Judge — March 8, 1919 — page 8: what you’re looking at

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

Draws by Meanie Jouxson The dog at the parade—Ain't it h—— to be short! Why a BrainP By Frank H. Wiettams BRAIN is a funny thing. When you want it to think about twittering birds and sunshine and flowers and all that it turns to thoughts of the tomb and your unpaid tailors’ bills and the nasty things the neighbors said about your children. And when you want to impress the wife with the weight of your worries and your tremendous business responsibilities and the fact that she has made you a changed man your brain up and remembers the joke about the two Irishmen which Joe cracked down at the office, or it recalls the fact that your pal, “Fat’ Morris, sure did look funny when he skidded and fell on the slippery pave- ment. And when you want the good old brain to concentrate on Dr. Stemwinder’s Sunday _ ser- mon the said human appendage promptly becomes numb all over and finally drifts off into sweet slumber. And when you want the tired old think tank to let up and take things easy and finally slip into sleep .the blame bump refuses and keeps buzzing right along, throwing off dollar signs, plans for tomorrow, and general worries until you are forced to get up, soak a towel in ice water, wind it around the cran- ium and sit up with your brain until morning. No matter how much you study your brain and try to understand it, the more it will slip things over on you. For months it will act as regular as an eight- day clock that has never missed a tick or a tock and you will feel like complimenting the thing on its good behavior. Then, all of a sudden, it will thump against your skull like a medal-winning ship riveter and demand thrills, bright lights and jazz—or it will turn on you like a spoiled child and whimper and whine about this being a sad, sad world until you feel like rushing to the river and drowning the thing in the drink. Certainly a brain cannot, like a good wife, be con- sidered a comfort around the house. Sometimes one is almost convinced that it is better to go through life without a brain. You see a lot of people every day who make a success of living without such an encumbrance. At the best you can never be sure about a brain. It may seem all right and act like a friend and all that, but you never can tell. It is best always to regard it cynically, condescendingly, and with a slight tinge of suspicion. Never, never, never trust it out of sight! Setting Her Right “ My dear,” said Mr. Gabbleton, after his wife had uttered, in a stri- dent stream three: quarters of an hour long, _ reproaches, animadversions and contumely, “what the poet wrote was, ‘Let joy,’ not jaw, “be unconfined.’ “*Kamerad!” The Head Wait- eo —Dumkopf! That's oO both hands, up over your head. The New Wait- er—Pardon. Don't you see I am serv- ing some American i ? soldiers? ’ Drawn by BW, Kesnus falk about doin’ yer bit, this will make a pair of pants for some Belgium kid.” comicbooks.com