Judge — August 11, 1917 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

AFTER DINNER BY WALT - MASON. kinds of pie and cake, the world, that had a somber hue before he started in to chew a pathway through the bill of fare, seems glad and gay and free from care. If any man’s a sorchead dub, just after eating good rich grub, he’s one of base, ignoble ends—expunge him from your list of friends. There’s something wrong with any gent who shows the signs of discontent, when he’s consumed a lot of rolls and doughnuts with their tempting holes. In this world-famous vale of tears we're plunged in grief up to our ears; and if, at ordinary times, we're driven to all kinds of crimes, by stress of care and evils dire, we should be pardoned for our ire. Sometimes, perchance, we beat our wives, or carve up cops with butcher knives, or run amuck on eager feet, the whole length of the village street, and slaughter folks on every hand—but thoughtful people understand. They know how strenuous the way that we must follow every day; they know the modern stress and strain will undermine the soundest brain, and when they sce us wildly tread, and leave behind a swath of dead, they say, “This modern life is—’” well, the word they use would rhyme with bell. We are forgiven all such crimes, I say, at ordinary times. But after dinner every man who's built upon a decent plan forgets his workday load of care, and wallows in his easy chair, and thanks such gods as he reveres, for being in this vale of tears. Now touch him for a little loan, and he will gladly shed a bone. Now ask him for his daughter Nell, and he'll pro- vide a wedding bell. Now sell him shares in silver mines, while he in ecstacy reclines, or sell him farm or house or flat—no doubt he'll even fall for that. If you have never felt that way, just after having had your hay, if you have never felt at peace with all the world and the police, there’s something wrong with you, alack! Your carburetor’s out of whack. Wit a man has filled himself with steak, and divers Dental, or Accidental? Reflect, My Son By TERRELL LOVE HOLLIDAY N EQUABLE spirit, my son, is more desirable than a real A estate equity; and a logical mind is greater than gold. The fool, when fate handeth him alemon, puckereth his mouth and squalleth. Whereas, the wise man squeezeth the citrus fruit and adding to its juice the sugar of philosophy and water from the wells of thought, behold! he hath lemonade. Let the darts and slings of outrageous fortune rain upon him and, lo! he gathereth them up and selleth them to a warring nation that howleth for more munitions. So, my son, when a fickle sweetheart poketh a short-arm jab into thy solar plexus, ’twere folly to bump thyself off. Reflect, and be consoled by the knowledge that she was not really the sweetest, prettiest girl in the world, and her suc- cessor may deserve such superlatives. Likewise remember that when thou losest one woman, two others will read the funeral notice and apply for her place. Shouldst thou sit down upon a freshly painted bench and arise therefrom resembling a zebra, curse no curses. Neither hike homeward by the rear streets. Rather walk with in- souciance in public places, and the proletariat will exclaim: Verily, tis a new style. Hither, tailor, and copy it! When thine engine contracteth a fatal sickness and dieth upon a lonely road, bite not the barbs off the wire fence, nor make faces at the pumpkins in the field. A period of medita- tion will bring unto thee appreciation of the gas thou art saving. And while thou art meditating, the voice of reason wilt whisper unto thee, saying: Grieve not, for eventually the ubiquitous Flivver will pass this way and haul thee in. To drag thy feet and cling to the furniture when a maiden throweth in the come-along clutch and starteth with thee to the altar is unwise. Instead philosophize thus: Permelia is a peach, and many are prunes. Were it not this one, ’twould be another. Hence it is folly to kick, thereby scuffing my oxfords; or to call a policeman, who wouldst only grin and tell me to g’wan or be pinched for re: ig a lady. Verily, my son, I say unto you: When fate coppeth thee upon the conk, save the copper. There is ever a junkman just around the corner who wilt pay thee well. Though fate will continue to bat thy bean unceasingly, in time thou canst do some batting also. Yea, even when she putteth all her smoke upon the ball dnd sendeth it over the plate with intent to fan thee, thou wilt be able to connect for a home run. And the grandstands wilt huzzah. Selah. Higgs—What’s the sense of an inquest? Everybody knows he dug his grave with his teeth. Briggs—Somebody told the Coroner they were false. Mrs. Flataous—Yes, my oldest daughter is going as an interpreter. She Buhle kao speaks French quite flippantly!