Judge — August 10, 1918 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

Work or Fight: INCE we've been told to work or fight, I scarce know what to do; the order puts me, in a plight, and I am feeling blue. Ah, gladly, gladly would I scrap, as I have said before; I’d like to spoil the Kaiser’s map, and wade “Uncle” Walt’s Exclusice Wei by Walt Mason Message to Judge renown, for I have read the mighty screeds that Homer handed down. I'd scrap with dagger or with dirk, and make a record fine; but when you say that I must work, it’s time to draw the line. I'd meet the Teuton anywhere, I’d challenge him with glee, upon the land or in knee deep in gore. But when I offered to enlist, the sergeant turned me down; he said I had a spavined wrist, and bald spots onmy crown. I tried to join the horse marines, and every other branch; they said I should be hoeing beans on some sequestered ranch. So if I do not pack a lance, and make the foeman halt, upon the storied soil of France, I ask you, whose the fault? I'll fight the Teuton or the Turk, or any foe you bring; but when you say that I must work, why, that’s another thing. It is one thing to bleed and die, to earn a deathless fame; I have no use for any guy who doesn’t like that game. To march with heroes Worx, Draven by E. Front wet, and come back bleeding on your shield, oh, that’s the stuff, you bet! The thought of it makes martial fire start blazing in my breast; I hit the hired man with my lyre, and knock him galley west. Oh, I am fond of stirring deeds, I yearn for red The Spell By F. W. Poote OUNDS of music in a sordid street. But not of brazen-throated horns, Nor sweet stringed lutes of cloying sweetness. Nor time worn air dulling the sense With lilting rythm. Not vulgar music of the West But like to that of Eastern lands. The strange barbaric charm— The broken tinkling clang, Evoking visions Of almond eyed Celestials— Of Persian kings on empurpled thrones— Mysterious houris with scarlet lips, Reclining in seraglios— Warriors with horrid faces, Clad in sharded armor; And all the witching glamour of the Orient. The music of the future For this clodded hemisphere, Yet old as time in far Cathay. A vibrant soul-voice bade me come Drawn by A. S. Daccy ‘Tur Oxy Kino or a Stacker tue U. S. Has Any Use For, Tutse Days “Bur Wuen You Say Tuat I Must Juy, Tuat’s AnoTuer to the field, the field that’s red and Tuxc.” the air, or on the raging sea. My fathers all were men of war, like lords of ancient Greece; they often were arrested for disturbing of the peace. Of caitiff blood there’s not a drop in any veins of mine, and I have whipped the village cop, and gladly paid my fine. When there’s a roughhouse I’m no shirk, I gayly take a part; but when you say that I must work, you mean to break my heart. Oh, Crowder, let me go abroad, across the briny flood, and stain a mile or more of sod with tinhorn Teuton blood. And if you find me dead and prone in some red, stricken place, you will discern, I'll bet a bone, a smile upon my face. Then bring my mangled body back, Oh, send it back by mail, along the moist and stormy track so many heroes sail; and plant me by the old gray kirk among the daisies fair; but if you talk to me of work, I'll soak you with a chair. And reverently I came. I the West, to sit at the feet of the East. Louder swelled the strain, Drawing my willing feet onward To a cleft in the dull gray pile— A rift within the narrow street. I looked—I saw— And then went weeping on my way. ’Twas but a small but swart Italian son Beating with a stick upon an obso- lete Tin wash boiler. At a Club Window Tom—These Fifth Avenue girls all look in the jewelry windows, but never Dick—Of course! They prefer dia- monds to clubs. Looking at a Sign Farmer—Why advertise such a numerous variety of pickles? Citizen—Because purchasers are not likely to buy the same kind twice. comicbooks.com