I'd sleep away my care, my wife goes through my trouser- loons and swipes such coins as I have there. Bring back the happy, joyous days, when I pursued the best of lives!: Oh, why do feeble-minded jays give up such bliss to marry wives?” There is no happiness below, no bliss in human neighborhoods; man always will be blest, you know, but never seems to get the goods. Safety first: Never hold a nail that a wife drives. 'N SUMMER, when the wind was cooked and there were sun- strokes and repeat, we raised our voices and gadzooked and cussed the dreary months of heat. We cussed the sun, we cussed the flies, we cussed all chiggers, old and young, and wished to blast the blooming eyes of all the bugs that bit and stung. Ah, then we never used to tire of longing for the winter's snow! “A quiet evening by the fire—what bliss!'’ we murmured, in our | woe. ‘'There are no bugs to bite us then, no flies to fret our lives away; when good old winter comes again, how we shall grudge } each passing day !"" The winter's here, the tempest roars, and we still have our | stock of woes, for every time we go outdoors, we freeze our whisk- | ers or our to } “Gee whiz!"" we mournfully declaim. ‘*The winter puts us in the hole! We're weary of this dismal game of blowing all our } scads for coal, of digging pathways through the snow, of packing cordwood from the shed. Oh, winter is the time of woe, and we'd be glad if we were dead! When good old summer comes once more, we'll prize each golden, sunny day; then dippy blizzards do | not roar or blow down ice from Hudson Bay."* Eternal is our discontent; the things we have are always fakes, j and every living human gent is full of grief and mental aches. When man is single, he is sore because he has no blooming bride; he spends his evenings brooding o'er the blessedness that's been denied. ‘‘Oh, for a home and wife,"’ he sighs; ‘a wife to DOMESTIC ECONOMY hold upon my knees! Oh, for a girl with starry eyes, to pour the “ Now Jefferson, I'll hold the children one at a time, and you tea and slice the cheese! This barren life I'm leading now would do the figuring." A MASKED BATTERY comicbooks.com