Judge — March 23, 1918 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

nated on his merits. And there was the charm of khaki, which seems to transcend all the appeal of the gilt and color of the soldier of older days. And the psychology of war itself must not be forgotten— certain danger, impending absence, bravery, and all that. They were a long time over luncheon, but at last the music was irresistible—perhaps it was mood, after all—and they joined the dancers. “And you must return to camp to-morrow?” she asked as they sought a seat. A quartette of women, acquaintances of both of them, had been cordial, but now were whispering. They had noted that Charley still held Mrs. Rouland’s hand. . “T must—though I hate to go!” “Really?” “Really. again!” “A soldier should not fear danger.”” She laughed gently, and he felt a firmer pressure of her hand. “I suppose those women over there are gossiping.” “Isn’t that a woman’s vocation?” “Of course. What does it matter?” “T felt I must have a little more time with you. I don’t know what moment I shall have to sail for the front. And I may be a long time gone! Will you dine with me?” “Upon condition.” “What condition?” It is rather dangerous to be near you “T will if you will do a rather unconventional thing.” “Name it.” “Will you have déjeuner with me to-morrow?” “Why not? Of course. What time shall I come?” “Oh, say about nine-thirty.” And then they danced again. And yet again. And after dinner he left her late at her door. The next morning Janet entered to her mistress at eight-thirty holding a telegram in her hand nervously. Mrs. Rouland was asleep. When Janet returned a little later her mistress was ready to dress. But Mrs. Rouland was out of sorts because it was late, and she hurried Janet within an inch of her life. Mrs. Rouland and Charley were cozily disposed at table when Mr. Rouland entered. Janet had forgotten the telegram. Betty’s Question By Mrs. Freo B. Crowtey N the household in which little Betty lived, she understood that when anything was worn out, broken, or otherwise in disfavor by the family, it was replaced with something new. One day an older sister came in wi rith the glad tidings: “The Smiths have a new baby!” Little Betty looked up. “Why, what was the mat- ter wiv the uvver one?” Things Good for Us: here’s some senna tea.”’ And so he made me drink a quart before I went to bed, and all the night I wept and moaned and wished that I were dead. The taste of senna tea is punk; it is the worst of brews; it calls to mind a broth that’s made of hens’ nests and old shoes. And, also, there was castor oil; our parents thought it fine for doping little boys and girls whose health was out of line. My mother used to hold smy nose and pour this fluid down; “Te’s good for you,” she used to say; “the finest thing in town. My teacher used to take a stick and lay me o’er his knee; “It’s for your good I swat you thus,” he used to say to me; and while he lammed and crippled me with chunks of knotty wood, I often wished he didn’t care so much about my good. And now I’m old it’s just the same, and life has little charm; unpleasant things are good for me, the pleasant things will harm. I like to ride in motor cars and burn up gasoline, and see the pigs and lambkins piey upon the rural green; I like to bask in luxury in my large blue sedan; but doctors shake their heads and by Walt Mason “Uncle Walt’s” Exclusive Weekly Message to Judge HEN I was young, long years ago, my father said to me, “A physic will be good for you, so “You ought to store your car and walk,” the doctors say to me; “you are too fat and short of breath, and have the housemaid’s knee. You ought to start each day and walk across a dozen shires, instead of lolling‘in a car, and spoiling rubber tires. Some day, if you don’t exercise, you’ll crumple up, we ween,and fora billion years orso you won’t need gasoline.” I like to ride, I hate to walk; the same old chestnut, sure! I ought to do the thing I hate, the thing I like, abjure. To trot along on my lame legs is good for me, they say; it’s bad for me to loaf around and have some fun all day. Tlike ae eat the porterhouse and other goodly steaks; 1 like to fill myself with pies and rich and gorgeous cakes. But they are bad for me, of course; the doctors fairly howl, when they behold me carve a roast or eat a luscious fowl. “Excelsior is what you need,” I hear the learned men yell, “excelsior will brace you up and make you hale and well. Oh, eat it boiled and fried and stewed, consume it all day long, and in a month or maybe six we'll see you sound and strong; eat turnip vines and hay and leaves, and wholesome cabbage stocks, but if you stick to steaks and pies, they’ll put you in a box.” say it is a dippy plan. comicbooks.com