Judge — March 31, 1917 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

THE WINNING G smile we ought to wear, regardless of ex- e’en though the burden of despair we labor under s. A kindly word for every skate, a smile for every neighbor—such things will make us truly great, and sanctify our labor. But now and then it’s hard to spring the sunny smiles and glances! It’s difficult to beam and sing in awkward circum- stances! Last night I had a corking book, a book to make one chortle, in which a sleuth pursues a crook clear to the prison’s portal. And when the evening meal was done, I said, my sweet smile “Now I can read and have some fun, until it’s time for sleeping.” I placed my chair before the fire, the tempest little heeding, and at the tomcat threw my lyre, and settled down to reading. And I was deep in Chapter One, wherein the vile destroyer, the lurid villain with his gun, shoots down the village lawyer; and then the brazen doorbell rang; my wife obeyed the summons, and in there stepped a dreary gang of bores whose name is Cummins. The father, daughter and three sons, the wife and maiden auntie, had come to hand out tons and tons of hogwash, in my shanty. They talked for hours about the crops, for hours about the weather; they singly raised their tiresome yawps, and then all yawped together. They talked about the price of tile, about the price of leather; they talked a solo for a while, and then all talked together. They talked about the useless fight on Europe’s bloody heather; the old man talked for half the night, and then all talked together. I listened to their stupid spiels, and thought about the story, wherein the sleuth, on rubber heels, pursues the villain gory. Ah, reader, it was hard to smile, while all that talk was buzzin’; I longed to take an ax the while, and slay about a dozen. And yet I smiled and was polite; but when the guests departed, just in the fag-end of the night, they left me broken-hearted. And though I smiled with princely grace, I found out what a jolt is; those smiles I wore had sprained my face—I had to wear a poultice. Blown Up “Well, did you steam in safely last night?” “No; my wife had mined the hall.” GAMBLING AND JUDGMENT By K. L. ROBERTS AMBLING is judgment that has been hit behind the ear G with a club; and, conversely, judgment is gambling clad in white spats and the other earmarks of success. The man who sinks a large percentage of his money in a dividend-paying security only to have the security depreciate enthusiastically in value owing to rumors of war or peace, is, by common consent, a gambler of the most vicious and virulent type. But the man who sinks a large percentage of his money in a dividend-paying security just prior to an energetic and comprehensive bull market, and who emerges from the market with a corpulent and unwieldy addition to his bank-balance, is admittedly possessed of keen judgment and rare discernment. All enterprises, at their beginnings, are gambles. The Sunday School picnic gambles that rain won't fall on the picnic day; the pedestrian gambles that he can cross the road without being energetically dented by an automobile; the housewife gambles that the strictly fresh eggs which she buys have been laid within the lifetime of existing hens; the writer gambles that his writings will be acceptable to the editor, instead of causing him to hunt for rejection slips with both hands and for adequate anathema with his brain. The margin between success and failure is frequently too small to be measured by a gnat’s eyelash. The person who condemns all gamblers too frequently forgets the happy consummation of his own gambles. Suspicious “What devilment are them children up to, out there in the yard?” ejaculated Mr. Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark. “What makes you think they’re up to any?” returned his wife. “I don’t hear a sound.” “That's the reason!” The Greatest Proof of the Saying! Everything comes to him who waits—even the girl who sends word that she will be right down—providing he waits long enough! Floorwalker—Notion department? Just walk this way. e Anti—Walk that way, hey? Not on yer tin-type. I may look the part, but I ain't no feminist ! comicbooks.com