Judge — April 15, 1922 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Backward, turn backward, oh, Hat, in your flight; Please be in style again just for to-night! A Pretty Custom at Washington 'T WAS a beautiful Easter Monday in Washington. The worms were " turning and the early birds were catching them, and all nature was smiling, from the Washington Monu- ment to the Chevy Chase Country Club. On the White House lawn all was in readiness for the annual cele- bration of the ancient custom of egg- rolling. The grass had been neatly cut, the garden furniture put into the toolhouse and locked up, and the tulip beds surrounded by barbed wire. In the White House the eggs had been dyed by a staff of experts from the Chemical Foundation, supervised by Joseph H. Choate, Jr., the eminent chem- ist, with 100 per cent. American dyes. The colors (red, white and blue) were so fast that the eggs had been put in cages to keep them from escaping. Each egg was shaped like a little log, and they made a pretty tab- leau as they reposed in their cages, awaiting the arrival of the children. On the south porch, sipping a sarsaparilla highball, sat President Hard- apple, also awaiting his guests, They came at last, stream- ing in by every gate, their innocent faces shining with soap and expectation. President Hardapple rose and addressed them in a few simple yet kindly words. “My dear young friends,” he said, his voice rolling egglike across the lawn and echoing back from the facade of the Corcoran Art Gal- lery, “we have gathered here to-day on this beautiful greensward, which has retained its pure American- dyed green in spite of eight years of Democratic caretakers, to observe a hallowed custom. What, I ask you, would our country be without its hal- By WALTER PRICHARD EATON lowed customs? We are going to roll logs—pardon me, I mean eggs. Eggs, my dear young friends, are produced by hens and other feathered bipeds; they are an agricultural product. Ag- riculture is the oldest and the noblest of all industries. It was practiced by Adam. Without agriculture we should perish. All honor to the hen, and all honor to the man who grows the corn that feeds the hen, and cll honor to the farmer’s wife who scatters the corn to feed the hen. Forty-six per cent. = Greenwich Villager—I’m making a soul portrait. Sitter—That’s good. shoe business. I'm in the 3 of our population is engaged in grow- ing corn and feeding hens. I ask you, then, is it any wonder that eggs are expensive? Is it any wonder that we bow in reverence to the sublime pro- fession of agriculture? I am myself an agriculturist. In my garden in Marietta I once raised a cabbage. But I do not believe in class legislation, my dear young friends. That only forty-six per cent. of the population should, through their elected represen- tatives, combine to further their own ends at the expense of the great ma- jority who live in New York, is mon- strous, monstrous. It is not normalcy. We must have a return to normalcy. We must—” But at this point he was suddenly interrupted by the boys from Farmbloc Academy, who derisively gave their school yell, closely imitated from the Harvard cheer, with the accent on the last syllable: Farmbloc, Farmbloc, Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah, Rah, rah, rah, Nitrate of soda. Some of the other and more polite little boys began to hiss this exhibition, but all was as suddenly forgotten, because the Chemical Foundation now appeared on the lawn with the eggs and opened the cage doors. The eggs, shaped like little logs, in their fast reds, whites and blues, at once sprang forth and began to roll all over the place; while the merry children, for- getting their own differences, as well as the kindly words that dropped down upon them from the south veranda, like an April shower from the dictionary, sprang with glad cries in pursuit. comicbooks.com