Judge — September 25, 1915 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

“Are they so very bad?” a meek little voice.” Hers way “They are,” he affirmed, after an. other inspection. “ But"—he Teluc. tantly confessed—* I don’t want you to be a back number.” A Little Hint W= ALL have friends in plenty— The poorest may count twenty— Who teem with kind suggestions Of what one ought to d: They have views on every matter, Which they'll generously scatter To decide those vexing questions That sorely puzzle you. But—doesn’t it seem That they rarely mention money?— Though they must know it would bea Certain cure for many ills! They warn us against fretting, They advise a blithe forgetting But ignore that panacea— THE BOSS'S SOLUTION Bookkeeper—I would like more pay, sir. I am engaged to be married to the stenographer. 3 Employer—Huh ! Then I'll marry her myself and save her salary and your increase. The cash to pay your b Sede Tt —Tnudor Jenks, each hip that caused her to appear the size of a barrel. And it was slit in the middle of the front a and caught up nearly to her knees.” The man who brags has to, “You should not criticise her for the slit,” grinned Mr. Comonerd. “But for it she could not have walked.” Phase Two “IT saw Mrs. Stiles again to-day,” announced Mrs. Comonerd, at dinner. “She was attired in that same outlandish garb.” “To show your disapproval,” hazarded Comonerd, ‘you tilted your nose and cut her dead?" “Certainly not. I stopped, and we had a long chat. I feel sorry for her. Poor thing! She thinks she must have the last word in fashions’ “As in other things?” interposed Comonerd. “—No matter how ridiculous it is. She insisted on giving me the addresses of her milliner and modiste. As if I'd make a freak of myself!” “Wouldn’t you?” ironically asked her husband. Phase Three Mrs. Comonerd, ordinarily, tesembled the chattering magpie, rather than the silent, brooding owl. Hence her present fit of abstraction was the more noticeable. Her spouse’s remarks clicited only monosyllabic replies until he asked how she had spent the day. “Dentist—calls—and Mrs. Highfly’s te: she answered absently. ‘Met some awfully smart women.” mart? Mentally or modish! “Everybody’s wearing them,” dreamily murmured Mrs. Comonerd. “Wearing what?’ “Things like Mrs. Stiles’. I saw seven or eight of those absurd hats. lampshades that scraped both sides of the doorway.” “And you stayed,” darkly accused Comonerd, “and smiled and the degraded creatures who are making your sex a laughing-stock She didn’t hear him at all. “T positively will not wear ’em,” she avowed to herself. “But other women will, and I'd as well make up my mind to it.” Fourth Phase Mr. Comonerd was patiently waiting for something to cat when his belated frau arrived. She entered, clad in an air of guilt—and those things! The head of the house gave her a swift, comprehensive inspection. “Well!” he said. “Well “I had to, Grahame,” she plaintively pleaded, “or be clear out of style. Where are you going?” - “For my gun. According to your own statement, you deserve to be shot.” REFLECTIONS OF A BACHELOR comicbooks.com