Judge — February 2, 1918 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

She—Women are more resourceful than men. Shoe Philosophy HOES were the outcome of stubbed toes. Prior to their invention, the human race wasted several hours each day in saying uncomplimentary things about the inanimate ob- jects on which they bruised their feet. A strong man fre- quently went out in the morn- ing to run down a rabbit for dinner, and came home a few hours later so angry from bunged-up pedal extremities that he threw his wife down- stairs and bit holes in the wall- paper. soon as shoes were invented, it was gencrally thought that life would auto- matically become far less com- plex than formerly. It soon developed, however, that any radical change carries new and upsetting problems. People who had suffered from bruised He—Yes, a man has to get his clothes to fit his shape, but a womgp can get her shape made feet before the advent of shoes to fit her clothes. His Excursions “ H’s Lab Juckett ever been anywhur in partickler?” asked a neighbor. “’Pears like I don’t recollect of his doing much traveling.” “I don’t reckon he’s been about much lately,” replied Mr. Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark., “but he used to travel right smart, ten or a dozen years ago, when his first wife was alive. Every little while she'd grab a club and run him off the place.” were no less annoyed after their introduction by shoe-bills, un- skilled shoe-shiners and broken shoe-laces. Even at the present day, the only method by which man can be made to cease grumbling at his shoes is to force him to go shoeless for a week; and the only way in which savages can be made content at their shoeless lot is by making them wear shoes for a while. Economy Mrs. Highe—Are you going to get a divorce this yt Mrs. Lowe—No, one must economize in war time. THE WOES OF THE MOTORIST éy Walt Mason “Uncle Walt's” Exclusive Weekly Message to Judge r [ life we live is sad and stale, a bore to thoughtful men; as fast as we get out of jail, they put us back again. In motor cars we move along, in solemn pomp and state, the carburetor’s going strong, the motor’s working great. For seven minutes or the like, life seems to be a beaut; we think of all the leagues of pike o’er which we'll gayly scoot. And then a bonehead walker starts across the busy street; he looks not out for choo-choo carts, or tumbrils he may meet. His eyes are fixed upon a dame a half a block away; and it is certainly a shame the way we squash that jay. The cops should take his mangled form and place it in a cell, and then a jurist, fat and warm, should fine him roundly well. For men who walk beneath the wheels of harmless motor cars should henceforth eat their frugal meals behind the prison bars. But we're the ones the peelers pinch, in prison we must pine; and, gentle reader, it’s a cinch they'll break us with their fine. They pulled me only yesterday, they put my form in hock, for running down a dippy jay who didn’t sanely walk. I labored with a piece of bone, a nail from an old cask, and dug out through the walls of stone, a most unholy task. Then, to restore my shattered nerves, I took a little spin; a peeler watched my gentle curves, and promptly ran me in. “Your honor,” said the brassbound toff, “his boat has lots of power; I timed him—he was pull- ing off some sixty miles an hour.” Thus do the autocrats combine to make our pleasure fail; we’re always sure to draw a fine, or twenty days in jail. Last night a dog sat up and howled when I desired to rest; I took a fowling-piece that fowled, and shot him in the breast. It seems that shooting guns in town is much against the law; and so a peeler dragged me down to cell and moldy straw. The man who owns the howling pup no fine or judgment pays; once more against it Iam up, and I get twenty days. It’s made me weary, weak and frail, escaping from the pen; and when I’ve broken out of jail, they put me in again.