Judge — April 12, 1919 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

Joun A. Suricuer, President Perarron Maxwett, Editor Reuven P. Sueicuer, Secretary J. A. Watpron, Literary Editor ge I diforials ALE. Routaver, Treasurer Grast E. Hasttutos, rt Director Lawrox Mackatt, Managing Editor ImperiaL Sawpbust AND PIcKLES HAT one-time eminent citizen of Berlin and Spa, the kaiser, has at last found his true vocation. Having foozled the war he has taken to sawing logs. According to a recent dispatch from Holland the would-be world- conqueror has just finished sawing his thousandth log. He is very proud of his achievement and, as in the old days, has had himself photographed, saw in hand, standing valiantly with one foot on the neck of a fallen sapling. Also, with touching simplicity, he has auto- graphed a few chips and distributed them among his relatives. But even in his new job William proves himself a congenital piker and has brought down upon his erst- while royal Read the contumely of Dutch expert sawyers, who aver that his logs are ragged along the edge and that he can do only three hours’ work a day. At the trade-union scale he has earned an equivalent of thirty dollars since his self-imposed exile at Amerongen, or an average of fifty cents a day since he ran away from his home town. Some of his Dutch neighbors declare quite openly that Kaiser Bill does more grunting than sawing, but it must be confessed that he has had a per- fectly ripping time, as his cousin King George would say. "We have had-no word from the Crown Prince, of late, but we suspect he may be deeply engaged in count- ing the warts on the dill pickles with which members of his limited entourage are said to keep him amply sup- plied and for which he has a consuming passion. It isn’t apparent, however, how little Willie can emulate his papa in the matter of auto- graphs, because (although we have never put the mat- ter to practical test) it must be an extremely difficult task to inscribe one’s name Pree" by Russ Wesroven on the nodule of a dill pickle. Ss eA * wee}: y 4 E, Some EnTANGLEMENT! Presto! Cuance! T was only a little while ago that the world was very sure the college boy was a noisy good-for- nothing with a scant thimbleful of brains and a pocketful of papa’s cash. But the war changed our opinion of him, as it changed many of the opinions of which we were surest and proudest. We were wrong. We take off our hats—and our thinking-caps—to the leather-lunged lad with the mega- phone and the ultra-modern clothes. Of all the boys in these United States of ours he was farthest from being a slacker. He came to the colors early and he came in great number. For him there was no dilly- dallying, no holding back. And the military men tell us that he made good with a decided punch—good as captain, lieutenant, top-sergeant, corporal and private. They say he was soon tamed and readily trained, and that he knew how to go about his business in a surprisingly fine fashion. His hilarity and irresponsibility left him in a week or two and in a month he was a man, with a serious con- ception of his man’s duty. Besides this—and most unexpected of all—he did twelve or fourteen hours of hard labor each day, thrived on it, and remained cheer- fully contented. We salute the rah-rah boy in khaki. DirnyraMB PRRING is here! Old stuff! But it isn’t old stuff if you are young. There is no “old stuff” if you are young, and you are no older than spring makes you feel. Baseball and the spring poet, crocuses and balmy nights, the hurdy-gurdy and the boutonniere, park spark- ing and the tingle in the blood of the New Life—Hurrah! Spring old? Yes! as old as health, as old as joy, as old as song, as old as youth. Spring is here! Exit Mars. Enter the great god Love! comicbooks.com