Judge — August 28, 1920 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

BE TW EEN COVER S Drown by Henuas Patscen A Few Remarks Between Home Runs By Benjamin De Casseres Pié and His Ege THAT about your ego? Your ego is the little puffed-up Brownie inside of you that whispers into your brain, Iam It. In rare instances the Brownie is right. In most cases it is only a balloon he blows up inside of you that the first little Gloom sticks a pin into, when bang! you recover your sense of humor, and say to yourself “I wasn’t s'much after all!” There’s the ego of Bernard Shaw. When he egoes, Lloyd George gets weak in the knees, the Sun modestly retires behind old Saint Swithin and Mother th laces up a bit tighter. When the ego of Louis Eilshemius begins to distend he says he can use his head as a hammer. Quite believable. The Kaiser's ego, after dying at second base, took Br'er Rabbit’s advice He lay low and say nuthin’ Mr. Knopf has imported a brand-new ego from Spain in the person of Pid Baroja (“Youth and Egolatry”). Mr. Mencken, the pagan Bryan of Baltimore, has written the introduction Pio is an intellectual anarchist, probably the most harmless form of Am. An anarchist is an individualist who does noth- ing but foul and strike out every time he comes to bat in tke Game of Life. Pid has apparently lots of fouls to his credit. He airs his ego on almost all subjects from Dionysus, who was the “ Babe” Ruth of pagans, to why, when and how he got born, later becoming a standing remorse in the egos of his parents. Pid takes us into the subcellar of his confidence in Chapter XI and tells us why he became a baker. Well, it was simply because he kneaded the dough, like the rest of us. (Joke.) He larrups the Masses. That’s your real anarchist—a snob always. He has a paragraph entitled “The Giants. I got out my 1920 Baseball Guide, but darn it! I found it had nothing to do with “Ping” Bodie or * ” Speaker, but was all about some guys named Shakespeare, Cervantes and Tolstoi. I'm a Yankee booster anyhow. This so disgusted me that I tossed the ego of Pid Baroja into our community hooch vat Foi PIC. the Weapon-¥e" er (1 livericht, penned by George Langford), Le-an the invasion of I ngland alout forty thousand years B.C. Pic was a Mousteriaa, a tribe of Molly Maguires that lived in the caves of France somewheres around the present site of the Eiffel Tower. At that time one could walk from France to England, but Pic was the first com- muter. He was not a rough-neck. In fact, he simmered with renius. He wrote best sellers on the walls of his dugout with a nome-made fountain pen made out of the bough of a willow Tnousand Years Before Lady Astor 2 tree which exuded, for ink, a foam brewed while the Pussyfoot Johr looking. One day he hid his fountain pen under a ledge and resolved to become the Columbus of Mousterians. He would go to Eng: land and find out what the Lady Astors of his day were up So he set out on back of his Hairy Mammoth and Woolly Rhino: ceros, amc with a Grade-A skull-cracker. Pic’s adventures in this midnight of our past are the most y yellow substance which h+ on of his tribe was not fascinating done since Jack Londen’s “Before which kept me awake a whole night and long after the girl next door began to practise her new waltz by Jerome Remick Pic met the most fantastic animals in England. Some of them are still there. Others have since landed at Plymouth Rock. The curious beas' ic met in that wonderful time could talk. It seems tha imals lost the power of speech after the first politician arong men began to harangue the first voters. One does not necd any facts to write a book like this, which rakes it all the ore memorable and humorous. For what is hurror? Isn't it the ability to get as far away from facts as pos- sible? I recommend this book as an antidote to the autumn campaign. Nancy's Vacuum Cleaner O “shrivellinf thoughts” ever get a hold on you and cause your Will Power to bag at the knees and your High Hopes to become sicklied o’er with a week's growth of furze? Has Gloom invaded your tome, casting out of the five rooms and bath the sunshine and the moonshini If at any time you suffer from these symptoms send for Doctor Jane D. Abbott, author of “Happy House” (Lippin- cott’s). She will put her vacuum cleaner of Happy Ideals in your psychological bungalow and blow all the Crawling Things out of the dark corners. Then she will clean the windows, scrub the floor and polish up the handle on the big front door— of your Soul. In the story, of course, it is really Nancy who does the Pollyanna in the gloomy home of Fer aunt. By the time Nancy gets through with the Dismal Abode the old aunt is cooking home brew to the sound of pagan music from a new music box, the tabby h boxful of kittens, laughter Springs Forth from the throats of children rouncabout like the burble of the bulbuls, the servants take things with a lighter and more glad- some touch, and kindness reigns forevermore. The story swings along with a regular gusto. Every word is handpicked for its wholesomeness. I understand that teeth- ing-rings will be given out with the second edition. comicbooks.com