Judge — October 5, 1918 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

Home Industries that would not fade; EN dyed their whiskers, long ago, with dyes and all dyes, you know, in Germany were made. We shipped them over by the ton, across pinched. the heaving brine, and paid the Teut our hard-earned — mon—he thought the sledding fine. When war came up I heard men cry, “We're surely on the blink! What shall we do for whisker dye, to stain our side- boards pink? The ladies all will turn him down if man can’t dye his beard a handsome blue or fetching brown, or other color weird. This war will surely break the heart of every whiskered male; our hangdowns need the dyer’s art, and there’s no dye for sale.” And then our scientists arose, and took things from their shelves; “We can’t get dyestuffs from our foes—so we'll make dyes ourselves. With crucible and demijohn they in their sanc- tums wrought; another German graft is gone—our dyestuffs hit the spot. I like some potash in my te Tomorrow’s News A MAN wearing a woolen suit started to walk up Fifth Avenue yesterday, but the crowd became so great that he was obliged to appeal to the police for protection. The excursion rates to Berlin, including sleeping accommoda- tions, meals and a pass to enter General Pershing’s headquarters in the Neues Palais, have been re- duced from $250 to $200. Barnum and Bailey have se- cured the Crown Prince for their coming season, but he will remain for the present in the Bronx Zoo, next to the Antediluvian. Dr. Hornaday said yesterday: “The public, I am sure, will co-operate with me in refraining from feeding or otherwise annoying the Crown Prince. A wild animal that gives so much pleasure to thousands daily should be preserved as long as possible.” Drven by BF Worrn Caverste Saxctems Wrovent; , I spread it on my bread; but when the war got fierce, ah, me! the potash trade was dead. I spread my bread with axle grease, a substitute that’s bad, and longed to see the dawn of : Sy Walt Mason Uncle Walt’s Exclusive Weekly Message to Judge peace, when potash could be had. The Germans owned such costly the potash graft, they had it doubly cinched, and I imagine how they laughed to see us jarred and And then our scientists arose, each with his lofty dome; “We can’t get potash ] from the foes—we'll find the stuff at home.” And now this new-born indus- try is thriving, so they say; I'll soon have potash in my tea, and sprinkled on my hay. And thus do we behold the dawn of trades before unknown; another German graft is gone dost hear the Teuton groan? I used to buy the children toys, when Christmas time ar- rove; some hobby horses for the boys, for Jane a nice tin stove. From Germany the toys all came, the wooden building brick, the Noah’s ark, the puzzle game, the Is Gone—Ovr Dyvestures Hit tHe Sror Drawn by Hawiroy Witisves Op Doctor Stork Has Bees Dararteo Marriages increase e' drive for men is st axp Desujous Tury ix Tuer Axotuer Greamas Gearr monkey on’a stick. And when the war grew hot I sighed, “Alas for kiddies now! No more can doodads be supplied by Fritzie and his frau!” No more across the raging foam do Germans ship their toys; we make our shining toys at home, for little girls and boys. A German industry’s in pawn, the Prussian is bereft; another German graft is gone—say, is there any left? Industry Rewarded as I T pays to do your whole duty and a little more,” virtuously said Constable Sam T. Slackputter, the well- known sleuth of Petunia. “Although it was the street commissioner’s busi- ness, and not mine, b’cuz I had the time to spare, I took and cut the weeds on the old Hefflefinger lot. And by jolly, I found three Fords and a lot of old iron I can sell!” His Willingness “Land o’ the living, Gap!” chiding- ly exclaimed Mrs. Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark. “Them britches of your’n are a sight on earth! You better let me patch ’em while the baby is asleep.” “All right,”” replied her husband. “Vd just as soon go to bed now as any time.” Inexplicable HLLOSOPHY explained to me The why of each and every thing, epting —well, it doesn’t tell Just why Miss Screech attempts to sing. comicbooks.com