Judge — October 1, 1921 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by HARVEY PEAKE The Bee—Oh, what a chance to sting this pup! Billy Wiggles By ANN M. STILLWELL F course, Billy Wiggles was not his real name! No one ever heard of a boy with a name like that! But it was as Billy Wiggles that he was known, and Billy Wiggles he was called. Billy, whose ceaseless activity and endless energy had won for him this designation, bothered very little about it. It was of no consequence what people called him, provided they didn’t interfere with his “important” activities. He could not help the wig- gles; they were right there inside of him, and wiggle they would! His father, silent, calm, and suc- cessful, was the leading citizen of the town, which demanded his judg- ment and opinion on all matters of importance. Many and many a time Billy had heard his father say, while talking at the table or in the li- brary: “To be great one must learn to be still.” This had always im- pressed Billy as being “grown up stuff” and did not in any way apply a The Bee—Oh pardon me, little one, I didn’t realize that there was so much difference in our sizes. Good-bye! to little boys. It was so stupid to be “still,” when there was so much to do and never enough time to do it in! Every summer of the twelve, which had helped Billy Wiggles to make this name for himself, had been spent at a summer resort, high up on a mountain-top. It was a won- derful place for boys, with endless opportunities for sports and games. He had had a glorious time there the last two summers, for no “eranky” teachers or hard lessons had intruded themselves on his play. There was a lake, in whose inviting safety he had dived and splashed. UY a Drawn by HARVEY PEAKE. “Here Ethel, you talk to mother. I don’t want her to smell that grape-leaf cigarette I’ve been smoking.” In the shadowy woods which fringed its edge, he had “trailed” Indians, and in all earnestness had enacted blood- curdling enes with great valor. From Billy’s standpoint it had been great, but he hadn’t been still’a min- ute! One day, late in the season, dressed for his morning dip, he loitered a few moments on the little pier which jutted out into the smooth water. His attention just then was not cen- tered on anything, and the wiggles were in full control; but as he moved along, behind his back he caught the words “story” and “Indians”—that was enough! There were times when 29 ‘dies rs The Pup—Sting who? Me? Why you're a full-grown bee— listening to a thrilling story he had unconsciously commanded the wig- gles to be still: this silent order was now hurriedly despatched and Billy budged not an inch. If there was one thing he delighted in more than an- other, it was stories of the Red Men. “Yes, it is rather a curious legend,” a woman’s voice was say- ing. “It appears that the tribe which lived on this mountain-range was noted for its great power, and that its members possessed unusual ability for remaining quiet and per- fectly still for a long time.” “There it goes again!” thought Billy, “that’s what Dad’s always blowing about; ‘to be great one must learn to be still.” Gosh, it makes me tired!” “Well,” the voice continued, “the story states that in the early fall, after the heat of the summer was passed, the Indians would watch for a little bird with webbed feet and black feathers. It would appear quite suddenly, drop into the lake, swim across and back, and then disappear into the woods. Whoever saw this bird was blessed with great prosper- ity, and became illustrious. Once or twice it was known to leave in its track a feather, and the finders af- terwards became chiefs of the tribe. The Indians would sit still for hours at a stretch, in the hope of seeing the —and I’m only a baby pup. Why don’t you pick on somebody your size? comicbooks.com