Judge — November 19, 1921 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

grouch, a pessimistic jay; each morning, when I leave my couch, I try to feel that way. I try to demonstrate my bile, and be a sorehead wight; alas, I simply have to smile, there’s so much joy in sight. The Byron hero is to me the man I’d imitate; and day by day I try to be a sad and mournful skate. I try to wear the Manfred frown, and heave the Manfred sigh, and thus impress my native town, and people passing by. But always when I’d look morose, some pleas- ant sight I see, and I kick up my ancient toes, and chortle in my glee. I have rheumatics in my bones, and sometimes, when I rise, I cry aloud, in bitter tones, “The grouchy guy is wise! The grouchy guy can fume and cuss, and make so loud a knock that you may hear his mighty fuss across a city block. And in his fuss he finds relief from pains he cannot bear; it soothes a man to rant and beef and paw around and swear. It soothes a man to screech and zip, when he is on the blink, and so I'll let my feelings rip and say just what I think.” I start downtown with furrowed brow, to tell folks how I feel, and Startle every gent and frau with my impassioned spiel. But when I come to Johnson’s shack I see him sitting there; he has carbuncles on his back, and dandruff in his hair. He's cornered every fell disease that mortal man may know; he never has an hour of ease or lay-off from his woe. I have theumatics in one limb, and he has gout in both; and yet no tears are in his glim, he never sheds an cath. “Gee, whiz,” he cries, “just hear the birds, ] FIND it hard to be a An Uphill By Watt Mason Job. Illustration by RALPH BARTON “Gee whiz,” he cries, “just hear the singing tribe!” 9 birds, the happy the happy, singing tribe! And it would take all kinds of words this bright world to describe. I listen to the droning bees, and mark the gorgeous rose, and sunshine filters through the trees, and warms my pallid nose.” And then I feel a sense of shame, that I’ve bee: feeling sore; I am a piker in the game, a tinhorn and a bore. And then I lift my voice in song, and spring a mirthful grin, until a peeler comes along and tries to run me in. I find it hard to brood and curse, for when I have a pain, I find my neighbor has one worse, and he is safe and sane. He doesn’t say farewell to hope be- cause his leg is sore; he rubs that limb with patent dope until it’s well once more. And as he rubs he talks of things remote from woes and cares, of whiskers and of fiddle strings, cool drinks and polar bears. My auto isn’t working good, four cylinders don’t hit, and when she bucks and bends her hood I sometimes throw a fit. Why is a man condemned to tool a balky bus like that, as stubborn as a pie- bald mule, and all the cas- ings flat? And then on foot there comes a man, all worn and beaten down; he looks with envy at my van, as he toils on to town. I find it hard to snarl and croak and be a total loss; at every milestone there’s a joke that bids me come across. The Impossible Mr. Flubdub — Some men seem to think they can accomplish anything. Mrs. Flubdub — Yes, isn’t it ridiculous? I have even seen an old bachelor trying to amuse an infant.