Judge, 1917-02-24 · page 11 of 28
Judge — February 24, 1917 — page 11: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains **social satire** mocking street musicians and beggars. Author Lawton Mackall argues that people donate to street performers *because* their music is terrible, not despite it. The logic is absurd: we give money to suffering instruments and bad music, yet would never donate if a street musician played *well*—suspecting them of fraud. Mackall extends this mockery to other senses: we'd pay to see ugly pictures, taste bad food, smell rotten cheese—all justified as "charitable" sympathy for the suffering. The cartoon shows a one-lunged hurdy-gurdy player, exemplifying this "pathetic" street performance that extracts coins through sonic torture rather than talent. The secondary cartoons offer unrelated humor: a child threatening to feed a beggar a worm, a schoolroom joke about rabbits' tails, and rural dialect humor. The satire ultimately targets both street beggars *and* the public's irrational charitable impulses—we reward incompetence masquerading as hardship.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
XUM * THE PATHETIC SYMPHONY By LAWTON MACK ALL HERE IS one form of charity to which I never subseribe. I feel inclined, when the mood is upon me, to contribute gen- crously toward such causes as mural decorations in the Home for the Blind, and the Relief Fund for Widowed Tabby Cats whose husbands have perished on the fence of honor; and I am only re- strained from such contribution by the fact that. in contrast to the mood, the cash is not upon me. But when it comes to subsidizing the wretches who use musical instruments of torture in our streets, alleyways, and I am obdurate. is supposed to be something very pathetic about an old woman sitting grinding grunts out of a one-lunged hurdy- gurdy—so pathetic that the coins rattle in her tin cup at the merry rate of twenty or thirty an hour: whereas, if she had a sweet-toned, correctly-tuned instrument and could reall: play it, people would be suspicious of her. To incite benevo- lence sounds must come from an organ that is half atrophied, and must be thoroughly objectionable. Carrying this principle further, why should not. seekers after alms assault our other senses in like manner? They might with equal justification flaunt in our faces, as we walked along the street, pictures of staggering ugliness; and we would be expected to give money because the pictures were so pa- 4 ) Wife—Chimmie, Chimmie! is that the way to bring up a child! “ This poor fellow’s been singing so long I'm going to feed him a worm!” ly bad. Coming upon us as we were engaged in con- ation, they might toss into our mouths evil-tasting pellets, ‘h could not fail to attract our attention; and we would be expected to give moncy because the taste was so pathetically bad. And they might thrust under our noses segments of obsolete ches and we would be expected to give money because the odor was so pathetically bad. 5 I confess that when I hear a “discord of street sounds,” the perpetrator of it is the last person I’d be sorry for. Iam sorry for the composer whose memory is being blighted am sorry for myself, that I am powerless to avenge the murde and Iam more than sorry for the innocent instrument of the crime. It is helpless: it can only give vent to piteous protesta- i How my heart goes out in sympathy to quavering s, asthmatic oboes, screeching fiddles, boohooing brasse: and palpitating street-pianos! Something within me _ ris at the sight of a yello isaged Hawaiian picking on a frail little ukulele, or a piratical-looking Italian clawing at a quivering harp as he brutally treads its pedals under foot. They are what deserve compassion. I intend to devote the proceeds of this article (that is, unless my butcher gets wind of my inten- tion in time) to establishing a Refuge for Maltreated Instru- ments. And the first thing deserving to be put in it would be the public’s cardrums. A Rabbit Tale 6¢°T HE RABBIT has a short body, long ears, and a short tail, nothing to speak of though,” said the teacher, explaining her blackboard drawing of a rabbit. The next day a fox drawn and explained, then turning to her class, the teacher asked: ‘Who can tell me anything about the rabbit I drew yesterday?” “Yes, Ru- pert,” she encouraged a bright, seven-year-old. he rabbit has a tail,” exulted Rupert, “but we mustn’t talk about it.” Admonishing Him Yur, Bearcat!” yelled Mr. Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark. “Quit cracking hickory nuts on Rowdy’s head Dad-burn it, if you must crack ’em, take somebody of your size Remarkable It is remarkable how much moncy it takes to clothe a girl these days, considering how little cloth. co ji comicbooks.com