Judge, 1919-09-06 · page 13 of 36
Judge — September 6, 1919 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis of "Evil Times" by Walt Mason This is a satirical poem with Ralph Barton's accompanying illustration mocking pessimism during what appears to be a period of post-WWI economic turbulence and Prohibition (the "CLOSED" bar sign is visible). **The Satire's Point:** Mason criticizes chronic complainers and "prophets of doom" who obsess over genuine social problems—corruption, injustice, profiteering, government incompetence—while ignoring that the world fundamentally persists and improves. The refrain "the world still jogs along" undercuts apocalyptic doom-saying. **The Cartoon:** Shows a well-dressed man striding confidently through chaos: a closed bar, distressed figures, spilled bottles, and financial disorder. He's singing cheerfully despite the surrounding "evil times." Musical notes stream from his mouth—visualizing Mason's ironic message that optimism, not justified grievance, should prevail. **For Modern Readers:** This reflects a recurring American rhetorical move: dismissing legitimate complaints about systemic problems as mere negativity. The cartoon's central figure embodies willful obliviousness to documented corruption and suffering.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“So Wire tue Sorrow Orr Your Face, tue Furrows From Your Brow” Evil Times By Watt Mason Illustration by Ravpu Barton HE world is going to the dogs, the pessimists declare; the government is slipping cogs, there's chaos everywhere. The profiteers have held us up, have placed us on the rack; somebody stole my brindled pup, and does not bring it back. ITamble down the village street, and rumors make me pale, for every delegate I meet puts up a hard luck tale. Each fellow springs his rigmarole as tragic as Macbeth; the govern- ment’s so in the hole we'll all be taxed to death. Ind still the old world wags along, ‘neath skies serene and bright; where there's one thing that’s sadly wrong, a thousand things are right. The way our blooming statesmen go arouses public scorn; they’re piling up a lot of woe for people yet unborn. They should be toiling in the pen, instead of drawing pay; and some- one swiped my old gray hen that laid four eggs a day. On every hand there’s soft boiled grief, affliction and despair; and naught but death can bring relief, or ease our load of care. 0 Iet’s go out and call the hearse, and take a boneyard ride; for things are getting worse and worse, which cannot be denied. And still the old world jogs along, pegs on by day and nigh and where one fellow gets in wrong, a thousand get in right. 13 Corruption rules in all our towns, our belfries swarm with bats; the workman in his handmedowns is robbed by pluto- crats. There’s rank injustice in our courts, in gilded homes there's sin; and I have heard our village sports can’t buy a drink of gin. The world is headed for the dump, to join the cast-off kings; and no one but a locoed chump can hope for better things. The prospect's grim and frightful now, the facts too dread to tell; and some one’s borne away the cow that I have loved so well. And still the old world jogs along, as it has jogged for years; and some are putling up a song who should be bathed in tears, Cheer up, my friends! In every age the croakers raised their wail; a little while they held the stage and sprung their mourn- ful tale. ince man among the primal fogs evolved from some cheap ape, the world’s been going to the dogs, things were in frightful shape. There always have been prophets gray who dished up black despair; and yet the good old world today is right side up with care. Although these prophets may uprear, and rave around and roar, the world’s a better world this year than ere it was before. And it will be a better place next year than it is now; so wipe the sorrow off your face, the furrows from your brow.