Judge — November 12, 1921 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

Life Is a Success By Warr Mason Illustration by “{ 7HEN man sits down and looks W around him, and views the blessings that are his, he jeers the little griefs that hound him, and cries, “Great Cesar!” and “Gee Whiz!” The poor man has more comforts near him than kings and princes Hal used to know; and if he whines the gods should steer him back to the HM things of long ago. Queen Bess, who used to rule the British, would swear at times, her temper ed; for all day long the flies were skittish, and window screens had not been made. She had all things that wealth com- manded, in such unhappy times as those, yet every minute big flies landed upon her forehead or her nose. The humblest worker in cur vil- lage has screens o’er every window pane; and hungry flies, intent on pil- lage, find all attempts at entrance vain. When good Queen Bess would light her palace, she looked in vain for ‘lectric lights; cheap rushlights fnew darkness to the nights. And they filled all the rooms with va- that nearly strangled poor s; and if she cut unseemly capers, it was no miracle, I guess. In those punk days a queen had reason to say that life was but a st; for everything was out of season, and nothing worth a half its cost. But now the honest toiling voter finds life serene and gay and bright; he journeys homeward in his motor, and turns a switch to get a light. And when the old time nights grew Ratpu BARTON chilly, Queen Bess’s servants made a fire; escaping smoke then drove her silly, and cinders fell on her at- tire. And scot would blow all o’er her person, from out the fireplace, broad end deep, and she would have a spell of cursin’, that made her maids of honor weep. And if a queen was thus bejiggered, and maddened till her brain grew hot, oh, gentle reader. have you figured what must have been the poor man’s lot? But now the poor man has a heater that blithely warms his careworr toes; so, in the name of Mike and Feter, why should he speak about his woes? When poor Queen Bess desired some singing, or music by the new jazz band, her servitors were busy bringing the music sharps, at her command. And some had colds and some were pickled, and all of them were full of prunes; and no sane monarch could be tickled by such a bughouse lot of tunes. And all the rushlights, badly smoking, made people sneeze when they would sing; and sparks flew round, for serfs were [ stoking the palace fires, like every- |} thing. And then the queen would get red-headed, and wring her hands and cuss and weep, and have the sing- ers all imbedded in mortar, in the | donjon keep. We spend our evenings phono- graphing, we turn a k, and then, behold, we hear the singing, talking, laughing, of artists true, in tones of gold. Oh, life is fine and good and pleas- ant, and if you’d prove that it stacks high, compare a sample of the pres- ent with life as lived in days gone by. comicbooks.com