Judge — August 20, 1921 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

erland hinterland came to this country a little Dutch boy with a handmade, homespun education to prove that scholastic skyrockets are but an honorable mention not worth mentioning in the same class with the Public-spiritedness of the Public School when applied to the public welfare. Edward William Bok, however, literally pulled himself up by his Dutch courage until he may now be called the Foster Mother of the great female reading flotsam of these Be- nighted States of America. He has done much to keep the foot on the cradle, the knitting needle in the hand and the cook book open upon the kitchen table. Edward William has done for woman what the Salvation Army is doing for men—minus cornets, trom- bones or tambourines .. . more power to him! No full-blooded American man should withhold from him the Curtisy of Publication. He is the man behind the darning needle; he is the Bok of the mended sock. With the consummate subtlety of a State Senator, he has suggested so many ways and means of keeping woman faithful to the home that she must indeed be ingenious to develop a talent for the gambling den or the pool-room. We feel that Bok, almost single- handedly, has darn-near restored Eve to the pinnacle of purity upon which she once so blythely balanced her- self, up to the time when Adam danced the snake-dance in the Gar- den and disposed of the apple-pie she had more or less innocently baked from a Ladies’ Home Journal recipe, and which wasn’t to be eaten till to- morrow’s breakfast. We beg to warn all women of evil design or pattern to steer a wide course, clear of Independence Square, Philadelphia, and the insidiousness of the Bok system. We shudder to think to what depths of degradation woman might have fallen without Ladies’ Home Journalism. Mr. Bok has provided so many pretty lures to hitch woman to the housewiffletree that it is only with the utmost abandon that she may lay down the bobbin for the cigarette. What an influence for good he might have swung over the heads of the Historic Vamps of yesteryear! With a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal in hand, could Helen of Fre: the windmills of the Neth- Troy—nay, would she have dared Hic Bok Beatus By Georce MitcHe.i turn Paris green with jealousy? Could immodest Salome have dropped a single veil or perpetrated a double cross, if she had been taught to lisp Ladies’ Home Journalectures at her mother’s kneeside? What, my friends, does Echo answer? We ask you. One can but conjure up an Old Home Journalless world to under- stand why crime was, but is no more. No self-respecting fireside should glow without a portrait of the great American Fireside Companion. It Drawn by A. B. WALKER. IF THE STAIRS AND TRUNK LOOK A TRIFLE OUT OF DRAWING PLEASE EXCUSE THE ARTIST AS HE WAS THE VICTIM AND THIS WAS HIS IMPRESSION. should be neatly enclosed in a home- knitted, heart-shaped matt. No kitchen, remembering that it was Mr. Bok who raised it from the mockery of plain-cookery to the nineteenth- hole coursery of modern gastronom- ics, can conscientiously raise its head without at least a hand-colored print of its patron saint set neatly in a frying-pan frame over the gas-range. It is indeed but an ungrateful bed- room that does not smilingly exhibit the face of its benefactor upon one (at least) of its prettily chintsed walls, or stand upon the whatnottery of one of his inventions. We feel, in sum, that as many rooms as one may afford during these days of the re- lentless rent, should pay homage to the homely home maker; the mother’s mainstay; the debutante’s deliverer ; the baby’s layetteer—for be it ever so grumble, there is no home but is the happier for our Philadelphia Dutch Cleanser. Woman’s Insight (A Lover’s Complaint) By HAROLD STANSBURY (™ just a little jealous, And She, without a doubt, Although I’ve tried the same to hide, Has somehow found it out. She’s very penetrating, She sees what you can’t see, She somehow knows whatever goes On ’way inside of me. I’m at a disadvantage, I can’t retaliate, T can’t conceal the things I feel (Or even things I ate). Oh, call it intuition, Oh, call it what you please; It’s not designed to put the mind, To say the least, at ease. Now, do you think it decent So searchingly to peek Behind the place I call my face, My secrets for to seek? And were it not a boldness, To scrutinize my skin Without this stern resolve to learn The very thoughts within? You’d think I was complaining, You’d think I thought Her mean; You’d think I thought she hadn’t ought To be so very keen. Don’t misconstrue my meaning, Don’t let my words mislead: A world where She was not would be A‘dull, dull world indeed! comicbooks.com