Judge — February 10, 1917 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

St. Valentine, months, perpetua' three immortals—Wash col said hearts beat it be ensues. must be of a certain age, “born and raised” in a country boy, you would any morning, nolens vol entine’s day you would lens, and get up bright fast, down to the post postmaster—sly old fox along home, sonny. cal'latin’ t’ send ye non appointed by sainted memory—and would go Democratic, anybody. sion is (or was) to bind together “‘two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one,”— you over his specs and say Reckin she ain’t His Day EBRUARY, though the briefest of tes the fame of ington, who freed his country; Lin- In, who freed the slave; and St. Valen- tine, who freed— No, he didn’t free His mis- being still young enough and spry enough to fore matrimony To appreciate St. Valen- tine at his true worth, you , country-bred,— rural hamlet. A get up bright and early—or early, anyhow—you'd do that lens, but on Val- cut out the no- as well as early. Soon as ever you could swallow break- -office you'd go. “Any mail—any mail—any mail?” About the twelfth time of asking, the !—would look at “Better run ¢ this year.” “Sonny!” And you fourteen! “Better run home!” Well, that postmaster was Abraham Lincoln, of your father had cast his first vote for “Fremont and Jessie,” along in ’56—but say, spite of all that, you wished the whole country and do it quick! That particular post-office couldn’t toe get out from under the Civil Service— only in those days you were lucky if it was plain courteous, let alone civil— any too speedy to suit you! If they were making ex-postmasters, they couldn’t provide one for your neck of woods a minute too soon! But you fooled him, just the same. By and by—just before Time ended and Eternity began—It came! A day-dream in fluffy ruffles and lace paper—a thing to make humanity glad that old Guten- berg invented printing. Or maybe, if you were indeed the envy of the gods, it was the real thing—the home-made valentine. Laboriously fashioned by school girl hands—sticky with mucilaged hearts, and darts, and cupids—it bore, in that well known childish writing, these words: “The rose is red, the violet’s blue, Sugar is sweet—and so are you.” or these, perhaps: “My pen is poor, my ink is pale, My love for you shall never fail.” Pal That ink? Poor, indeed, her ink—a very pauper of imagination—for at that word “pale,” up it kicked and left right there the biggest, blackest of all her baker’s dozen blots! Jolly old saint of the Used to Be—all bewhiskered like Santa Claus—patron of childhood’s affections, as was his partner of childhood’s Christmas! Why did we then identify him in our dreams with the roguish boy-god, with the bow and arrow? Is that the reason why St. Valentine is out of style today? Bring him back! If the world does not want him, with the bow, let’s have him with the brief. Not St. Valentine the Cupid, but St. Valentine the Benevo- lent, the not too heavily feed divorce lawyer—if they like that better! Sixes and Sevens Stuck to the neutrality, Mr. Presi- dent! At the worst it helps let down easy a lot of good fellows who un- happily can’t see things as we do. 2 Some one proposes to pay our ex- Presidents $25,000 for sitting around in Congress, without voice or vote—for all the world like old he-Dowagers! * A Chicago lady has bought a brown limousine, “to match her brown dog.” Intended for a whole season’s use, evidently. One doesn’t divorce one’s dog. - 2 The goldfish, they tell us, lives 100 years, but the poor trout perishes mis- erably of ennui superinduced by so few hooks worth dodging. + What a professor of international law our old friend Weyler would have made! icbooks.com