Judge — August 20, 1921 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by T. S. Tousey. CENSORED. The Girl With the Naked Ears By Gevetr BurGess Author of “The Purple Cow,” “Goops and How to Be Them,” “Are You a Bromide?” Ete. eaten only by proxy. Those proxies had, to be sure, al- ways voted right, and many pork chops and fried sweets had been elected. But somehow, it wasn’t ex- actly like dropping in your own bal- lot at the Cafeteria, and pulling out a sturdy Hamburg steak that was Very Truly Yours. And no matter how tight you lace your corset, though you may deform your liver and reduce your waist line, your appetite keeps right on swell- ing, swelling like a child movie actor’s head. But in order to eat, Coralie had to have a job. In the good old days before the Big Drought, she had been the-second-from-the-end in the front row of the Midnights. She had sung “The Girl with the Naked Ears,” that ditty which the Society for the Advertisement of Vice had tried so hard to suppress. In those days, lobsters, both broiled and pickled, were plenty on Longacre Square. F’: a week Coralie Seabeam had One could open the stage-door and coast right into a mob of top hats, gardenias and monocles. And then—Volstead came. The Midnights closed up. And Coralie was left, as the tide went out, wrig- gling upon the beach. Broke! In the agencies and managers’ pal- aces where she sought for work no one seemed to know her now. She who had been so very, so almost too visible on the stage, so visible at times that the Mayor had been asked to interfere, now apparently could not be seen with the bared eye. In one month she had become as extinct as “Hiawatha,” as quaintly old-fash- oned as Cassie Chadwick. Such is life in Times Square & Co. And yet, Coralie knew that no mat- ter how dead you are, you can always revive if the police or the reporters will assist. All you have to do is to break into the Front Page. How? Ah, that’s what has kept so many good and great from becoming fa- mous—that How. 5 But Coralie had brains—how many no one knew as yet. But they were soon to be discovered. What is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come the longest days. On Fifth Avenue the sun shone bright, and almost equally on Broad- way. The sidewalks were crowded with flappers, straw hats, bargain- hounds and 100 per cent. Americans with flasks on their hips. In front of the Public Library, the manicured, marcelled lions gazed at a. brilliant and perspiring throng— but said nothing, in that cold, piti- less way granite lions have. In the traffic signal tower, at 42nd Street, Fifth Avenue’s pet lighthouse, a cyn- ical officer looked down sneeringly at the horde of Fords, thick as cock- roaches in an East Side kitchen, and, every half hour or so, stopped them with a bloodshot red light, to let a Rolls-Royce go West. Suddenly, amongst the passers-by —a gasp of amazement—horror! A comicbooks.com