Judge — November 19, 1921 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

At Least BE THANKFUL HE President’s proc- lamation bids our exasperation subside and our gratitude arise. The soothing benediction of the Pilgrims imprints itself across three hundred years on our reverence. Memory enthrones herself and kisses us with a smile. Amiability waters the flowers of dis- course. We rally in reunion in the presence of heaven and our families, and dip ourselves in any charm within our lot. Wails are superfluous and obnox- ious. Those who droop because they were not chosen to dazzle the world with their beauty, or because they are not rolling down the corridors of fame in a chariot, should bring forth the sum and substance of life without bitterness, and share the sweetness that drips easily here so that we may all be easier hereafter. An American spirit ought to be warmed with the reflection that our forbears were stung with much evil for our good. We have seen hard times and soft corns, buck dancers in office and whole neighborhoods crossed in love, have been plucked for geese and rid- den for goats—but we always had enough wind for prayers and enough faith to look for the sky to rain turkeys. We lost side-whiskers, tal- low-dips, hoop-skirts, warming pans, bangs, witches, wigs and remorse, and we are losing our loose characters and full cellars. When we lose the glimmer of a noble thought on Thanksgiving Day the Allies can carve us up for Balkans. THE SonGs OF HISTORY ARVARD is teaching our history with songs. This is a true concep- tion. Songs are the breath of history. The ? burning hearts of na- tions are fused in them. “Dixie” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” throw on the screen of our generation U DG the throbbing souls of another. “Old Black Joe” glistens with the tears of the bondmen, just as “Old Rosin the Bow” jigs with the joy of the back- woods and the pioneers. Songs gush from the depths. Love, liberty, or chivalry convulses a peo- ple, and the fiery deluge of the im- agination of millions comes pouring through a single gifted hand. The songs of our dead must not die upon their lips. They were the songs of warriors who beat their swords from ploughshares—of a high-spirited race roused to an exaltation seldom seen since David sang in Zion. The precepts of our old songs would form a code of Americanism. If their spirit could again enrich the popular mind, all the torpor in the huge fabric of the Republic would move with life. We have taught history with- out songs. But there is incalculable aid to the understanding of our in- stitutions when they are robed in the noble sentiments of their creators. THE HOME-BREW NOSE LREADY the home- brew nose alarms us. To some it is a beacon warning mariners from the shoals. To others it is a light- house. It is said to be a bulbous protu- berance of gorgeous effects—a Grand Can- yon on a day of ef- fulgence. It varies from old rose to vermilion. The shading is explained by the strength of the infusions, and it is prophesied that when the home-brewers become adept in mixing the ingredients this land will bloom like a field of poppies. This is a mere hypothesis, upon which so much science is constructed. It must not be confounded with the bootlegger’s nose, which is distin- guished by a greenish tint caused by the wood alcohol, and by a chemi- cal gloss resembling that on the wax flowers placed on coffins. Medi- cal practitioners are divided upon 14 whether the concoctions of itinerant distillers decay the brain; but agree that the customers would buy gloves from Lucretia Borgia. The flavoring extracts sold in thim- bles are absolved from suspicion of sprouting carbuncles. In fact, the pallid aspect of these samplers is probably due to the price of the dilu- tion. The home-brew nose, as yet, need cause no public anxiety. In imparting a home-like glow to the streets it looks like perambulating hospitality. But the conjunction of immense masses of them on view might be construed by the Bolsheviki and neighboring planets that we have turned Red. It would then be our patriotic duty to wear masks. WE ARE Poor FisH! THE average intelligence of adult Americans is that of children of thirteen years, says Professor Peffenberger, of Columbia. More than half our teeth are pulled use- lessly, states Dr. Biddle, of Pitts- burg University. Beans are coming back, warns the Stewards’ Conven- tion. And the by-paths and cross- roads to eternity are cluttered with lost souls, reports the counsel of decrepitude. The irresistible conclusion is that we are doomed and damned. The precocity of the prophets has so far outstripped the capacity of the popu- lace that we may as well wallow in despair. Civilization has lost the controversy with degeneracy. The uplift has collapsed, and there is nothing to do but raise the next gen- eration with a horsewhip. Pessimism is immolating itself to extinction. The mourners whirl the sackcloth and ashes in every age and every land. But in every age and every land the backbone of humanity grows stiffer and stiffer. When all the teeth are pulled and all the beans are eaten, our spending power shall still survive, our love power im- mutable and undecayed, and our ten fingers shall still tickle optimism under the fifth rib.