Judge — September 3, 1921 — page 17: what you’re looking at

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

“THE PASTOR WHO WORKS TO BEAT THE BAND UPON THE SABBATH MORN.” The Day of Rest unbroken and serene; the tools of labor laid away, the smoke of mills unseen. A lot of us uplifting guys are striving to that end; all moralists will find it wise our plat- form to defend. It is a grand and noble cause for which we toil, by jing; we clamor for a lot of laws forbidding every- thing. The Sabbath must be shorn of noise, and be as still as death, and we will pinch all giddy boys who talk above their breath. I'm shedding teardrops, ten or eight, they fall upon my breast, I see so many desecrate the sacred day of rest. I see a thousand people go, on Sunday, to the kirk; they make the trip, though they must know their pilgrimage is work. And work is a forbidden thing upon the Sabbath day, and it is wrong to preach or sing, yet it is done for pay. The pastor works to beat the band upon the Sabbath morn, directing to the happy land the sinful and for- lorn. He earns his money on the day when it is wrong to toil, and yet I: like to see the Sabbath Day By Watt Mason Illustration by RALPH BARTON denounces every jay who’d burn some gas and oil. A bad example parsons set, when they let week days slide, and then on Sunday toil and sweat and will not be denied. And there are deacons most de- vout who pass around the plate, in- viting us to pony out the hard- earned piece-of-eight. It isn’t right to toil for gain upon the sacred day; the Sabbath should be safe and sane, with plunder far away. Why don’t the deacons pass the hat on week- days? It were best; the Sabbath is no time for that; it is the day of rest. Oh, all our lives we’re digging up, we sinful, mortal men; and Sun- day proves a bitter cup if we are touched again. I hear the people in the choir send forth their line of song; they sing as though they’d never tire, they’re surely going strong. Of Greenland’s icy hills they sing, of Asia’s coral strand; and every anthem sung will bring a doubloon safe to hand. They do not sing their notes of praise un- less they get the price, nor do they care if Greenland’s jays are freez- 7 ing on the ice. It seems to me a grievous thing, a misdeed low and mean, when people on the Sab- bath sing for strips of old long green. The organist, upon her stool, sends forth a mighty roar, that echoes from the First Ward school to John- son’s drygoods store. And weary folk who wish to sleep, worn out by toil and pain, can only turn in bed and weep, and cuss that loud refrain. The organist gets seven bones when- ever Sunday comes, for punching out those stirring tones with fingers and with thumbs. Oh, can’t the woman realize, as she toils there in kirk, that there’s a mandate from the skies forbidding Sabbath work? If I could get the pastors all to back my big crusade, we’d soon see desecrations fall, and violations fade. The sacred day would be the day for which it was designed, and vulgar noise would die away, be left away behind. Alas, the parsons will not quit their present evil course; on Sunday they must throw a fit, and holler till they’re hoarse. a | comicbooks.com