Judge — February 25, 1922 — page 11: what you’re looking at

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

Se “Oh, friend of mine, don’t think the plute knows joy that does not fade.” The Unhappy Plute SAT beside a plutocrat, down by the sounding sea, and he had crape upon his hat, a mournful wight was he. He looked as though he had for keeps lost all his holds on mirth, and now and then he shed some weeps which trickled to the earth. “Old scout,” I said, “why do you bring your sorrow to the shore? You truly ought to dance and sing; you're loaded down with ore. You have the price, you have the wad, to buy what- e’er you wish; then why with tears bedew the sod, and moan and sigh, odsfish? Oh, had I but one-half your roll, how happy I should be! For even now I’m in the hole, pursued by bailiffs three. And tailors chase me through the town until they sprain their thews, and panting grocers run me down, and clamor for their dues. And angry plumbers on my trail dis- patch their bloodhound pup, and all these people threaten jail, unless I pony up.” “Ah, me,” exclaimed the mournful plute, “such sport I never know, and that’s why life’s not worth a hoot, as on my rounds I go. I fancy you are judgment proof, and have no coins to match; you have no cow or car or roof the sheriff can attach. Your creditors By Watt Mason Illustration by Ravpx Barton cannot collect unless they run you down; and so, your wallet to inspect, they tag you through the town. For you the pleasures of the chase, the bugle’s merry sound, when huntsmen gather for the race, with horn and horse and hound. “No wonder you have healthy works and bright and gleaming eyes; for, dodging merchants and their clerks, you have grand exercise. The rich man has no wholesome fun, he cannot run away, and when a man presents a dun he simply has to pay. The bill is always twice as large as for a poorer guy; it’s fierce how merchant princes charge, when plutes come in to buy. “And you have privacy, my friend; you have no wreaths to fade; alas, wherever I may wend I'm always on parade. And I'm the prey of all the crooks who would apply their gaffs, and fiends come up with silly books demanding autographs; and maiden aunts who want to build a home for Maltese cats believe the coffers should be filled by helpless plutocrats; and all the cranks of east and west are on the rich man’s trail, each one by some great scheme possessed that calls for chunks of kale. And all the cameras at me are aimed, increasing woe; their 9 owners chortle in their glee and pic- ture as they go. “And men who yearn for souvenirs are swarming everywhere; they come behind me with theiz shears and clip wisps of my hair. My whiskers once were broad and deep, in them I took much pride; but people, when I sat asleep, would clip them and then slide. “Oh, friend of mine, don’t think the plute knows joy that does not fade, for wormwood is the bitter root of which my drink is made. Be thankful for the homely joys the lucky poor man feels, when bailiffs and the sheriff's boys are hard upon his heels. Pursued by creditors all day that lucky poor man goes, and when at night he hits the hay he has a sound repose. Such sleep as that I haven’t known since I was young and poor, and trod the dewey lane alone, the sheriff on my spoor.” FLIGHTY, WHAT? Galey—What’s that frock made of, Ida? Mrs. Galey—Airplane silk, old dear. Don’t you think it enhances my love- liness? “Assuredly. To say nothing of its harmonizing with your disposition.” comicbooks.com