Judge — December 17, 1921 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

A Gilbertian Lyric By Alma MacTammany With Apologies to W. S. G. H, I am the cook, and the house- maid, too, And the mate of Josiah Lee, And the laundress white, and the “cow” by night, And the nurse of the children three. And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play, But scrub and work, with a painful irk, And this my mournful lay: Oh, I am the seamstress and marketer, The dish-washing, pot-cleaning belle Of the garbage can—and the furnace- man, And the window-cleaner as well. And thus the good ship, Matrimony, Sails with a crew of one; And the baby squeals, while I cook the meals, And I’m glad when the day is done. ELSEWHERE OCCUPIED “You don’t seem to have many boys in your Sunday School,” commented the visiting bishop. “No,” sighed the rector, “those not here are caddying for their fathers.” MAYBE SO “When is a doctor allowed to pre- scribe beer?” “When you ain’t sick enough for whiskey, I s’pose.” The Industrial Revolution By John G. Holme T is here and in full blast. I first noticed it some weeks ago on a certain Monday evening when I te- turned to my modest bungalow in one of the suburbs. I saw the gint of battle in my good wife’s gray eyes on entering the kitchen, and—I hate to say it, but the truth must be told—a reddish gloss which spread over the lower reaches of her shapely nose. This was two days after our own his- toric battle in which we gained our independence. The rebel forces con- sisted of my wife, daughter, aged “seven and goin’ on eight,” and my- self. The administration troops were led by our erstwhile cook-housekeeper, haughty and swollen with pride and wartime salary, and the stout Teutonic lady who visited us twice weekly to wash our linens and cottons and clean up the dust and dirt in a six-room cottage, which our cook-housekeeper could not dispose of owing to her social duties. The Teutonic lady charges us $10 for two days of six hours, each; the cook-housekeeper, $125 a month. The day I lost the Bridgeport contract, I came home and hurled my empty pocketbook at the cook-housekeeper, routing her at once. My wife, singlehanded, beat off the Teuton lady by pre-empt-, ing her job of operating the electric washer and the vacuum cleaner. Her first day with the washer gave her a shiny nose. Across the street, Mr. Ross, a teacher of Latin in the public schools, reports a glorious victory after an engagement lasting two weeks, with three regiments of building con- tractors. Mr. Ross is building his own house, and I helped him dig the cellar. My next door neighbor is making splendid progress mining, fig- uratively speaking, our national knit- ting industry by knitting the win- ter stock of socks for her family. Brother Bishop, my favorite neighbor, after a hard engagement with a superior force of boot- leggers, has in- stalled his own still in the base- ment of his home. We hope to get drunk every Saturday night beginning at eight o’clock ul sharp, p.m., Sat- Ses urday, Nov. 26, 1921. I have just graduated from the short course in plumb- ing offered by the Excelsior Plumbers’ Cor- se (oA respondence chool. We're a happy community, but sometimes I wonder wheth- er that idiotic outfit up in Bridgeport has lived up to its threat. They were quite im- pudent in the letter turning down my bid, saying they'd be d—— if they wouldn't do the work themselves rather than pay my price. But I don't really care. They're a cheap concern, anyway. SOMETHING “PHONEY” ABOUT IT, ANYWAY By Joseph E. Brasky THE other evening I went to see a play. It was a true picture of life, or a picture of true life or both I enjoyed it. Everything was so natural, so real. Nothing was bor- rowed from the land of the impossible or improbable. Nothing happened that could not have happened in every- day life—in my own life. That is, not till the last act. Then the hero rushed to the telephone, called a num- ber and got his party before the echo of his voice died out. NOT WHAT HE WANTED “This speedometer,” asserted the agent, “is the most accurate one on the market. It has been tested under all sorts of conditions, and its read- ings have invariably been found to be absolutely correct.” “Very interesting,” admitted the car owner, “but haven't you got one that can lie a little?” ino am |” Reve cpee 2- TAKING NO CHANCES “I'm going to put Fido in the cellar this Christmas Eve He might scare Santa Claus away.” comicbooks.com