Judge — June 18, 1921 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by Jasces H. Haetoxn Pearrtox Maxwett, Editor J. A. Watpron, Associate Editor THE QUESTIONNAIRE UST as the questionnaire was upli J itself as the high cockalorum of a indexed civilization, Mr. lison crowed. A hundred million common pco- ple laughed coarsely. sighed. The little gods of efficiency slumped. Metaphysical engineers _ in- quired what was now to maintain the standards of the works against the en- croachments of stupidity. The questionnaire, which was expected to bend unbending arrog: before its ascendency, gay vehemence and soaring pretense, itself bent—but may recover its stiff consti n with must relinquish some hopes. It must retire mit to be a mere item ¢ paper-god, in public without some lese majeste Only high art can draw forth the spice and salt of ch: With ink, ma The psychol nce a deity routine or female For no led can be fon aracter to a piece of paper. ya clever crow can scream like an eagle, ny a lion squeak like a mi When _ the stionnaire amended to reflect loyalty, prudence, in- dustry, honesty, tact and cheerfulness. it may run our system. All the prescience of all the eyes and ears of all the ages can not tell the contents of a black bottle by look ing and listening. We may sort each other into fitness, but even Solomon could not sort us into the index expurgator: We will not efface the question: But it can not now efface us. Its talents secure it from contempt; but its talons can not throw us on the scrap. If our sacrifices to Nemesis are unanswered at qu 1 we shall move on to a more congenial altar—like idolators have always. We can now view any rebuff with affable poise, for we now know what we don't know—which is a contribution humbling to imperious assumption and of delightful Je to all pleasant people. one shrine, PrunG WILSONIANA HE bibliography of the last adminis- tration will be colossal. Ever connected, except Mr. Wilson, is writing a book. Ex-Secretaries Lansing and Dan- iels, ex-Vice-President Marshall, Colonel House—and so on ad finitum. This ardor is‘appalling. It is estimated that fifty new books from this host are in sight. It isa literary convulsion, not only threatening to swamp the pulp paper market, but to submerge for all time old Sam Pepys and other classic prattlers. These contemporary historians are not mere detached spectators. hey are not mere Gibbonses writing about the decline and fall of an empire, ages after the crash. They helped. They must now seek vin- They fear that they shall ap- ining eyes of posterity like shadowed by a star of high magnitude. The sure way to catch the lens of distance is to hold up a book. We all understand. They are freed from the iritual thrall of “plagues and signs, won- ders and war,”’ and must glut their ire and lave their perturbation in flowing ink. y one dication pear to the str; the nebulx o Tue Suvttep Banquet Story O many acute story-tellers often forget that when the ladies are absent, the gentlemen may be present. Some vaude- 16 ville entertainers at public banquets are afilicted with this form of aphasia. Now, while it is true that all stags have horns, no respectable stag enjoys having his antlers stuck full of canned cheese. Good humor binds the board in genial fun. Coarse tales flatten the mood. That gayety of head and heart which apostro- phized wine, women and song, and floated rosy cupids on rosy bubbles of champagne, was the darling enchantress of a vanished A true artist might revive her and garb her in an unreal glamour, but her beauty would be the hectic flush of decay. The professional mirth-mixers, and the volunteer vaudevillian, also, should st psychology. It become clearer then that a banquet is neither a high ws sail nor a low revel. It is a feast where the level of good breeding is elevated. None are ashamed to t among those present.” They come to see the talkers strike fire, But not to solash slush The haling into the public glare of the smutted story scems to rustle certain sur- reptitious reminiscences. For even the sun for the next three years will exhibit its spots shamefacedly, and even the prodi- gal son carving the fatted calf would prefer no remarks about what a “divvle he was among the women.” The entertainer who can smooth the wrinkles of care with a deft touch is an artist. The performer who removes the wrappings from a smutted story in public is aclown. His racy quip ought to trot on a covered track. It might rock the barn- yard; but it reeks at the board. We want life to spurt with all its old verve and sparkle; but we want the fountain clean. | y would comicbooks.com