Judge — August 18, 1917 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

=Fienei= “ce (OU are too fat,” the sergeant said, when I approached him to enlist; “you have a bald spot on your head, your feet are badly splayed, I wist.”” The news was flashed to Kaiser Bill, by spies who gloated o'er the tale, that I am not allowed to kill, because I strain the village scale. It reached him when the German chief was brooding darkly, in the blues; and who can picture the relief that filled him as he read the news? All day the deadly shells had burst around him, killing off his men; upon a keg of li wurst the monarch sat and wept again. All day his men were giving ground, trench after trench he’d seen them yield; and bomb and shell, with frightful sound, came whizzing to that stricken field. Sad messengers from far and near had brought him tidings of defeat, and so he sat and shed a tear, and tore his whiskers and repeat. The kaiser hears the throbbing drums, and sees the corpses on the sand. But now a foam-flecked horseman comes, a bloodstained paper in his hand. The kaiser then the paper reads, and sounds a loud exultant call: “Oh, soldiers, on, to greater deeds, for I have news to cheer u all! The officers of Uncle Sam have canned that fat old ansas bard! They say he isn’t worth a yam because he carries too much lard! So, men, you will not have to meet his deadly lance and snickersnee! Charge, heroes, charge, on eager feet, and drive the foe into the sea!” The Germans’ joy was so intense upon the foe they gladly fell, and took ten yards of barbed wire fence, a hog lot and a pump and well. Oh, sergeant, you who turned me down because I’ve spavins on my knees, a space of baldness on my crown, and maybe hoof and mouth disease, how felt you when you read the news of that tremendous German charge? Did it afflict you with the blues to think you !et me stay at large? The War at our Back Door He—Lady, mebby you won't believe it, but I had a swell trade before they passed all them war bone-dry laws. She—Well, then, why don’t you go to work at your trade? He—Lady, did you ever try bein’ a horrible example on a Bryan highball? The Army Cooks ING, if you will, of the fighting men, with their bayonets and guns Who sally forth from the front line trench and devastate the Huns; But tarry a moment in your song, what time [ lilt a lay In praise of the boys who provide the strength to drive the Huns away. I sing the Lords of the Goulash Guns—the cooks behind the line, Masters of bread and the steaming stew that stiifens the drooping spine: Workers theirs, But they are the silent force behind the man who does and dares. ith beef and the Boston Bean: no medals of bronze are For the flesh is weak when the Hunger Imp has found his ithin; But the man that’s fed looks out at Death with a gay and careless grin; So when you cheer for the General Staff that planned the winning coup, Remember, I pray, the Goulash Lords, who planned the Army’s soup. —Kenneth L. Roberts. His Liberality “Now, a match, please!” importuned the drummer who had purchased from the landlord of the Torpidville tavern one of his justly celebrated Sitting Bull five-cent cigars. The boniface laid a single fir ick on the show that’n don’t go,” he kindly said, “I'll give ye another. Matrimonial Problems Beatrice—Marriage is such a problem! Berenice—You've said a mouthful! One’s trousseau is so seldom worthy of one’s first—and one’s second is almost never worthy of one’s trousseau. he “L alwuz knowed New York wuz a fast town, but b’gosh I never sce the clocks hit it up like that before.” | | | | comicbooks.com