Judge — March 11, 1922 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

“ Generations of Optimism By Watt Mason woods dwelled, remote from city’s sound, and bobcats by his cabin yelled, and wolves pawed up the ground. ‘lhe nearest town was far away, and when he journeyed there, to buy the works of Thomas Gray, there was no thoroughfare; he had to hoof it through the woods, and did the same with smiles, and when he'd bought the needed goods he packed them fifty miles. Oh, there were bears and bumble bees, and wolverines, by heck, that chased him round among the trees and bit him in the neck; and sometimes he got lost, alas, and roamed around for weeks, and lived on buds and bark and grass, and slippery elm and leeks. The savage Injuns used to lie in wait for passing men; they smote my grandsire hip and thigh, and scalped him now and then. My grandsire died and left behind his memoirs, fair and true; and some- times, wearied of my grind, I read the volume through. And when I see how glad and gay that giddy granddad was, I feel that I’m a spineless jay, to grumble without cause. He tells of those delightful walks through virgin forests green, ad- mires all things, and never knocks the wolf or wolverine. He tells how rabbits used to go along the forest tracks, and lightly touches on Poor Lo, who hit him with an ax. He tells of birds be- yond compare that roosted in the trees, and passes up the grizzly bear that bit him in the knees. From clear and crystal stream he drinks, and marks the fish at play, and scarcely heeds the hungry lynx that chased him halt a day. Now this is optimism, friends, this is the honest dope; my grandsire’s vol- ume to me lends new faith and pep and hope. I am a product of this age, a strictly modern skate, and when I make a M.: GRANDSIRE in the back- Illustration by Henry J. Peck pilgrimage I ride in pomp and state. y limousine is painted pink, and when I ride along, the jaded neighbors doubt- less think that I am going strong. The cushions are six inches deep, made on a princely plan; there’s nothing tin- horn, nothing cheap, about my costly van. You'd think I must be steeped in joy, as down the road I roll, but I’m a modern sort of boy, with sorrow in my soul. I’m thinking, thinking as I ride, how punk is gasolene; it’s getting worse as season’s glide, it’s mostly kerosene. My chuffer hasn’t any sense; he is a poor excuse; he scraped a fender on a fence, and pulled a bracket loose. The tire that cost me sixty bones is strictly on the bum; the tread is loose—the spirit groans at losing such a sum. That blamed me- “He tells of those delightful walks through virgin forests green, admires 2!l things, and never knocks the welf or wolverine.” chanic, Jim McFadd, who overhauled my bus, I see has stung me pretty bad; he is a low-down cuss. Along this course my thoughts are led, until I reach my shack; and I have grouches in my head, and pink pains in my back. And then I take my grand- sire’s book and read of how he strode, beside a lost and lonely brook to reach his punk abode; there is no symptom of the blues in that inspiring tome, although big snakes and kangaroos pursued him to his home. There is no plaint of cheap regret, his tone is brave and sweet, though when he wrote his socks were wet, and thorns were in his feet. And as I read I blush with shame, and to myself I say, “Henceforth I'll try to play the game like that an- cestral jay!” comichooks..