Judge — June 23, 1917 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

9 LEAGUES EMPORIA. I IS an evil thing to swear, however pained by grief and care. It really doesn’t soothe your mind to hand out language unrefined. When I go jogging o’er the lea, and slam my car against a and bust the axles and the wheels, much agony my spirit I drag myself from out the wreck, and do not even say, “By heck!” I call to mind the text and rule I learned when at the ey school; I comb the splinters from my hair, and , “Well, T declan And that relieves me just as Greek and Dutch. I sometimes find myself astray, the nearest town nine leagues away, no help or refuge on the scene—and I am out of gasoline. My car is stalled there in the road, and far away is my abode. No doubt if you were in such plight, you'd swear at e hing in sight; you'd cuss the road, you'd cuss your car, and all the landscape near and far, and you would vent your godless spleen upon all kinds of gasoline. But when such things occur to me, my calmness is a sight to see. I think of pious tracts I read, in childhood, ere I went to bed. The moral les- sons they conv 1 will-never in my bosom fade; and so I mop my streaming brow, and gently smile, and say “I swow!” That soothes me just as much as though with smoking words I voiced my woe. When summer brings the flies and fleas, the chiggers, ants and pests like these, which bite and sting and drill and bore, and make all human beings sore, the man profane makes frightful fuss; he sits up nights to rave and cuss. You've heard him, in the solemn dusks, cavort around and gnash his tusks, con- signing all the pests he hates to regions with the red hot gates. But when the chiggers bite my limbs, I keep on singing cheerful hymns. And when the skeeters and the bees, the bugs, the hornets and the fleas, are driving people to despair, you never hear me rant or swear. I think of truths my pastor sprung, long years ago, when I was young, and with a saintly smile I say, “My goodness, little fleas, go ‘way! My halo’s always on display; drop in and see it some fine day. The Soldier “THERE is dust on the mantels and grime on the panes, The tablecloth’s spotted with old coffee-stains, The kitchen is slippery with grease as a rink, And dishes and skillets are piled in the sink. There is mud in the hall that was always so neat, The children are ragged and run in the street, The moth in the carpet’s permitted to roam, For father’s a slacker and staying at home, So mother has gone for a soldier. She is manfully marching somewhere in the State, In khaki and cartridge-belt right up-to-date. She is learning to shoot without missing the mark, To act as a sentry alone in the dark, To put up a tent with a veteran’s skill, And dig in a trench as a part of the drill, She is ready to follow the flag o'er the foam, For father’s a slacker and lingers at home, So mother has gone for a soldier. —Minna Irving. Where a Jingle Counts Mrs. Banker—Does your husband have much trouble getting a jingle into his verse? Mrs. Poet—None whatever—the trouble is getting a jingle into his purse. Who Laid Our Mains? Mrs. Jones—Do you think we ought to send our boy's into the European trenches? Jones—Well, Italy sent hers into ours. “Great Scott, Phyllis! Where are you going in that awful outfit?” Bride—Marketing. 1 find I save about thirty per cent. when I deat t wear my best clothes. comicbooks.com