Judge — December 10, 1921 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

EN come to me and cry, M “Alack! All flesh is grass or hay!” But when I read the almanac I’m feeling blithe and gay. Men come to me and cry, “Ods- fish! The old boys perish fast; the knell is rung for Ezra Gish— the hearse just slithered past.” Yes, Ezra Gish is gone to rest; he had a dozen ills; he scorned advice and thought it best to side- step Bunkum’s Pills. Some fad- dist told him that the brook had wondrous healing powers, and there his failing form he took, and sloshed around for hours. E’en in the winter there he went and splashed around like sin, and The Almanac By Watt Mason Illustrations by RatpH Barton oftentimes the ice was bent where he had struggled in. I used to see him coming back, all wet and frozen stiff, as I sat snugly in my shack, and gave my lyre a biff. If I had spasms in my back, or fantods in my gills, I read Doc Bunkum’s almanac, and took his beeswax pills. And people sometimes used to say, “Doc Bunkum is a fake; his pills are made of yellow clay, and never cured an ache. In buying them you waste your wealth, and make yourself absurd; why not obey the Rules of Health, and thus feel like a bird? Why not get out and walk twelve versts, or seven versts, at least, and see the sunrise when it bursts along the storied East? Why not chop down a hemlock tree and hew it into staves? ’Tis idleness, you must agree, that calls for early graves.” It may be I would higher stack by hewing beams and sills; but I read Bunkum’s almanac, and swallow Bunkum’s pills. Some people take the hardest way of doing all their chores, and make the hours of every day so many beastly bores. Their frantic efforts never cease, they knock things galley west; they never know the boon of peace, -the blessed balm of rest. I always take the easy way and get along as well as that excited, frenzied jay who has to paw and yell. If I would journey near or far, to market or to kirk, I always take my pewter car, and make it do the work. “Why don’t you walk?” my neighbor cries; “you ought to be more slim, and all you need is exercise, to get yourself in trim.” And then he starts to walk to town, majestic and alone, and someone’s auto runs him down and breaks his collarbone. Or peradventure someone’s hound, as savage as a bear, bites from his leg about a pound of beef he can- not spare. Or it may chance some vagrant goat will chase him down a lane, and butt him roundly in the coat, and split the same in twain. The guy on foot is always hurt, while he who rides his car moves grandly in his costly shirt, nor knows what troubles are. The guy who takes the hardest way ea of doing every chore gets under every passing dray, and falls through every floor. While others toil and wrench the back to shake off deadly ills, I read Doc Bunkum’s almanac, and swallow Bunkum’s pills. And scores who gave me good advice, and told me what to do, long since were laid upon the ice, and I my tasks pursue. The Reporter By MARIE ELLYSON He slangs, but isn’t profane— He has a humorous urbanity. He lauds the Lawds humane And makes his living on humanity.