Judge — September 1, 1917 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE’S ARTISTIC ALPHABET U STANDS FOR A. WILLIAM HUTAF, Or atleast it might, could, would or should have. For beginning with U There are artists too few, So we fixed it up thus just as you'd have. IS FOR FRANCIS VER BECK, Who does funny bears and, by heck! He can draw kanga- roos, The wily mongoose, And those comic giraffes, os 6 haha mostly neck. IS THE INI- TIAL For WILLIAMS, and this is official. His humor and gaiety Plus spontaniety aw Tou! Meet coith much favor eet Judicial. A War-Time Convert (From the Personal Recollections of a Wrist Watch) By A.W. FOLWELL I my owner first brought me home, there was the W very deuce to pay. His father—I have to laugh when I think of it now—glared at him tor a moment and then explode “A wrist-watch! You! A male member of this family!” My owner spluttered an explanation, but the old man would have none of it. “Don’t talk to me of utility,” he cried. “It’s just effem- inacy or worse.” “But see how it saves time and motion, Dad,” said my owner; “no pockets to fumble in; no chain to break; just a turn of the wrist and there you are. It’s just plain efficiency, that’s what it is.” But the old fellow simply exploded afresh. “Keep your sleeve well over it while I’m around,” was his final snarl. il Doesn’t it beat all how quickly things happen? All of a sudden, almost over night, the big town was full of soldi and every officer in the lot, big ones and little ones, wore a wi watch as a matter of course. It was part of his uniform. Effeminacy is good! My owner got into the Officers’ Reserve, and took me in with him. I'ma mighty handy thing to have around when you havent any pockets to speak of. My owner’s old Dad didn’t have much to say about me after his son got into soldier togs. He seemed sort of overawed and uncomfortable. Once, however, when Friend Owner consulted me, right there in front of the whole family, the old man snorted and said: “War is hell all right!” But after that he ignored me. Ill A lot happened in the next few months. I wouldn’t say that I saved my soldier's life, but I did save him from a nasty cut, and in consequence became a wreck myself and was invalided home. He wore me to war, naturally; and not to weary you with details, I warded off a bit of flying shrapnel that was making straight for his wrist. Cut right through his coat-sleeve, and gave me a lot of internal injuries, but it was worth it. I did my bit. My owner laughed, and after the fight, showed me off proudly to a lot of brother officers. “I’m going to send it back to the old man, with a note,” he said. ‘Maybe some of the folks home would like it as a souvenir.” And he packed me up and did just that. IV Can you beat it? Who do you suppose is wearing me? Why, the old man. Yes, sir; every day. He has a-wrist like a young tree, and he had to have my bracelet enlarged so as to get me on. Went to a lot of expense having new works put in me, too. Funny thing; his daughters made a grab for me when I arrived, and they had read my owner's note, but the old man glared and waved them off. “This is a man’s watch,” he said sternly; “not a woman’s.”” But that isn’t the best of it, not by a long shot. You should see the old fellow shoot his cuff—that’s a military term— a cuff most as big as a horse-collar, and show me off to about everybody he meets. “See that dent?” he'll say. “Bit of shrapnel hit it over in France, on the firing line. Saved my son a nasty cut. Sent it over to me.” And then folks, of course, will look me over and say how proud he must be to have me, and no wonder he wears me, and he'll tell them: “Sure, but it isn’t that. I wouldn’t wear it for that. It’s the utility of the thing. No pockets to fumble in; no chain to ; just a turn of the wrist and there you are. It’s just efficiency, that’s what it is; no sentiment.” My owner’s own words! And whenever the old man talks like that, I gain about forty-seven seconds, I laugh so.