Judge — March 6, 1915 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

he Entertainers: LD Grimshaw asks me, with a smile, to visit him some and there I go and talk awhile about eternal right. to listen patiently to all that I unfold, for anything that comes from id. But when I pause for breath, he cries, his eyes! will me is eighteen~ g “We have a trea spring it slick as grease." Then Clarence, on his hinder limbs, rears up and squawks and squeals, until my brain in an- guish swims, and my red blood congeals. And when the curfew he has rent to tatters, Clarence screams of midnight and a guarded tent, where some old pasha dreams; and when the greasy Turk is sped, young Clarence tells us all ‘‘the warrior bowed his crested head,"’ who should have bowed his gall. So, till he falls into a trance, this Clarence rants and barks, and once again Ihave a chance to make some chaste re- marks, I start to talk about the war which harries Eu- rope’s breast; I'd tell what men are fighting for, and why, at whose behest. It is a theme I've studied well and pondered day by day, and eagerly all men should dwell on what I have to say. But as I talk old Grimshaw twi as though he sat on thorns; he twirls his thumbs and rubs his wrists and tinkers with his corn: And when I pause, he says, “I know you love good music well; my daughter, Jane Jemima Zoe, will now stand up and yell."" I'd rather to a dentist wend and have him pull my snags, than have to hear a maiden rend some good old songs to rags. Jemima cannot sing for prunes, and my poor soul she flays, while taking falls from Bonnie Doons and sundry banks and braes. Her voice is like a dinner gong or like a foghorn's t, and every time she starts a song, T hope ‘twill be the last. But she’s wound up for seven days, her mainspring ru mile, and when it isn’t banks and braes, it’s Mary of Ar- gyle. She sings herself into a swoon and has to be restored, and never yet by Bonnie Doon was any man so bored. And once again [talk at ease of great and Bripping themes, but Grimshaw, when I pause to store; my little Clarence, bless fancy chore. He now will stand up and re old trusty piece, ‘The Curfew Must Not Ring To-night’—he does sneeze, with frantic ardor screams, ‘‘You don't know what the muses say or where the bards begin, until you hear my Edward play upon the violin!"” I have to draw the line at that; my heart is brusied and sore. I grab my rainstick and my hat, and gambol through the door. His Indifference ‘A stranger of good appearance and bubbling geniality circu- lated around in our midst for several days last wee! related J. Fuller Gloom, ‘‘radiating good cheer and sunshine like the otter of roses is said to radiate from the otter. He shook hands with me clingingly on several different occasions and called me brother in sugared accent: However, as I was fairly busy every time I met him, and have use for what little money I can rake and scrape, and possess such a mean disposition that I am making no new acquaintances and fighting as shy of the old ones as possi- ble, I didn’t learn whether he was selling oil stock, organizing a new fraternal order, canvassing for valuable literary works, boost- ing a new bund, inculcating another cult or consenting to run for office at the earnest solicitation of his many friends."’ Tom P, Morgan, She ‘‘Got Hers’’ “Come, go to tea with me, my modern maid."' t isn't quite four yet, sir,’ she said. “The music won't start till long after five, And the place will be rather more dead than alive.’* “*Perhaps you prefer, then, a concert or ball? T'll excuse you. You need not go with me at all !"" “* Wonderful, by gosh! That beats nature all holler!'’ comicbooks.com