Judge — October 18, 1919 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by Bauxspare Rowens Muriel—The young clergyman who performed the ce mony seemed awfully flustered. “No, my sons, it is a story about a ter- rible goblin,” I condescended to reveal, hop- ing to intimidate them by the magic word. But Bill snickered, and Buster squirmed down from my knee. “The what?” inquired Bill (incredu- lously, it seemed). “The goblin,” I reiterated; whereupon he snickered again. Buster, in the mean- time, was standing with his head against his mother’s shoulder. Suddenly he burst out laughing. “The goblin?” he caroled, greatly amused. “Where do you get that stuff?” I could have sworn that Olivia snick- ered, too. Buster is six; Bill four. So there you are. A Modern Adjustment Visitor in the Park—Why are all the new “Keep-Off-The-Grass” signs turned upward? Park Superintendent—For aviators, sir. Maud—Heavens, yes—he kissed the bridegroom and shook hands — with the bride. am?” she implored, picking up Baby Jo (I knew as an alibi). As usual I was the goat. Five minutes later I marched Buster and Bill up onto the veranda. In the light of the porch arc their mother must have thought they were something foraged by the cat. For children of so-called gentle birth, they looked like infantile hoodlums. Contented as long as her sons were in sight, Olivia continued to rock Baby Jo to sleep. Olivia began to hum one of those new waltz num- bers, and, I confess, that I also felt the effects of the lullaby. Of a sudden I was rudely aroused by an ominous clatter coming from the back yard. It sounded like all the tinware in the pantry falling down the cellar stairs. I was breathless for a moment, but Olivia seemed only slightly disturbed. ‘Won’t you please see what they are up to now?” she pleaded as usual. Summarily I learned that Bill had climbed into the flivver and that Buster, who knew how to operate the self-starter, had sent the car straight toward the back of the house. Both front lamps, the radiator and the windshield were shattered, but fortunately Bill was unhurt. While picking up the débris I conceived what I believed might prove effective in coercing the youthful night owls to retire for the day. I would tell them the weirdest goblin story I knew. After thirty years, I remembered how it made all my pores shimmy, the night my father told it to me and my brothers and sisters. Back on the veranda I took one on each knee and roceeded to unfold my deadly propaganda. I solemnly Patieved that before I had half finished the tale they would never care to remain up again later than eight o'clock. “Well, you birds, did you ever hear the story of what happened to the bad little boy who never wanted to go tobed?” I began in as sinister a voice as I could assume. “Ts it a fairy story?” demanded Bill. “Ts it a bedtime story?” insisted Buster. Mother—Jimmy, will ye come down or must I come an’ git ye?