Judge — August 3, 1918 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

the Comic Spirit of Laughter is my re- and the absurd is my Iam Things litfer from my co! Jack Mephistopheles—the olc i -in not being cruel. I pranks with you s—for the mere joy king. I am the Imp of y-Turvy Land—the ey Chaplin of old Mother If you mortals were so serious you would not so much trouble. An of humor is the be- nning of all tragedies.” “Then you are the veri- table Play-Boy of the World? I asked him, not doubting for a moment that I had gone insane. “Precisely,” ejaculated the Urchin of Laughter, flourish- ing his cane, from which flew into the night air thou- sands of little faces wreathed with laughter and smiles. “Tam the little God of Circumstance, who slyly strews your path with banana peels and puts into your pocket purses filled with sawdust. Ah, you do not see meas I really am. The trouble with the times is that you have lost your real eye—all of you—the Imagination. Where is your statue to Mark Twain in this country, hey? “Too much business—not enough humor and imagination—that’s what's the matter with the whole bunch of you humans. You have forsaken me— Bob Goodfellow—and are running after strange and ugly gods.” And he whirled his cane—or wand—around in the air thrice as if pronouncing a comic anathema on civilization, squat there before us in the night with its thousand eyes of artificial light. “IT have wings. And you could have them too i you had more humor and imagination Laughter and im ination, they are your wings, given to you by me at your birth What have you sold them for? Busin and war. Now look at the scrape you are alli play “Last Trirp—You “Eugenists, pro- hibitionists, birth- controlists, puritans, sentimental landlub- bers, war-lords, suf- fra-this and suffra- that, trade-lords and heaven only knows what have taken pos- session of the planet, and my kingdom is in the dust. Laugh- The Boss—Why fearn typewriting! Miss Jones. Can't Steer ist—Well, I think that I've been here long enou You haven't even been here lor ter, like good red wine, will soon be extinct if you don’t brace up and see the funny ide of the fine thing that life really is. a rote and reason,” he continued, kick- ing a carpe s rule lying on the deck into the bay. Too much common. sense and not enough of uncommon sense, which is a little sane carelessness about things. I¢f- iciency! Pah! I wouldn't get on a boat if I didn’t think it stood a chance of being wrecked. I wouldn't av if I thought it was a sport.” (I took a hurried toward the life-preservers). Picking out my room in the psychopathic ward, I ven tured to ask whether His Highness of the Quintessinal ggle thought the world would ever be ruled by laughter, whether the humorists would some day rule the world. “Without a doubt,” he chuckled. “But not until my cousin—old Jack Mephistopheles—has finished putting ears on you all and you have looked full-faced into my mirror.” “Your mirror 0 = much Here! asked, hoping for a nice, soft keep- erin the booby-hutch. “What is that—your mirror?” And I heard, for answer, laugh so silvery, so space-enveloping, so sewn with health, gladness and sanity that the lights of the Jersey shore and Brooklyn seemed to be drow ned ina finer essence than light itself. Bump! “Last trip—you can’t sleep here!’ some one bending over me said. It was a cop. Dressed Wife—Was Mrs. De Style in her new gown when you saw her? Hub—Partly Keen for His Task JS, a newly arrived had been hanging around the mill for some time, waiting for work when the boss decided to put him to repairing the too A couple of later the ound to see how Gus was getting along. The latter was perspiring over a saw he had been told to file. “Well, how are you making it, Gus?” “Perty good, boss, soon ben done but ain’t bane got all the nicks out of this knife yet.” hours boss enough to comicbooks.com