Judge, 1915-04-17 · page 10 of 26
Judge — April 17, 1915 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two distinct pieces of social satire typical of Judge magazine's early 20th-century humor. **"Lay Physicians"** (left): A satirical poem mocking well-meaning neighbors who offer unsolicited home remedies during illness. Characters like "Bungshaw" and "Mrs. Doodad" insist their dubious concoctions (rancid-smelling "dope," poultices, boneset tea) will cure the narrator's grip (influenza). When he refuses and relies on actual doctors instead, his neighbors become offended and resentful. The satire targets the social awkwardness of rejecting folk remedies and the petty vindictiveness of people whose "help" is spurned. **"The Tyranny of Trifles"** (right): A domestic comedy showing how minor household tasks create constant demands. Wife, husband, and maid each have urgent needs—yeast cake, rolled ash barrels, butter, sugar, eggs—that interrupt their plans. The title's point: trivial domestic obligations tyrannize household members, preventing any real rest or escape. Both pieces satirize the frustrations of ordinary life rather than targeting specific political figures or events.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
(OW GOOD and thoughtful people are! When sickness gives my frame a jar and ties my vitals in a knot, they come to see me on the trot and tell me what I ought to do, if I would be as good as new, And’ every kind, well-meaning friend has some sure cure to recommend, some wondrous dope that never fails, accorc. g to his specious tales. Last week I had a dose of grip, so bad methought from life I'd skip. It is a punk and fell disease that makes the victim cough and.sneeze and gasp and groan and grunt and swear and bite big pieces from his chair. Then Bungshaw, who abides next door, to my abode came tod- dling o'er and brought along a gallon jar of dope that smelled like rancid tar. The jar in front of me he held. ‘*There’s no use suffering!’’ he yelled. ‘This dope will cure the fiercest cold that ever on a man took hold. You take a quart before each meal, and in a fortnight you will feel so full of vim and strength and pith, you'll want to tackle Gunboat Smith. Now let me hold your nose awhile and pour this dope in where you smile. I know it tastes like last year’s eggs, but it will put you on your legs."’ “I'm hiring doctors,’ I reply, ‘‘and they are paid to help me die, and so I have to take their cures and must not take that dope of yours.’’ Then Bungshaw toddles home again, as mad as any moistened hen; and when he hears me yowl and yelp, he says, ‘‘He wouldn't have my help, and so his groans and whoops and tears are music in this sinner's ears."" Old Mrs. Doodad comes along and favors me with dance and song. ‘*You soak your feet and go to bed and put this poultice on your head and drink my homemade boneset tea, and from your grief you'll soon be free. Don't laugh my humble planstoscorn; [cured the grip ere you were born."" I tell her that I pay the doc to bring what pills he has in stock. And then she snorts and goes her way, and as she goes I hear her say, ‘‘That’s all the thanks a dame receives for brewing tons of boneset leaves! Just lie and suffer for a while! The more you howl, the more I'll smile!"’ Thus easily we lose our friends when sickness on our forms descends. The good Samaritans get sore; they'll go samariting no more. The Tyranny of Trifles We dear me! The yeast cake has been forgotten again! I don’t see but that you will have to go out and get one, Jaines, late as it is, They keep them at that little store on the corner, and you know that it keeps open after the other stores have ciosed. We simply must have that yeast cake, or the bread can’t be set to-night, and—yes, I know that I always forget it until you are in your slippers and house coat, but I really will try to remem. ber it next time. Husband—Oh, gee! Here I am with my overcoat on, and | really ought to get the next car, and I have forgotten to roll out the barrels for the ashman! Well, I'll have to go down and roll them out, even if I miss my train, All three barrels are full to the top, and there will be no place to put the ashes for another week if I don’t get them out to-day. My idea of heaven is of a place in which there are no furnaces nor ash barrels and no man has to pol- ish his own boots or spread ashes on the ice in front of his house! Maid—We gotta have more butter to-day, ma’am, an’ the sugar is most out, an’ I need some new toweling, an’ there ain't but three eggs in the refrigerator, an’ the soap is about all gone, an’ ] hit the bottom of the flour barrel to-day, ma'am. We gotta have all them things to-day. Boy—Aw, shoot it! What I got to wash my hands for before ev'ry meal? And what's the harm if the back of my neck is dirty? And who notices it if the heels of my shoes ain't polished? What's the good of living if you got to spend all your time monkeying with soap and water and clothes brushes and hair brushes and— aw, gee! I wisht I was dead! Girl—Oh, I just hate to practice! I wish we didn’t have any piano! I don’t care if my hair isn’t braided nice! I'd as soon be out of the world as in it, having to braid my hair every day and clean my finger nails and practice—bah! practice! Motorist—Yes, sir; and there I lay flat on my back under the car for three solid hours, all because a little doodad of a thing had given way and the car wouldn’t turn a wheel until it was fixed! Queer how the giving away of some fool little thing will stop human progress, isn’t it? —J. L. Harbour. Her Amendment He (seeing his wife making up before her dressing table)—Any one would think you were going to the party as ** A Study in Scarlet." She—Oh, no, dear! Only ‘Under False Colors."* HINTS TO HOSTESSES—HOW TO GET YOUR OWN NUMBER