Judge — July 21, 1917 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

Snowy Bosoms Ly LAWTON MACK ALL T THE RISK of seeming churlish, a veritable outcast from society, I confess that I have no great fondness for snowy bosoms. I real- ize that they are generally considered beautiful, and that their virgin whiteness is the embodiment of unyielding purity; and yet I cannot but prefer the more comfortable negligée shirt. If only they could be soft-boiled instead of hard- boiled. 1 would so appreciate a three-minute one. (I know it would sit better on the stomach.) The white could be firm enough to hold together, and yet not so much so as to require a knife to break into it. Gala chemises that approached this ideal did appear several sons ago. Their frontispieces were encrusted with a swarm of very young tucks, which rendered them quite d But these gentle, easy-going garments, with their pliant ry pleats and amenable buttonholes, could not . A PARIS } survive. They were, alas, too soft. They lacked Jock Jiminy! This whole darn menu is in French. the stoicism of starch. ‘They could not hold = Vist sal right ean ak sexthing: their own against the sterner-fibred armored breastworks. devotions to the ladies have upon us the same old white plague. And so we men of to-day when we go to perform our evening I might find some consolation in the fact that my aversion to it is shared by all laundries. Yes, the laundry is my avenger. With Macchiavellian guile it invites shirts, secks them, welcomes them, pro- fesses a yearning passion for them; and then subtly destroys them in secret. Commit an insufferable new stud-smasher to a laundry and note the fate that overta it. See what happens to its bold front. A week later it will be brought back to you with its spirit quite broken, and its tail be- tween its sleeves, and held in subjection by a squad of menacing pins. J The moment you rend the veil of wax paper J ULI S7 with which they have discreetly concealed its des- 4 titution, you are amazed to find how it has aged in ( Hb RE’ one short week. It has become like the sear and — yellow leaf. There are crow’s feet at the corners of its buttonholes. It is so weak that they have had to send it on a pasteboard stretcher to keep it from going all to piece: Your erstwhile festive facade now looks more like the bosom of Abraham. Waiting long?” she cried, s his bride. “Oh, did I keep you waiting, dear? In dressing I was slow, I fear. Did you sit in Pa’s easy chair, And did you find some comfort there, While I was primping? Oh, I fe You'll tire of waiting for me, dear!” “Now do not hurry me!” she cried, Soon after she became his bride. “Hook up my dress! Sit down and wait! I don’t care if we both are late! Now where's my curler?- Where's my comb? | For two cents I would stay at home! If you don’t like to wait, well you Know mighty well what you can do!” “He turned me dowa, Joe. Said I wasn't up to the standard.” . —Howard C. Kegley. “Me too, Sam. Looks like he was tryin’ to keep his darned ol’ war to hisself.” comicbooks.com xXUM