Judge — May 6, 1916 — page 10: what you’re looking at

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

[ct IS surprising what absurd things pco- ple will carry on their minds. Cylinders of silk, for instance; follies in felt and fuzz. I have known men to put them- selves under disadvantages that were well-nigh impossible. The madness of hatters is now generally admitted, yet the produc- tions of their disordered brains are not only put up with but even put on. Instead of confining the unfor- tunate cranks in some institution like Matteawan, we confine our un- fortunate craniums in such institu- tions as the Derby. (Or Dairby, you wish to pay more than five dollars for it.) Let us consider this specimen of bulbous blackness, which looms and glooms upon the human pate. What fell architect designed its dreary vault? Whose the warped imagination that concci its shriveled piazza? top CARKFUL By Lawron But I have a pretty distinct notion that the man who invented the cloth hats which purport to come from London was a pro-German. If so, then his propaganda has gained alarming headway. For these homespun horrors have lighted upon even the most peaceable people. As for the alleged British caps, with their six-inch porte-cochére vizors, I cannot but view them askance. From which angle their general effect is decidedly far- reaching. Nor are these the only undesirable aliens that wreathe our hair. Various countries have deported their soft hats to America, —pinched, peaked, crushed things. Yet not therefore quiet; because their softness is not in the matter of color. Quite the contrary. Gathered in noisy bands, they commit such public disturbances as Paris green and Tyrolean yodel. I don’t know what sort of looking animal a velour is, but I dislikeitsfur. It is too shaggy. Perhaps up among the eternal snows this pelt may be just the thing; but down here where there are unexpected showers, it is too apt to resemble a frowsy leopard. And so with that other fuzz-bearer, the beaver. It needs to be everlastingly groomed and curried, and un- less rubbed just the right way, it flares up. Hence the beaver damn. If fur is a failure, scales are little better. They chip off, despite the s y mucilage that is supposed to r them. Indeed, although straw flakes and glue might make a very mediocre breakfast food, their ap- arance in hat form leaves nothing to be desired but an axe. The unfortunate thing about these head-thatches is that they become prematurely old. The life they lead leaves its mark upon them. They can never feel settled. They fly off at nothing at all. Their complexions soon go to pieces. In a month's time they change from clear albinos to mottled brunettes. Their Indian summer comes in July, and by August they are already withered, bent, and toothless, Yet their spirit is still undaunted. However worn and battered they may be, they are ever ready to sail off on some long rolling cruise,—tacking, veering, gibing suddenly, scudding before the gale; reckless in the face of impending vehicles; boldly navigating the darkest puddles. If we pursued our ideals half as zealously as we pursue our hats when blown by the wind we would be surer of some day changing our headgear for halos. CUPOLAS MACKALL PLAYING IT BOTH WAYS Ida—And the wretch won't even give her money for divorce expenses? Isabelle—Only when he's making so much that she doesn’t want one. comicbooks.com