Judge — March 30, 1918 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

S88 Cl ces |! Why Editors Go Wrong The True Story of What Happened in the Editorial Office of the Wadsworth (Camp) “Gas Attack” HE editors of The Gas Attack sat in their two-by-four T office doing what all great editors do: smoking cigarettes and gossiping about Greenwich Village. A third man stuck his head in the pill-box and said: “Mail!” The editor and his associate looked at the pile of letters in the outstretched hand. Then they looked at each other and the nar- row walls of their editorial confines. “You get it, Dick,” urged the associate. “If we both get up together there'll be too much congestion.” Dick took the mail. “Say, Chick, here’s a poem submitted. You're the poetry editor. Cast a mean eye over it, will you? It’s signed by Private Jeremiah Jenkins, Co. Z, 105th Infantry. It sounds pretty good. It begins: My Tuesdays are meatless, My Wednesdays are wheatless, . I am getting more eatless each day- “Stop! For the love of slumgullion, stop!” “Why, what seems to be the strange agitation that causes you to bid me desist?”’ asked Dick, who is always precise in his English. “Ain't it a regular pome? Ain’t it got the Parnassian cadence?” “Oh, the meter’s all right, but the poem’s not original. It was printed in a New York paper yesterday.” And so the associate editor tossed the stolen contribution into the waste basket. e « * + Two weeks passed. The editors of The Gas Attack sat in their inch-by-inch-and-a- quarter office doing what all great editors do: smoking cigarettes and gossiping about Greenwich Village. Somebody said: “ Mail!” The editor held out a manuscript toward his associate in frenzied insanity. “Say, Chick, here’s a poem submitted. You’re the poetry edi- tor. Cast a mean eye over it, will you? It’s signed by Private Gerald Goofus, Co. R, 105th Machine Gun Battalion. He says he composed it while on guard duty the other night. It sounds pretty good. It begins: My Tuesdays are meatless, My Wednesdays are wheatless: “Stop! For the love of guard duty on a stormy night, stop! le “What has gone amiss?” questioned Dick, who is always pre- | cise in his English. ‘‘Ain’t it a poem what you’d want in this | here family magazine of ourn? Don’t it walk on two feet?” ” “Oh, the rhythm’s all right, but that only makes the twenty- seventh time this highly original poem has been submitted to us.” And so the associate editor tossed the contribution into the waste basket, while the editor went on absent-mindedly manicuring his nails with the paste-pot. He was thinking of his furlough. | (He's on it now.) e+ 8 A month passed. _The editors of The Gas Attack sat in their office. Somebody said: “Mail!” | Dick held out a manuscript to his companion in vice and crime. | “Say, Chick, here’s a poem submitted. Cast a mean eye over [ you? It sounds good. It begins: | ‘My Tuesdays are meatless, My Wednesdays are wheatless ” “Stop, Dick! For the love of the M. P.’s, stop! I suppose the author of that poem composed it while on guard duty at night ¥atching the stars.” Dick looked surprised. ew hy, yes. (That’s exactly what he says. How did you know?” , “Oh, I know these poet fellows and their devilish inspirations. Who wrote it this time?” “Percival Proonjoose, Fifty-second Pioneers.” That makes the hundred and fortieth poet who has been fired Sc. Fruit Tablets At your druggist for 90c, or send us $1.00 and we will The soldier cannot drink water. “TABS” Send a Box to your Soldier Boy Lime Tabs Lemon Tabs Clove Tabs Eighteen 5c packages send it prepaid. It disagrees with him. The English have found sour hard candy a “Godsend.” 820 West 36th Street, New York City For twenty years King of Caramel Makare™