Judge — December 24, 1921 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

“Some men are always wedding wives, they harvest four or three.” Varieties of Joy By Wart Mason WOULD not try to kill the glee of any gent on earth; there’s nothing more appeals to me than good old human mirth. And if my neighbor finds his joy in ways I can’t admire, I’m not the sort of grouchy boy who’d set his house afire. Some men are always wedding wives; they harvest four or three; if this will cheer their darkened lives, it doesn’t worry me. My neighbors say it is a shame, they rant around and rail, and say a man who plays that game should spend his years in jail. But never do I wildly rant about this brand of sin—they haven’t carried off my aunt or other female kin. And since they leave my aunts alone I do not think it wise to throw at them a brick or stone, or fill the air with sighs. If that’s their way of having fun, oh, let them have their play; they have three wives and I have one, so runs the world away. If they are wrong the cops will come and ’tend to them in time; I need not pound a muffled drum and weep for t’other’s crime, Illustration by Ratpx Barton Sim Simpson scorches up the road at sixty miles an hour: I see him flash by my abode, and have no feelings sour. If that’s his way of having sport, why, let him whoop along, until they drag him into court and soak him good and strong. My neighbors leave their useful chores and lean against my fence, ex- plaining that the speeding bores are shy of common sense. “Some day,” they say, “that Simpson guy will have an awful wreck, and in the ruins he will die, and have a broken neck.” “Why worry?” mildly I inquire: “why shed a doleful tear? If such a fate he may desire, I shall not inter- fere. Let Justice on his actions pass; I do not punish crime; so let him step upon the gas and have a bully time.” “But he may kill some hapless skate,” my neighbors sternly say, “so he should be, ere ’tis too late, in prison filed away.” “’Tis true,” I answer, “some poor jay may perish ’neath his bus—but he would perish anyway, so why kick up a fuss? Why not be happy in our homes, forgetting sin- 13 and brush the mildew off some cheer-up ful loons, our domes, and sing tunes?” We're worrying too much, I swear, about our neighbors’ deeds; instead of garlands bright and fair we’re wearing widows’ weeds. And probably the other chaps are not so steeped in crime that we need have upon our maps the salt tears all the time. The world has many brands of sin, we can’t deny such facts; but I don't help by butting in and reading riot acts. I cannot help, by sigh and sob, to drive all ills away; we have police- men on the job, so let them earn their pay. The world looks good enough to me the way the blamed thing is; I sit beneath my vine and tree and let the planet whiz. The world is good, but life is brief, we'll soon be under- ground, and he’s a chump who hunts for grief when there is joy around. ANOTHER ANGLE Wine may have robbed men of their wits, but there is no noticeable in- crease in the supply of intelligence. comicbooks.com