Judge — August 20, 1921 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by A. T. MERRICK. “THIS IS TIRESOME WORK T! HOT DAYS—BUT I HAVE AN IDEA. Cold, Cold! By KATHARINE HAVILAND TAYLOR SX was beautifully clothed in the green raiment he had se- lected for her; many would have called her lovely, but to the man who stood before her, the man who dreamed of her, planned triumphs for her—and his triumph over her, she had begun to lack because she was so cold. To him she would reveal nothing but a chill repression. And how he had worked to arouse her, to make her stretch out her arms toward him as though she longed for his touch.... True, she sometimes held out her satin-skinned, glori- ously molded arms, but when he drew close to touch her—ah, he knew! Knew what he meant to her! How slight was his influence! They were often alone, and she made no remonstrance when he played with her hair, arranging it fancifully as a lover will; or clasped strings of pearls, or chains of Orien- tal whim about her lovely throat. At the admiration in his eyes she only smiled gently. One morning he came upon her idling in a swing. Her skin showed a suspicion of moisture and she was very quiet. “You’re feeling the heat,” he said, a sneer in his tone, “and I thought you could feel nothing! God,” he ended harshly, “your restraint is killing me!” It was that afternoon that the climax was reached; he had been ar- ranging chairs and cushions for her. Would she sit here, or here? But no care for her comfort seemed to matter, nor to make her conscious of his devotion. Suddenly he stooped, drew a deep breath and picked her up. Roughly he laid her on a porch swing. Her “[ WILL PUT ONE LITTLE MARK IN THIS LETTER ‘O" AND gaze clung to but there was no fear in it; only the ghost of a question seemed to lurk in the blue of her eyes. The remoteness of her look smote his heart and set it to aching hideously. “Will nothing make you change? he asked, between set teeth. “Think of my devotion, the time I lavish upon you, how I care, how it matters, and—pity!” But still she did not speak. denly, with a squaring of his shoul- ders and a look of the brute on his face, he turned to lower a curtain. It grew dark; again he picked her up, held her close, and laughed harshly as he whispered, “Now we shall see who rul An hour later he rolled up the curtain. She was sitting in a chair, his, Sud- s usted b Gaye Drawn by Cuester I. Gane. Friend (unaware of Rector’s recent be- reavement)—AND HOW'S THE WIPE STAND- ING THE HEAT THESE DAYS? it EIT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THY! her head lowered, and in her hands was a copy of the Atlantic Monthly. No faintest hint was upon her face ef all she had gone through. He looked at her and almost sobbed. “Hopeless,” he groaned. “Some may see tenderness in you, feeling in you, but not I!” His voice dropped and he turned aside, a beaten and a broken man. Outside the window two women paused. The one who weighed two hundred and fifty spoke: “Look at that there figger with the green lawn dress and the green sweater on,” she said; “the one a settin’ and readin’. Don't it seem like she could speak if she had a mind to? They certainly do dress windows elegant, now-a-days!” The Meticulous Author By KENNETH DUANE WHIPPLE DARE not mix A metaphor. Believe me, nix! I dare not mix My words, but fix It better, for I dare not mix A metaphor. I seldom write Hyperbole. In form so trite I seldom write; Although I might Use verbally, I seldom write Hyperbole. ’Tis true, I pen Synecdoche. I don’t know when, ’Tis true, I pen, But now and then, Correct to be, ‘Tis true, I pen Synecdoche. comicbooks.com