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

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

FoR, FurtHe® Perusa 3 iH ot + = if “I want to censor all the papers, and magazines and books.” Travail of Spirit T’S strange that anyone is cheery, that anyone can grin, for there’s so much to make us weary in this bleak world of sin. We strive to make our neighbors better, to see them nobler grow; and yet, alas and donnerwetter, the progress is so slow! I swat the evils ’round me swarming, upon this mundane scene, but I grow weary of reforming—re- sults are far between. We know full well that all the people should in their beds recline, what time the clock in yonder steeple has boomed the hour of nine. In olden times, when curfew sounded, the people hit the straw, and if they failed they were up-rounded by minions of the law. The violators, all together, went to the justice hall; and they were flogged with thongs of leather, or shot, against a wall. In those brave days there was no fooling with lawless, sinful wights, and no one harkened to their drooling concerning human rights. But now the curfew may be sounded, and no one cares a hang; the midnight peace By Waur Mason Illustration by RALPH BARTON is sorely wounded by many a noisy gang. I want to censor all the papers, and magazines and boc but people view my earnest capers, and jeer, and cry “Gadzook The public prints are full of stories of crimes that pain and irk, when they should dwell upon the glories of n ionary work. If there’s a scrap in any region, they print the frowsy facts, but they pass up the Ladies’ Legion, who hand around our tracts. If there’s a mur- der in an alley, they give it miles of space, but when the churches have a rally the fact can get no place. The daily papers should be giving more space to Sabbath schools, to temperance and righteous living, and less to prize ring fools. Our Dorcas Guild can get no mention in sections white or pink; but any pug can get attention, and headlines in red ink. Our pastor springs a redhot ser- mon that makes the dry bones quake; but editors, the low down vermin, no comment fair will make; they’ll give a page to some punk pitcher who played a shut-out game, but pul- piteers, whose lives are richer, can't get their share of fame. How fine would be the snowy jour- nal that shut out slum and mews, and dwelled upon the life eternal, and dropped its sporting news! How we would con its virgin pages, devoid of slush and bunk, filled with the words of seers and sages, with no police court junk! Alas, alas, the times are evil! I cannot sing and smile; I find my whiskers full of weevil, my bosom full of bile. For years and years I’ve been re- forming, I’ve labored long and well, you’ve seen me in the forefront storming, and raising merry Halifax. Some victories you’ve seen me win- ning, some triumphs small but fair; but when I squelch one brand of sin- ning, a dozen more are there. The people do not rise and back me, to make of sin a wreck; instead, they come behind and whack me, with cleavers, in the neck. And so I won- der men are cheery, I wonder that they grin, there is so much to make us weary, in this bleak world of sin. comicbooks.com