Judge — September 25, 1920 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

for the return of your wife?” “Every cent.” “No one will bring her back for that paltry sum.” “T know it.” Louisville Couricr-Jour- m No Time for Interruption—How- ever deplorable the fact may be, playing- two-handed pinochle at 25 cents a hand is one of the favorite diversions of com muters between this city, New York, At lantic City, Cape May and other com cial outports of Philadelphia. One man who carries his pleasures as well as his worries home from work. was playing pinochle in his library the other evening with a crony, when the butler entered and handed hi: telegram. He re turned it unopened. I'll look at it later.” “But the messenger is waiting. sir,” the butler respectfully remonstrated, The financier read the telegram. It said: “Struck Sooo-barrel gusher today Everything fine.” ‘onfound you, Thomas, why did you spoil my game?” he cried He didn’t care nearly so much about the fortune he had mad about the 2 cents he was in danger of losing.— Phil adelphia Public Ledge Safe—“ And is $10 all you are offering na “Jeas! Jean! Come take away cicarette; 1 want to yawn.”—Kasper Stockholm), Intellect’ Disdained—“T have be- come convinced,” remarked voung Mrs. Torkins, “that there is no chance for brains thes “What has convinced you?” “Charley knows more about horses than anybody I ever heard talk, But the horrid racetrack people won't let him make a bit of money.’—Washington Star days.” Her Query—“I did what 1 could Tony—I told her you had more money than sense.” “And what did she say?” “She asked if you had enxy money!” Pan (London). Something to Keep Under Cover AT ARTIST FELLOW SAID I 1A “Husn! Say xormixe avout rt A CHARACTER FACE!” THEY'LL PUT A LUXURY TAX ON IT.”” Cadwallader When old Cadwallader was here We had indeed a weather prophet, For he knew what the weather'd be And every wrinkle of it He had a hundred a And knew by heart kind nature’s laws: Rain on the flood, nothing bul scud. Rain on the cbb, as well go to bed. His rhymes, indeed, were not all there, But then, his assurance was fair, The fortunate philosopher, Our weather-wise Cadwallader! night, sailors’ delight norning, sailors take warn ing He'd hum as on his way he went Wiite we on picnics were intent; Confident of all winds that blew, ‘The garden-party’s fate he knew, And if the boating should begin With an easterly glim’, wet to the skin. Nothing now’s certain as all things were In the day of good old Cadwallader —Harriet Prescott Spofford, in Harper's Magazin Romance Far, by a sunlit, summer sea She dwelt on love and faith and hope— Her right name was Penelope But neighbors called her Penclope. Fair as a violet was she, That grows beside the mossy stone, Or that wind-flower, anemone— The farmers call it anemone. She danced like down along the lea, She danced like foam along the shore, A daughter of Terpsichore Whom hoi polloi call Terpsict Alas!’ One day she went to sce A circus—heard the raucous dope Of that accurst calliope Which most folks call the calliope! That very night this maid did flee With the Big Show to dance and loaf; Sure, such a sad catastrophe Might well be called a catastrophe! Now as a modern trovatore She dances to the calliope; © hapless child of Terpsichore, O airy, fairy Penelope! —Cleveland Plain Dealer. a OTE