Judge — November 2, 1918 — page 6: what you’re looking at

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

I shall wear, and as to how I shall wear them—* hat brim parallel to the ground, and, sew on that cord at four place: \ corporal sees to it that | am tucked in at taps each night. At least he makes sure that Lam in. Sometimes a corporal even helps me to dress—buttons my shirt, etc. On occasions, however, he merely tells me if I have failed to do so myself, speaking something in this manner, “ for— - button up that shirt.” And so I ponder on my misguided youth—when there was no one to look after me but myself; that period bridging the time when I left home till the date of my induction into the army. How ever did I exist through all those years? How careless I was, i those days! I dressed as pleased my own fancy—even going to work with a necktie on. And when “dressed up’’—on which occa- sions ties are permissible—I blush to think of it: I wore ties of blue and green, yes, even of mauve and purple tints, and mixtures of them all. I went to work unattended, through miles of city streets—with no thought of counting the cadence of my steps. I halted on three, four or five counts, as suited my convenience or fancy. Countless times, no doubt, I have turned left about. It grieves me, too, to think how ill mannered I was. I entered the boss’ office without knocking. Once, I remember, | had the audacity to sit on his desk, and to demand, “J. ( ve me a match.” But now I am a model of regularity and deportment. I am pampered and petted, governessed, nursed and valeted, led by the hand and spoon-fed—by corporals. Verily, this is the life! Paris By Bexjamis De Casseres THE fifth siege of Paris, the heart of the brain of mankind, was lately imminent. It is inconceivable that the Hun, who represents the organized stupidity and brutality of the race, should try to shove his snout into the mansion of Our Lady of Light. We refuse to believe that the croak of the Buzzard is mightier than the song of the Lark. Dungeoned in Paris are three souls that, in life, sent their streamers of light to the uttermost parts of the Earth. The walls may crumble; but up from the ruins shall rise, unconquerable and resplendent in their genius, the soul of France. Rouget de I'Isle, as vast as the heavens, with the trumpets of Joshua in his mouth, shall hurl his immortal song, the Marseillaise, to the choral thunder of the guns of the Allies, at the hearts of the Vandals. Victor Hugo, enemy of kings and of tyrants, terrible author of “The Chasetisements,” who drowned monarchs in ink, the Isaiah and Voltaire of modernity, flames against the horizon of Pari And Napoleon, Titan of the great Revolution, the avenger of France, breaks through his bones to once more make the world remember that his spirit is not annihilated. et His Desire “I wisht old What’'s-his-name, that used to go poking around with a lantern looking for an honest man, would come rickadooing along in this directian,” confessed Mr. Gap Johnson. “I need a lantern, the worst way.” —VISa aa ae | H. A Metaphorical Liking t “I like that clergyman’s preaching,” : “See, Por, I Gor a Vurry Goon “Well, he dives deeper into his subject, stays under longer, and Matter!” comes up drier than any one I have ever heard.” comicbooks.com