Judge — May 18, 1918 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Her Awakening By Orneuia Lec HERE was once an old maid who had seen better days, although she still found the society of men a great delight. One day a stove man came to install a new stove in her kitchen. He was a good-looking stove man with a pleasing smile and the old maid was at once a victim to his winsome ways. After a long time, owing to much conversation, encouraged by the old maid, the stove was properly set up, and the stove man was invited to remain and have something to eat, which he did. It was with much sadness that the old maid finally allowed him to depart. A few days later the old maid received the bill. The stove man had charged her one dollar an hour from the time he left his shop until the time he re-entered it. Drawn by R. B. Futter Doing It Wrong: The Cheerful One—Git out your harmonica an’ give us some music, will ye, Sam? Generosity ABY Jim had found Virginia’s sack of candy unguarded and had appropriated the contents. Later he confessed his sin and tried to impress upon his listeners that it might have been worse. “T ate all Virginia’s candy,” said he, “but I left the bag for her to pop!” Vocational Troubles “Take it from me,” said the mani- cure girl applying her orange stick, “when it comes to holding good hands, my deck seems to be full of nothing but knaves or jokers.” The Way Out Larry—Can’t I sign up for one little dance, Lil? Lillian—Honest, boy, I’m over- subscribed now. Larry—Then why not resort to the selective draft? Those Dear Girls Maude—I like Dick! Alice—You always were simple in your tastes, dear! 6y Walt Mason Uncle Walt’s Exclusive Weekly Message to Judge TAKE my large tin harp and swat it; and then there comes some all-wise sharp, who says, in ringing tones, “Dod-rot it! That is no way to play a harp!” Few people in this world will warm you with words ‘of praise, you need so much; but there are thousands to inform you that you botch everything you touch. I paint my barn a lovely yellow, and border it with glowing red; then up there comes some critic fellow, who says, “Such hues would strike one dead! No man like Angelo indorses such combinations fierce, I say! Your barn will scare the passing horses, and make the blamed things run away!” Oh, while I painted I was cheerful, and thought this world a festive place; but this rebuke has made me tearful, and brine is streaming down my face. It’s hard to work away like Titian, producing such a master- piece, to satisfy the soul’s ambition, reviving arts of ancient Greece; it’s hard, I say, to paint like blazes, then have a cheap skate come along, convincing you by jeering phrases that all you do you’re doing wrong. Yet such is life; a hundred mortals will hand to you the caustic word, where one will come with smiles and chortles, and say looloobird. . I go to milk the cow when seven is stricken by the village clock; I have no troubles under heaven, a brave heart beats beneath my smock. There comes a stale bewhiskered neighbor, who leans against the stable door; he looks upon me as I labor, and soon his com- ments make me sore. He says the way I milk is crazy; I’m on the wrong side of the cow; he talks until my wits grow hazy; I break the milk-stool on his brow. Thus am I oft to fury driven, by Smith and Robinson and Jones; I slay and plant them, all unshriven, and pay a fine of seven bones. I hate it that I am imbruing my hands in blood the whole day long; but folks insist that all I’m doing is punk and wapperjawed and wrong. I sit before my humble hovel, when day is done and twilight falls; and start to read a corking novel, the kind for which my spirit calls. Then comes Jim Jinks or Reuben Riffle, who sits and makes himself at home, and says such books are simply piffle—I ought to read up Gibbon’s “Rome.” Such butting in’s beyond all pardon, and at the rising of the sun another grave is in my garden, another notch is on my gun. that you’re a Fronet “T Stay ano Prant Tuem, Att Unsuriven, anp Pay a Fine or Seven Bon