Judge — January 24, 1920 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

In Extenuation By Tou P. Morcax a UILTY, Yo’ Honah!" stid old man Mauley. “Guilty, sth, but wid extermi- natin’ succumstances. I sho’ scrutinized dat nigger’s head wid muh cane, but I had muh reasons. Yassth, I done had muh reasons. In de fust place, sah, he’s muh son-in-law, which am engener’ly enough of itse’f. But to make de matter mo’ so, I was gwine down de street an’ met up wid de scoun’l uh-pom pousin’ along as big as life wid de Bishop. I made muh man ners an’ stopped to ‘spostulate wid de good man. De Bishop slowed up, an’ whispered to muh son-in-law: AE e, Brudder Yaw; ain't dis gen'leman some 0’ yo’ kinnery?’ “*No, sah,’ whispered muh son-in-law back. ‘He's merely dess nobody but a kin o’ muh wife.’ “Kin o' muh wifet’ An’ V'd been suppo'tin’ de varmint since de Lawd knows when! Uh-well, sth, I turned plumb ashy at dat, an’ I ups wid muh hick’ry an’ saturated his nappy head wid it like beatin’ a drum. An’ I reggin I'd uh-been right dar twell yet, sth, uh-hommerin’ his head, if de constable hadn’t ‘rived on de scenery an’ drug me loose fum him. An’ I leaves it to yo'se'f, Judge, if yo’ had a black rascal of a son- in-law, an’ he called yo’ merely a kin o’ his wife. wouldn't yo’ bust him, sah, an’ bust him good?” A Prophecy By Stricktann Giiuitax [™ 29 proph-et— Nay, nay, nor yet Am the son of any such. I have no spite At Woodrow—quite The reverse! I'll say as much. Dron by Ress Westover But I am here To play the seer For one exalted minute. And I will bet All I can get In any pool—and win it. Lo, this will be My prophecy— Correct me, if I err Next worthy gent To be presi-dent Won't be a profes—sir. This I will add (Till late I had Been standing very pat!): Next man to heat Drown by A. Macusren That envied seat Guest Won't be a Democrat! Both—I wish I could get that! By D. B. Vax Bure THe Human Race is: To the Politician: What the Small Boy catches in the brook with a wire noose. To the Radical: A shirt to be ironed down smooth. To the Egotist: A sheet of blotting paper to absorb his ideas. To the Socialist: A splendid subject for vivisection. To the Prohibitionist: A baby to be weaned. To the Trusts: A donkey that doesn’t know enough to kick. To the Labor Unions: Ditto, To Itself: An enigma. While the above are: To the Human Race: What boils were to poor old patient Job. To Men of Sense: D—— Modern Valuation Briggs—You seem meditative. Griggs—Yes. I was thinking. “Two cents for your thoughts.” Cautious Post—I say, old man, will you join our Big Brother Club? ’arker—Let’s see the girl I’m to be fraternal to first Can I get any liquid refreshment? Bellboy—No, sir; only tea or coffee. comicbooks.com