Judge — October 8, 1921 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

“And worldly riches then, he said, would get a man a red-hot bed, where busy demons stoke,” The ONG years ago old William Wend predicted that the world would end upon a certain day; he was white bearded, old and tired; he seemed to be a guy inspired, who could not guess astray. We people in this vale of tears are easy marks, as it appears, when you our record read; the way we fall for every game is certainly a sin and shame, ridiculous indeed. Men al- Wi have believed in seers; away in prehistoric years the prophets got their goats; and still the prophets, as of yore, get everything we have in store, our savings and our votes. This William Wend, of whom I speak, predicted that in just a week the world would end in smoke; and worldly riches then, he said, would get a man a redhot bed where busy demons stoke. The poorest men would be in line for crowns and robes and timbrels fine, and pinions white as snow; while those who had their stocks and bonds would struggle in the brimstone ponds, and send up wails of woe. And so we fall guys gave away our goods and chattels, hens and hay, By War Illustration by RALPH BARTON. Mason that we might be prepared; we stripped ourselves of all our gear to please that blamed old bughouse seer, and bitterly we fared. The fateful day arrived at last and we all rose and stood aghast to see things fall apart; the world rolled on without a jolt, there wasn’t e’en a thunderbolt to stir the trusting heart. And then we cried, “Where is that seer? Oh, round him up and bring him here, that we may tell a tale, and deck him with a coat of tar, ca- ress him with an iron bar, and ride him on a rail.” But he had gone with all our goods, and though we hunted all the woods, we never saw him more; he got our rells and doubtless laughed—and ever since the prophet graft has made me tired and sore. The prophet’s always crying “Woe!” No cheerful prophet will you know, however long you live; he’s always threatening and glum; his bunk about the wrath to come is all he has to give. The prophets are on every hand; the docs are a prophetic band, who clamor much of woe; un- less we do just what they say we'll 15 Prophets have a fell disease some day, and to the grave we'll go. Unless we drink our grapejuice boiled, and eat baled hay well fried or broiled, we'll shortly seek our rest; with such threats ring- ing in our ears we fall for all these doctor seers, and eat things we de- test. The banker prophets look morose, and say the world to ruin goes, as fast as it can speed; unless we hand them all our cash there soon will be a frightful crash, catastrophe, indeed! Why is our money vainly spent when they will pay us three per cent. for all that we may save? And if we save for fifty years, we'll have enough, so it appears, to buy our- selves a grave. The prophets stand on every shore and sorrow is, forever- more, the burden of their moan; un- less their sage advice we take, we'll always miss the luscious steak, and only get the bone. The prophets chase us through the town and hunt us up, and hunt us down, and bore us with their cries; unless we do just as they say we’ll always have to live on hay, and never draw the pies. comicbooks.com