Judge — March 15, 1919 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

Mme. Bombardi: Contralto By Harvey Preare Daguerreotype by the . EAL name, Maggie Mulligan. Born and raised in Kansas. Studied one year in Europe. Speaks only French and Italian Pretends to be wrestling with English Was driven to America by the war Says, “I was what you call howling success in Taree!” Visitors from Paris are a unit as to the adjective. Sings for war charities, Asks only regular fee and 10 per cent of the gross receipts. she is “doing her bee! *harity managers agree on the “beat.” Proof Friend—You say this actress is only 23 years old, and yet I know positively that she has a daughter 24. How do you account for that? Her Press Agent—It only goes to show how eccentric she really is First Step Friend—Have you taken the nece sary steps to meet the changing ¢ ditions which Peace will bring? Magnate—Indeed I have. I have already summoned the heads of all our departments for a meeting to arrange for a new slogan to excuse the continuance of high prices, now that we can’t use “On account of the war.” Probably Safe “You swore off smoking at the first of the year?” “Postively. However, the Christmas cigars must all be consumed by this time. I think I may safely resume.” Where He Found It By Ternett Love Howupay YOUNG writer, who yearned to win fame as a humorist, went forth in search of grist for his typewriter. At the — vaudeville, mirth-makers waxed mer- ry at $500 a week. But little of their fun was funny; and all of it was old. In the home of musical comedy, when the sou- brette invited him to laugh at her lingerie, he blushed; and when she kicked the comedian in the eye, the smile seeker wept and departed. A dinner dansant, whose noisy hilarity kept the policeman awake, attracted attention. The scribe paused to listen. The wit, however, was wine-logged, and the smiles were smutty smirks, A garden party, a-bloom with Betty buds and unrazored Billy buddies, made the writer’s heart beat high with hope. Betty laughed because a voice whispered that her eyes were blue. Billy guf- fawed for no reason at all, save Drawn by R. B. Pouen that his heart, like his head, was light. Awearied by despair, the writer sat down upon the steps of a legislative hall to rest. Within the chamber strutting, tin-whistle tinkers tam- ed with a nation’s vital organs The ceiling swayed from the impact of 42-centimeter blank shells fired from hot air howitzers. In dark- ened corners shades of bygone stat men shuddered in their winding sheets. While the solemn duffers played government golf with piffle balls, the scribbler scrawled. At last, when his notebook would hold no more, the writer tore himself from the copy min “The moral is,” chuckled the coming Mark Twain, as he prepared to set in sparkling sentences the gems that were to make a nation hold its mirth-racked sides, “you get the biggest laugh out of the chap who takes himself most seri- ously.” A Tough Kid “Do you—ah!—object to visitors issing your baby, Mr. Johnson?” asked the candidate. “Nope! Go as fur as you like,” replied Gap Johnson, of Rumpus Ridge, Ark. “He can stand it if you can Pricate Banks, 4. E. F. (accidentally jostled)—Have a care! I killed some fellers fer less than that a few months ago! comicbooks.com 7