Judge — June 10, 1916 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

ERE in my grave I lie, while the spring breezes sigh, soft through the willow; stone at my head and feet, grass for my quilt and sheet, gumbo my pillow. This thing of being dead, when all is done and said, isn’t so shocking; dying, you shut the doors on all the hosts of bores, grouch- ing and knocking. No one will say to me, here ‘neath the willow tree, where I am lying, “If we don’t soon have rain, famine will come again, crops are all dying!” All the old topics stale, here are of no avail, no one will broach them; bromides with whiskers long, roorbacks with flavor strong, none will approach them. All the grim prophets hoar, prophets whose heads are sore, needing a plaster, keep far away from me, far from my willow tree, talking disaster. No one will tire me out, talking about his gout, or of his liver; here not a bore remains, telling how ague pains make his form shiver. Never an agent comes, gnashing his pallid gums, twittering twaddle; ’twixt the long lines of graves, where the bright verdure waves, no salesmen waddle. No neighbor comes at night, talking of Europe’s fight, till one is weary, roasting the Slav or Hun, handing out, by the ton, facts that are dreary. There is a solace here, in presiden- tial year, when men are crazy; man dodges, when he dies, all the old rancid lies—death is a daisy. Never a suffrage dame, with her bedraggled frame, snooping and quest- ing, tells me her string of fakes, never with Facts she breaks into my resting. High Cost of Living here cannot my comfort queer, I’m resting cheaply; lit- tle I care for bills, cashbooks or money tills, planted so deeply. Here in my tomb I drowse, while the lank village cows eat the grass o'er me; nothing can make me weep, nothing can break my sleep, no one can bore me. Very Classy Mrs. Wayupp—Was there a society wedding last night? Mrs. Blase—I should say so. The highest-salaried man in town married the highest-alimonied woman. AT THE WEDDING \ TARIOUS thoughts as the Lohengrin Wedding-March be- gins to rattle the stained glass Saints. Usher No. 1: Hang it! Did they say start with the left or right foot? Usher No. 3: Why the dickens did they give me a flagpole to walk with! Usher No. 4: Feller can’t look dignified when he’s hooked up with a sawed off shrimp! Usher No. 2: Gad! that aisle looks about a mile long! Chap feels like a fool. Usher No. 5: Ye gods! but I’m tired. My kingdom for a high- ball. Usher No. 6: Partner’s got a bit of a start—wish he wouldn’t wobble. Bridesmaid No. 1: Look at those men race! They'll spoil the whole thing! Bridesmaid No. Why does Edith hang back so? Bridesmaids Nos. 3 and 4: She’s trembling like a leaf! I wish they’d given me someone else. Bridesmaid No. 2: Fred looks a perfect sight in a cutaway! Bridesmaid No. 6: They always pick out flowers that tremble. Makes you look ridiculous! Maid of Honor: Those girls act like scared sheep. Father: Wish that organist would speed things up. awful! Bride: If I let go of Father, he'll drop. Gee! how my veil drags. Up in Chancel. Best Man: Where did I put that ring? (To Groom, sotto voce) B-b-buck up, old man. Groom: I seem to be going blind. Funny where my other foot is. Congregation: What a lovely bride!—Charles Elkin, Jr. This is Hard Job Mrs. Crawford—Where did the idea come from that a woman has no sense of humor? Mrs. Crabshaw—I suppose it’s because she doesn’t laugh at the stories her husband keeps on telling her over and over again. Revised Version Crawford—What’s your honest opinion of the prevailing styles? Crabshaw—The women seem to be putting off till to-morrow the clothes they should be wearing to-day.