Judge — December 2, 1916 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

dodge the truth, for I have found it doesn’t pay to be too truthful every day. I know the men I hate the most are those who make the truth their boast, who say raw things, and things unkind, because they always “speak their mind.” vow, I am fat, and would not fail, methinks, to break the village scale, if I should on its platform stand; I pile on lard to beat the band. And always I am eating stuff, of which a little is enough—I’'m eating sawdust, bran and hay, to drive the surplus grease away. I walk nine miles before I eat, and drink thin water and repeat, and follow every scheme and plan that will reduce the hefty man. And now and then I seem to think that I can see my person shrink. The graceful liar then I meet, somewhere upon the village street. “I do believe,” I cry with glee, “I’m thinner than I used to be!” The liar looks me up and down, from rubber heels to hairless crown, and says, “Why, anyone can see you're thinner than you used to be! It’s wonderful how much you’ve lost of surplus fat, which is a frost!” The liar fills my soul with 5 he makes me think I've lost some grease; he fills my day with joy and song, I chortle as I jog along, and if I found him out of luck, I'd gladly lend that man a buck. I meet the truthful man and say, “I’m getting thinner every day.” He looks me over with an eye that scorns the semblance of a lie, and mutters, with a nasal squea (ou’re fatter than you were last week! You're gaining weight, that fact is plain; your waistband’s nearly rent in twain. You eat too much,” the nd don’t go in for exercise!” ays is a truthful jay, to tell us we are getting gray, symptoms of the gout, and that our hair is falling out, and that we're looking tough and frayed, and that our eeth are much di All comfort dies, peace wears a shroud, when truth gets busy a crowd. h od I was but a growing youth, I’ve always tried to His Little Lapse “When were you married?” asked the attorney. replied Mr. Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark. don’t presizely recollect. I never was much good at histo THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS LOQUITUR AM the Spirit of Christmas. During nearly all the year I I lie dormant in men’s hearts, occupying a dingy crevice in the attic while all the best quarters are given over to thoughts of infinite profits and cutthroat competition and what the traffic will bear and every man for himself and caveat emptor and other commercial notions of the same highly developed individualistic nature. . Then once a year I make a superhuman spasmodic effort 1 assert myself, to shake off my lethargy, to rise from my subor dinate position and elbow out of men’s hearts everything but xenerosity and kindliness and brotherly love and Christian helpfulness and other such exalted virtues. But I do not succeed very well in this effort. I cannot bring to the task the requisite amount of vigor and aggressiveness and savoir faire. My faculties are too feeble and flabby from lack of exercise. In my annual holiday round, I find plenty of men who insist that I am the only thing worth living for and that they would like to take me in and cherish me permanently, but they either haven't time or they have forgotten how or they have never learned or their wives won't let them or their wills are weak or they are overwhelmed by a blighting environment. Hence they make a desultory move or two at responding to my pleadings and teachings, but before they get very far, the Christmas season is past, they banish me from their thoughts and I am compelled to languish for another whole year. Therefore, I do earnestly repeat here and now that some way must be found for me, the Spirit of Christmas, to get more exer: cise and more continuous encouragement from day to day if human beings really wish to secure any substantial benefit from my presence in their midst.—Ellis O. Jones. His Counter Question Parson Bagster—Loogy yuh, Brudder Spraddle! Dey tells me dat yo’ done accepted money for votin’ for de Hon’able Thomas Rott. Now, sah, what has yo’ to say for yo’se’f? Brother Spraddle—Well—uh-good Lawd, Pahson!— yo" wouldn't spect a honest cullud man to vote for de Hon’able Thomas Rott less’n he got paid for it, would yo’? A CHRISTMAS SLACKER comicbooks.«@