Judge — November 5, 1921 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

“Be careful what you do, for Old Doc Crafts is watching you!” Old Doc Crafts tired and get the sleep they’ve long desired, for normal men must have their rest if they intend to do their best. Their lungs grow sore from too much talk, their useful feet refuse to walk; the human mouth and ears and nose and inside organs need repose. And so the multitude of gents re- tire, when weary, to their tents, and pull some slumber, good but cheap, some folding of the hands to sleep. But Old Doc Crafts, he never sleeps; by day and night his watch he keeps, he keeps his cases on this land, to see that virtue is not canned. If he his vigil should forget, some guy might smoke a cigarette, or drink a fiery home brewed bowl, de- signed to undermine his soul. And that would be a frightful thing, but we are spared this fateful sting, for Old Doe Crafts is keeping tab on all this world, so drear and drab. He has no time to fool away upon the downy, restful hay. My next door neighbor has a field where apples grow, and ample yield; Sire men lie down when they are By Warr Mason Illustration by RALPH BARTON the spreading trees are loaded down with fruit that has a wide renown. And often I would sneak inside and there with apples fill my hide; for stolen apples are the best, they have the flavor and the zest. I have the price, and then some more, to buy my apples at the store; but apples honestly acquired give me a pain and make me tired. So, sometimes when the moon is bright, and calm and peaceful is the night, I am impelled to steal a peck from my old neighbor, Hiram Heck. But when I start to climb the fence, I hear a voice, remote, intense, that says, “Be careful what you do, for Old Doe Crafts is watching you! He never nods, he never sleeps, his vigil evermore he keeps, he’s wise to every sinner’s curves, and hands him out what he deserves.” And then I wilt and sneak away, my feet are cold as Hudson Bay. Of courage I have loads and rafts but who dare anger Old Doc Crafts? He’d roast me in the public prints, his language would have lurid tints; and in the forum he would rear and 9 lecture me for half a year; and in the Sabbath school he’d rise, and tell the pious little guys that I’m a warn- ing, stark and bare, a sinner lost be- yond repair. He jumps upon our President, he trails the lowly, humble gent. No man’s so low, nor yet so high, that he escapes the Old Doc’s eye. There is no hollow in the woods, no cavern in the solitudes, where sinful mortal may repair, and know the Old Doc isn’t there. Down to your cellar you may steer to make a crock of home-brew beer; you lock the door with locks of steel, and bar the window, and you feel, that you’re alone with your home brew; but Old Doc Crafts is watch- ing you. He hides behind the cellar stair; beneath the floor he has his lair; you raise the vessel to your lips, to take a few refreshing sips, and with a shriek Old Doc upstands, and jerks the beaker from your hands. He hits you with envenomed shafts; there’s no escape from Old Doc Crafts. And so he slumbers not nor sleeps; his vigil evermore he keeps. comicbooks.com