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

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

things like those. And when at last I leave the hay, my aunts in chorus shriek: “Oh, what a shame to waste the day, how futile and how weak! Here you've been lying on your back till half past eight o'clock, while Neighbor Charles Adolphus Stack put down a concrete walk!” Some night, tumultuous and black, when winds are wailing drear, I'll am- bush Charles Adolphus Stack, and finish his career. NOTHING ELSE AFOOT overcrowded Post—New York is with motors. Parker—Yes, there’s nothing afoot but plans for relief. MORAL SUASION “No more battleships?” “No more battleships.” “What are we gonna collect our bills with?” TURNING IT LOOSE “Heavens, woman! You've turned yourself into a veritable talking ma- chine. Why, all. through our long engagement you had hardly a word to say.” “I know it, but all the time I was thinking of things to say after we were married.” “OH, MAMMA!” By Albert Hencke In Style By Annette Macartney T seventeen I wore three skirts, And sleeves all buckram lined; And stays that came down to my knees And scarcely bent behind. I wore a bustle (tho’ to speak Of this was quite taboo!) Oh, little guessed I how I'd look In nineteen twenty-two. At forty I’ve no corsets on, Though icy blasts be-chill. One skirt, some laces, pumps and socks— My modesty is nil. Each year I gaily doff some clothes, But dread the final test— That winter when, at grandma’s age, I must discard the rest! Portrait of a Middle-class City Woman By May Williams Ward A BODY clad in a cotton-mixed tricotine dress, almost in the mode... “pearl” beads... . A mind compounded of—Gracious, how high butter is—really, Auction is too wear- ing—think I'll drop all my clubs but the Culture Club—hope I do not miss the 5.14 again. ... A soul overlaid with trash, hearsay, fads, trivialities, pre- occupied with her children and her soul's salvation. Nevertheless, a sound woman; per- haps this very day mothering a half- grown Lincoln for to-morrow. CASUALLY Judge—What made you pick this man’s pocket? Prisoner—Judge, I never picked it. It just happened to be next.