Judge — July 23, 1921 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

“LAUGH AND THE WORLD LAUGHS WITH YOU” SATIRE S SONG’ There are laughs galore in every page of MAURICE SWITZER’S SATIRE AND SONG As a fun maker and all-round gloom dispeller this work is simply irresistible If a good laugh is better than a dose of physic, then SATIRE AND SONG will actually save scores of doctor’s bills The Author is a New York business man with a keen but kindly outlook on life, and rare sense of humor. He puts his observations of life over the plate in the sort of verse that burns holes in the memory. “She Wasn't Over Twenty, But She Knew Her Little Book” pictures a type of the female of the species that will be instantly recognized. What O. Henry did for some American types in prose Maurice Switzer has done in verse, ind no less convincingly. Kipling himself never did anything better than “Little Jane Horner” “Had the lady been wood, she might have stayed good In the gloom of her beanery cell; But being just flesh, she got caught i Of desire’s drag-net which is hell.”” the mesh If you want to shine as an entertainer among your friends SATIRE & SONG is better than a night at the Follies. Only a small edition of SATIRE & SONG, with unique illustrations in color, and in attractive Art Binding (size of volame 816 inches by 6!4 inches), designed for private circulation among the author's friends, has been published. Because of the merit, of the book we have prevailed upon the author to set aside a few copies for our patrons whom we shall be pleased to sup- ply ata price representing, approximately, cost of manufacture. SATIRE & SONG will be sent postpaid to your address on receipt of a $1.90 bill. But order TODAY. There are only a few copies for general distribution. To get one you must be prompt. Money back if not satisfied. BRUNSWICK SUBSCRIPTION COMPANY 225 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY Recipe for Making a Word-Stew By Benyamin De Casseres Good Old New Orleans BEDFORD JONES was looking for color. It’s hard to find it in the U.S. A. any longer. Red noses have gone out of fashion. Pink elephants are no longer in vogue. A brown taste is relegated to the conservative rich, where conserving has developed into a fine game of hide-and-seek. All color is washed out of us except blue and yellow. We have blue laws and some yellow lobbyists. So Jones pullmaned to New Orleans and went smash up against the Mardi Gras carnival (“The Mardi Gras Mys- tery’’; Doubleday, Page & Co.). Color!— there was so much color that even the negroes turned opal that week. Jones found a merry scoundrel of the name of Henry Gramont. Like all scoun- drels, he was a good fellow. He dressed up in an aviator’s costume, got into the carnival and began frisking watches and flasks. He dealt Ben Chacherre a rude blow while Bacchus was passing, and Ben went flat. Who was the girl with the black mask? She was being pursued up many steps in the hall where the Midnight Looters were pulling off their Mardi Gras ball. Henry flew in the window in his tiny airship and nipped the girl in the bud. He volplaned to Baronne Street, where Julius Friend, disguised as an editor, whistled thrice upon the wrong horn of the dilemma. Turns out that Gramont was no scoun- drel, after all, but just a flat-foot, or some- thing better, or worse. The danger to the girl passes away forever on the last page. H. An Adventure with Anatole ‘HE scene was an actress’s dressing- ‘oom at the Odéon (Paris). Félicie Nanteuil was telling old Doctor Trublet (one of the wonderful skeptics, epicureans and doctors combined that you only meet with in French literature) that she wasn’t feeling well of late. The doctor launched a diatribe against the feminine crime of stays. “The negresses who file their teeth down to a point and split their lips in order to insert a wooden disc disfigure themselves in a less barbarous fashion.” This little detail is from the first chapter of “A Mummer’s Tale,” by the great Anatole France (John Lane & Co.). I read this story years ago in French. It is 34 called, satirically, by the writer, “Histoire Comique.” It is one of the most thrilling, mysterious and fascinating of the novels of the French master. It is unlike any of his other stories. Humor, wit, drama and psychism are all bunched. I guarantee you an unforgetable night with this book on your lap. And it is a fine chance for you to get an introduction to Anatole France. John Lane is publish- ing all his works in English. Start with this one. You will get the rare flavor of the Gaul in it. You—I—we all need it. What’s the matter with our literature? Lacks Attic salt; lacks Latinity. We can make ploughs and arc lamps, but a country is remembered by the artists it produces. As an antidote to our Blue Nose censors read Anatole France. Have You Got It? HY is a nerve? Why have, some of us, nerve and others just nerves? Why does Tom Touch always get a five out of me on his nerve and why do I get nervous when I see him coming? Do you get up “jumpy” in the morning? Do you have strange apprehensions that coming events will cast their shadows before? Do phonographs ruffle your catgut ap- paratus? Do you bite your nails when you see a revenue officer looking up at your window? If so, why for? Look into the book that the lady-Docs Josephine Jackson and Helen M. Salisbury have casseroled together on this important matter (“Outwitting Our Nerves”; The Century Co.). It teaches you how to hold your horses in case of fire, sudden collectors icebox raids, mad dog, hold-ups, rising prices, air raids, yeast gas, early milkmen, weather-vane corns, drunken janitors, centipedes in the bed, sleeplessness due to late poker parties, boss’s evil eye, Mencken’s English, subconscious sy! bolism and suppressed thirst. Seriously, it is a charming book. If you read it you will find that you have every ailment it tells you you oughtn’t to have. I got a violent attack of “nerves” after going through it. But I found out on page 225 what would cure it. I rested my muscle and got rid of a lot of carbon dioxid, urea, creatin and sacro-lactic acid. Feeling better, I tossed off a scotch and tossed the book to dark Appolonia, our nervous literary cook.