Judge — November 26, 1921 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

CYCLONE. CELLAR EDITORIAL By Wiiuram ALLEN WHITE declared General Debaney of the French Army, ‘‘it would have become a contest between the manufacturers of gas.” So the next war casts its shadow before. Gas, which wipes out armies, cities, peaceful populations. The alternative is the peace and politics. Politics with its taxes, and slogans, and situa- tions, and crises, and issues, and heaven only knows what —of swinging from conservatism to liberalism and on to radicalism and back to re- action—and in the end always more taxes. War a contest between the manufacturers of gas. Peace a contest between the hot air merchants! And it will be months, years, perhaps even decades, before the professor will have his car on a commercial basis running to the moon. About all one can do is to dig in and dig up. [: the war had lasted another year longer,” THE ETERNAL GOLDEN AGE ND what was the net achievement of the tumult and the shouting at Kansas City the other day, when General Foch, Admiral Beatty and General Diaz were greeted by Gen- eral Pershing at the Convention of the Legion? The net achievement was youth’s age-old miracle, the creation of a golden age out of a drab and dreary day. It is one of man’s semi- precious blessings that the browns and grays in the life of youth turn purple and red and sil- ver under the touch of time. The rainfall of Northern France was tre- mendously curtailed in Kansas City, the sou grip of the peasants transformed to open- handed prodigality, the front yard dunghills covered with sugared icing, and the long, cold and dreary months in the Argonne were gilded with a glorious sun that never sets. Kansas City was no place for Dos Passos’s “Three Soldiers.” They, poor devils, must have lagged far behind the procession, with the Lieutenant whose head was to be punched the day the Company was mustered out. Or per- haps they were wandering about sadly and alone looking for the lads who were going to tell the truth about what the “‘Y”’ charged for cigarettes when they got home, or seeking the birds who were going to tell the Captain’s wife what happened at the hotel of the High Mother of God at Chalons. Ghosts, pale and impossi- ble ghosts of dead grouches! ‘Tell me where are grouches bred, in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourished?” to Waltmasonize an earlier singer. A book on the care and feeding of grouches would be most unprofitable reading. For at most grouches are ephemeral. They come out of the mists and go into the mists. And the Convention of the Legion was a beautiful exhibition of the vanishing grouch. Youth carries many burdens, omnipotence, omniscience and vast stores of impudence. But while he picks up many grouches by the way, he gets the juice out of them and throws aside the pulp. And so we have youth creat- ing its good old times, working the miracle of the eternal golden age, even in so matter-of- fact a town as Kansas City. How the shades of the Grand Army of the Republic must have lingered lovingly over this place of modern miracles as youth mixed its magic again for this generation in the same kettle that the old boys used fifty years ago! NECESSITY KNOWS NO POLITICS HE North Dakota experiment in State Socialism has gone the way of all flesh. It is a rather gorgeous joke upon liberalism