Judge — April 8, 1922 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

6<T'M TIRED, so tired of preaching,” I heard the pastor say, “of dili- gently teaching cheap men the better way. Of all the joys of Eden they’re heedless, I’m afraid, as they go blithely speedin’ in cars that Henry made. I paint the joys Elysian, de- scribe the hallowed scene, but cannot take men’s vision from tires and gaso- line. I fear I can’t deliver the goods that sinners need; I guess I am a fliv- ver that lacks both pep and speed.” “You're doing fine,” I answer, “so brace yourself and smile; you're the intrepid lancer of all that’s base and vile. I hear the boys all saying that you're the bird to preach, they listen to your praying and think you are a peach, All men have hours of sadness, discouragement and gloom; they can’t see any gladness this side the well- known tomb. But gloom will soon go jumping, will travel galley west, if they just keep on humping and try to do their best.” “Oh, chee,” exclaimed the pastor, That Tired Feeling By Watt Mason “And all my friends are needing is just a little praise.” “your words have done me good, and I'll forget disaster, and saw nine kinds of wood. The fantods made me dizzy, and gave my soul a wrench, but now I will get busy, and boost the mourner’s bench.” I hear my friends complaining, no matter what they do; they grumble while they’re straining expensive bone and thew. And all my friends are needing is just a little praise, and then you’ll see them speeding their work in forty ways. Praise is a simple potion that makes the tired feel gay; it is a healing lotion that drives the pain away. Time was, if friends were wailing, I'd listen to their whine, and with them I'd go trailing, to shed the scald- 13 ItLustraTion By H. J. Peck ing brine. And that made me feel bitter, and filled my heart with grief, and I would cease to twitter, so I'd have time to beef. I found it too exhausting to sympathize with guys who always were accosting the world with streaming eyes. And so I tried to cheer them with bunk words bright and gay, and all the bogies near them I deftly shooed away. All men are tired of doing the things they have to do; I hear them all beshrewing, and making loud boo-hoo. The teacher's tired of show- ing the young ones how to read; the kids, to classes going, are sick and tired, in- deed. Then to the house of learning I come, with smil- ing jaws, and say the teach- er’s earning more money than she draws. I praise the little scholars, and say they're surely birds; as good as minted dollars are all my honeyed words. The teacher, who’s a woman of youth and grace and charm, begins to think she’s human, and not a false alarm. The kids, with smiles and chortles, resume dull learn- ing’s cross, and think per- haps they’re mortals, and not a total loss. I call upon the baker, who makes our concrete pies; he’s longing for God’s Acre, and rest beneath the skies. “Oh, what’s the use of baking these pies of pure cement, when my heart is aching for campfire, woods and tent? I’m tired of making doughnuts, of making tarts all day, and selling them to slow nuts who still forget to pay.” “And yet the town is praising,” I say, “your fireproof bread, your dough- nuts are amazing—by everyone it’s said.” Then from his brow the sorrow was driven in quick style; he asked me could he borrow my timbrel for awhile; he found existence snappy, and just the proper thing; his heart was full and happy and he would dance and sing. Two things you can still get for a nickel—a subway ride and a wrong number. comicbooks.com