Judge — August 13, 1921 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

APHRODITE ey PRAXITELES: “IN EVERY LOG THEY’D DRIVE THEIR WEDGE, AND EVERY PIE THEY’D FINGER.” Looking Upward EFORMERS all are restless R jays, they never quit reform- ing; we see them hump, through all their days, on helpful errands swarming. This world is never good enough to suit these busy beavers; to every- thing that’s punk or tough they’d hand their shining cleavers; they’re always on the trail of sin, and when one sin they smother, they do not take their signboards in, but go and hunt another. And some are tin- horn little sins that do not seem to matter, but still reformers raise their din, and bore us with their chatter. A lot of us believe this globe is worth what it may cost us, and it’s no use to tear one’s robe, or let small ills exhaust us. We can’t expect a perfect sphere—that fact seems plain and simple—a world without a sigh or tear, without a boil or pimple. And we’re inclined to say, “Gee whiz! what is the use of storming? The world’s a daisy as it is, so why keep on reforming? Why not o’erlook an ill or two, and bless this good old By Wait Mason Illustration by RALPH BARTON planet, recalling that the sky is blue, and scented zephyrs fan it?” If we all talked this way, methinks, this life would be serener, but oh, the wild reforming ginks must make the old world cleaner. They snoop around with anxious care, in ever growing numbers; if there’s a fly- speck anywhere they can’t enjoy their slumbers. In every log they’d drive their wedge, and every pie they’d finger, and so they keep us all on edge while in this world they linger. At last they die and pull their freight across the stream of Jordan, and show their record at the gate, and get rewards accordin’. I have no doubt reformers all to Paradise are carried, when they are summoned from this ball, that they so long have harried. I often wonder how they act when in the realm elysian; do they conduct themselves with tact, contentment in their vision? Do they indorse the streets of gold and praise the shining river, or do their saintly feet get cold, and do they roasts deliver? 19 I can’t imagine such a crowd in peace and quiet dwelling; I seem to see them through a cloud, all rant- ing round and yelling. I hear their criticisms weird, throughout the bright dominions; they do not like Saint Peter’s beard, or Noah’s pair of pinions. And each reformer says his crown is punk, he has been slighted; they’ll turn the whole place upside down unless their wrongs are righted. They wander through the sacred groves, to see just what is doing, and meet some angels chew- ing cloves, and then suspect home brewing. Heaven is, they say, behind the times—it needs a judge and jailer, and John the Baptist’s robes are crimes—he ought to fire his tailor. They scent tobacco in the air and clamor for a sheriff, they want in- spectors everywhere, to bother saint and seraph. T can’t imagine all that bunch in peace and quiet dwelling; there is no grapejuice with their lunch, and so they keep on yelling. comicbooks.com