Judge — July 2, 1921 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

last | rewd have ‘hine ype- fore, task ood- kept does ora your \ y ' XUM 4 “Bur Perer Poote, THE TEACHER'S DEAR, IS JUST A FOURTH-RATE AUCTIONEER.” The Way It HEN I was young John Peter Poole took all the prizes at our school. In everything that boy ex- celled, and all the diamond belts he held; he always had his lessons tight—he doubtless studied them all night, and nothing was so hard to learn that he would, baffled, from it turn. The teacher held him up, with zest, as an example to the rest; we heard so much about his worth we cursed the hour that saw his birth. Oh, that was long ago, you know; the years have gone as years will go; and boys who were the dunces then are hustling in the world of men. And one’s a judge of high degree; a man of wide renown is he; he makes the hearts of sinners quail, and sends the profiteers to jail. And one’s become a famous pote; the nations hear his dulcet note, and murmur softly when they’ve heard, “That bard is sure enough a bird.” He grinds his poetry machine, and gathers in the good long green. By Warr Mason Illustration by Rateu Barton Another in the senate stands, and ad- miration there commands. He looks so potent and so wise he overshadows other guys; if he looks wiser than he is, it’s not for me to say, “Gee whiz!” He’s made a great success of life, while others lost out in the strife. And I could name a dozen more who went to that old school of yore, and wore the dunce’s cap all day, and left to bale all kinds of hay. But Peter Poole, the teacher’s dear, is just a fourth-rate auctioneer. I saw him just the other morn, and he seemed hope- less and forlorn; I wandered with him to his room, a small apartment, thick with gloom; and there he had, in grim array, the prizes of that bygone day; the trophies he had gathered in that jarred the other boys like sin. And that’s the way this sad world slides; the conqueror in glory rides for his brief day, to disappear, or turn up as an auction- eer. The caitiff at the victor’s heel, who looks too cheap to buy a meal,, may live in comfort in a flat when has-been victors pass the hat. 13 Goes There was a strong man lived next door, whose life to me became a bore. He exer- cised in all known styles, each day he walked a hundred miles, he kept himself in proper trim, and bubbled o’er with pep and vim. My wife and aunt and nieces three were always quoting him to me. If I would rise at five o’clock, and climb a tree, and take a walk, and follow up some dras- tic rules invented by some squarehead fools I wouldn’t be so beastly fat, and all such dreary stuff as that. And here I sit in pomp and state, a gent of near three hundred weight, and I am feeling well enough to write this kind of helpful stuff. And where is now that man of brawn who hit the pike at early dawn, and wore out tons of sprinting shoes, and exercised his bulging thews? Where is that man so swift and blithe? The Reaper got him with a scythe; he caught a cold while hunting geese, and died, and found eternel peace. Thus goes the foolish world away; the strong go out, the fat ones stay. comicbooks.com