Judge, 1916-02-26 · page 9 of 28
Judge — February 26, 1916 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three satirical pieces mocking early 20th-century urban pretension: **"INCOG" cartoon**: A woman in disguise (wearing a large checkered coat and hat) encounters Mr. Smythe on a city street, but he doesn't recognize her. The satire targets the superficiality of social recognition—suggesting identity depends entirely on appearance and fashion rather than actual character. **"The Slippery Slope"**: A humorous monologue about eyeglasses repeatedly falling off one's nose due to its inadequate bridge. The joke invents a fictional specialist ("Nosometrist") to mock the proliferation of pseudo-scientific experts and specialists charging high fees for dubious services—a common target of Judge's satire. **"One Misnomer"**: A poem mocking a retired farmer who joins a prestigious "Country Club" expecting rural camaraderie, only to discover it's an exclusive urban social club where members discuss tennis, golf, and polo. The satire critiques the misleading name and the pretentious gap between rural identity and urban sophistication. All three pieces ridicule class anxieties and social climbing in Jazz Age America.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Ethelyn—I shall never speak to Mr. Smythe again. The Slippery Slope THINK I ought to consult engineer about the bridge Of my nose. There is some- thing scientitic- ally wrong with its stresses and angles: It won't sustain my eyeglasses. a civil 1 have had it sur- veyed by vari- ous people Who professed to be experts, and attested the fact By the size of their bills. But they were only oculists and opticians. What I want is a good Nosometrist. Many are the beautiful lenses That have gone to destruction Because I was unable to support them,— Clear and costly windowettes, without eld I1NCOG Gwendolyn—Why, dear? to him and he didn’t recognize me. A single nick. They lost their footing on the treacherous ridge And fell Yet I have done my best to encourage them to stick I have tried to make them feel at home. I have allowed them, at a pinch, every liberty; Permitting them to camp, or rather clamp, Upon my nose With their corrugated cleats, Their tortoise-shell files, And their shark-skin harrows. I have suffered them to stencil Curious runic signs, And puff up little oval islands. They have indulged in their ingenious red traceries at will. Yet, Just as I imagine them securely intrenched, They are whisked off disconcertingly By a sneeze. —Lawton Mackall, Ethelyn—I just spoke One Misnomer HEN Farmer Jones retired to * A life of ease in town, He didn’t know just what to do To keep the ennui down; He said: “For idling I’m not strong, Life’s dull in this here hub; T'll go where rural chaps belong— ll join the Country Club.” urmer Jones paid in his dues— ‘They took his breath away And started in to air his view Where club members held sway; He thought to talk about the crops, Of poultry, hogs and blight, But when he switched to wheat or hops His hearers said: “Good night!” The members talked of tennis games, And golf and bottle pool; They talked of billiards, bowling frames, And polo’s latest rule; Until at last the farmer said: “Tam one awful dub, But who was it—insane, misled— Named this a Country Club?” —Arthur Chapman. comicbooks.com