Judge, 1919-11-15 · page 9 of 36
Judge — November 15, 1919 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "The Rag Chewers" - Explanation for Modern Readers This satirical piece by Walt Mason mocks chronic arguers—the kind of people who endlessly debate trivial matters without resolution. The illustration shows shabby men loitering outside the "Blue Front Store," their whiskers unkempt, engaging in pointless disputes. Mason's humor rests on a contrast: he claims to *avoid* argument because arguing ruins friendships and tempers, yet he admits he loves talking *at* people who agree with him. The "argufiers" depicted are social misfits—vagrants or loafers ("vags") who literally "chew the rag" (discuss endlessly) about the same old topics forever, getting nowhere and earning nothing. The satire targets a recognizable urban type: unemployed men gathering on street corners, trapped in circular debates about trivial matters ("chestnuts"), never advancing in life, hating each other while unable to stop arguing. It's both humorous character sketch and mild social commentary on idleness and futility.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Tuey Lean Acatnst THE Biue Front Store, Terr Tou: Rag Chewers The Lep Wulskers Hancinc Down By Water Mason Illustration by Rate Barton WILL not argue with you, friend, whatever topic you select; for arguments most always end in someone’s temper being wrecked; men start to argue feeling well, and loving all their fellow guys; but when they’ve argued for a spell they want to black cach other’s eyes. They let their angry passions soar, all kind emotions they inter; they want to slosh around in gore, and fill the air with smoke and fur. I'll talk all day if you'll agree with anything I chance to s: I'll sit beneath my vine and tree, and talk, and talk, and talk aw I'll make the good old welkin feel that my harangue will never end; and if you do not like my spiel, you're free to chase your- self, my friend. Perhaps you'll say, “I don’t agree with things you're saying through your face; and I'll give reasons, six or three, why you are widely off your base.” Then I pick up my folding chair, my corkscrew and my paper hat, and swiftly ooze away from there, for I won't argue this or that. Perhaps you're right, per- haps you're wrong, perhaps your dome is stuffed with bran; but I won't sit, the whole day long, and argue things with any man. My neighbors seem to like to come to hear me talk of books and pups, and tumblebugs and chewing gum, 11-15-19 and works of art and buttercups. But when a neighbor would arise, and show me where I’ve missed a bet, I say, “Great Cesar! How time fi It’s time for bed, already vet.” And so we part with cordial smiles, and all my friends will come again, and hear me talk in forty styles of books and pigs and stallfed men. But if I argued with a jay, we'd merely kick up much dis- tress; he'd hate me when he went aw and I'd despise him, more or less. The “argufiers” throng the town; they lean against the Blue Front store, their tousled whiskers hanging down, and thrash old straw forevermore. They never get ahead an inch, and they will chew the same old rags until some peeler makes a pinch and they are fined for being vags. They hate each other as they chew the rags they've chewed so long upon; they hate each other fro and to, and by and large, and pro and con. They argue chestnuts day and night, they thrash old straw the whole year long; each chewer thinks hs rag is right, and all the other rags are wrong. There's no decision in the game, there'll be none in the years to come; it drags forever, just the same, and no one ever draws a plum.