Judge — June 3, 1916 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

From a Sinner’s Diary HAVE four little cousins who were mixing mortar in the road for a castle in Spain. They saw a covered wagon com- ing and took it for gipsy kidnappers, having been bribed that way to mind, seemingly. They aimed for the nearest cover, a sweet- corn patch, and according to age and size reached and dove into it, little Willard behind, his turquoise eyes like’ five-cell flashlights, his white hair on end like the Kaiser’s mustache, his short legs flying like the pitman on a mowing machine. There was a brief whirlwind of waving tassels, then they would have been as hard to find as so many little partridges. All the fun you have is while you're learning there's nothing in it. For gray hair: Life, just as it comes. Where I'd like to live is right by the side grow old in our souls. it’s lucky to find horseshoes— they’re new and fit my horse. ‘ouch off your sympathy for the good The mean ones'll get along all right. We never find it, but for a few years we have fun searching. My neighbor has “got religion.” But he'll backslide a hundred times before he’s old enough to die. Did you ever try being funny for two AN at once when each required a different brand? It comes out like a marblecake. I know a girl whose idea of a good time is to push someone off the fence, preferably an old maid. I know a pump that spits out a table- spoonful of water every fortieth stroke if you work lively and don’t let your gaze wander. She—never before. He—not till I met you. Brother says his fountain pen is like some folks—the nearer empty it is IMPORTANT TRAINING CAMP I naturally bounded and legged like a black-f jumped © stiff- ced lamb in May. —Lynette Freemire. Hard to Please She—There come the Gilmores. I always liked Mr. Gilmore. He is such a nice man. He—So he is, but he is never satisfied Before their marriage he said he wouldn't have an angel for a wife. She—Well, she isn’t one, is she? He—No, but now he wishes she was. the more it flows. I can make such tough pan- cakes you upset the table spreading butter on em. Next to having someone wait on me I'd rather wait on myself and no one else. The glory of always having been down is that you don’t have to come down Christian $ nerve doctor bu! nce is a good a quack as a bonesetter. I know a woman who doesn’t. care to have her parade such a sight better than her circus. Spring! I’ve been rambling with my old heart singing like the flock of blackbirds in the cat-tail swamp. Past the warm yellow dirt the woodchuck shoved out in his—I mean her—spring housecleaning; past the warm, moist muck where the dredge went through; past the dead leaves strewed among the red raspberry bushes growing out of the stone pile; past the rotten posts and loppy soggy, rusty picket fence blown over by the gale; past the locust pods and mangled limbs the ice-storm wrenched; past the cherry sprouts that only fools set out, and they never but once. In fancy I saw $20 gold-pieces encumbering my future red-onion ground, and Stella—I1 understand that your uncle Jack died penniless! Adolph—1 don't lay that up against him: but his death has scared my rich uncle John into taking care of his health! ———— comicbooks.com