Judge — June 15, 1918 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

Disabled By Warter G. Doty Pre met Realism on the highway of litera- ture and asked: “Have you seen my friend, Romance, lately?” “IT saw him down the road,” Realism answered, “and he had apparently met with an accident.” “What was wrong?” asked Poesy. “The bystanders told me,” replied Realism, “that, in trying to climb to former heights, he had fallen and fractured his invention.” Judgeuctied by J. K. Bryans His Promotion “Uh-well, sah, muh son—dat fat one yo’ used to see sleepin’ in de shade—am in de army now,” related old Brother Pango. “He didn’t act like he never would be no-’count, but de gov munt took him, and right away dey seed what dar was to him. Bless goodness, in less’n two mont’s dey had done made Bazz a corpulent!” “Why don’t you think twice before you speak, my dear?” “Because, if I did, it would give you a chance to say it first.” Tardy—Yet Considerate A GUARD in a cavalry unit one night was pacing his beat when he saw a person walk- ing near one of the picket lines. The guard called “‘Halt, who goes there?” and was assured it was “A friend.” When the friend advanced to be recognized the guard found that it was a rookie who was treading the moon-lit paths of the forest in his stocking feet, his shoes in his hand. “Why have you got yer shoes off?” demanded the guard. “Why have I got ’em off, why should I have ’em on? Do you think I want to be waking up those poor horses?” Not Restricted “Ah! It seems that you have but scant space in which to rear so large a family,” commented the traveler, appraising at a glance the dimensions of the domicile. “Scant space?” returned Mr. Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, A “Why, thunder, Podner, we've got all out doors for it!” Swat Time: 6y Walt Mason “Uncle” Walt’s Exclusive Weekly Message to Judge HE swatting season is on deck, the time of stress and dread; and flies that gambol on your neck should all be swatted dead. The flies are“ noxious things indeed, they carry death around; they whiz along at frightful speed, and make a buzzing sound. We’ve read in health board bulletins of deadly germs they bear; they tickle necks and scalps and shins, and make the people swear. They drown themselves in costly cream, play football on our pies; oh, their existence is a scream—so let us swat the flies. There is a man in every street, a man with mournful face, who has a pair of arctic feet, whose life is a disgrace. He never lets a chortle slide, or sheds a bit of mirth; he always sees the darker side of everything on earth. He never smiles, he never sings, but lets the briny flow, and shakes from out his condor wings nine hundred kinds of woe. If we give up a trench in France, or lose a barb wire fence, you see him through the village prance, with wailings most intense. In times like these the people yearn for optimistic words; they have their own sad doubts to burn, or throw at passing birds. They do not need the skates who rise sore-headed from their couch, and fill the air with doleful cries,—so let us swat the grouch. This world was once a decent place, in which to spend one’s time, before Drawn by E. Frourr “So Ler Us Swat THE Figs” old Wilhelm Schweitzerkase pulled off his godless crime. You know what bully times we had, just four short years ago; we pushed our cars around the grad, and saw the movie show. Life was a glad and joyous game for every jay and wench; we burned our money as it came, and no one cried, “‘Retrench!”) And when we had a goodly wad, enough for extra flings, we took a little jaunt abroad, and waltzed with queens and kings. Such good old times will come no more until we can the Huns, until we slay them, by the score, with rough on rats and guns. We'll never feel like having fun, or bunny-hugging round, while there’s a common, garden Hun we haven’t put in pound. We'll never feel like painting things, while Bill, that red galoot, still counts himself among the kings—so let us swat the Teut. Oh; that’s the most important chore we merry men now have, to swat the Prussian more and more, beyond the reach of salve. We can’t upon the bleachers sit and watch the game with glee, while there’s a Teuton to be hit across the weeping sea. We can’t enjoy our homes and goods while there’s an unlicked foe; we can’t have picnics in the woods, or see the wild beast show. My golf clubs rust about the links, I have no heart to play, while all those unwashed Teuton ginks still slay, and slay, and slay.