Judge — June 24, 1922 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

Down to Brass Tacks By Watt Mason Iutustration By Henry J. Peck a plow; if wailing damsels raise their yawp, and for our succor pray, we tell them where to find a cop, and send them on their way. Old Time has made a million tracks since knights in armor sped, and now we ali get down to tacks, and shun the gingerbread. We all Ect down to tacks, my friends, if we would take the cakes; wild dreams will do when labor ends—at other times they’re fakes. READ of Morgan, buccaneer, who swept the well-known seas; his ban- ner filled all hearts with fear whene’er it hit the breeze. I seem to. hear his weapons clank, as on his deck he roared, and made his captives walk the plank, or other kind of board. “That was the life,” I softly sigh, when reading makes me doze; “could I but like a Morgan fly black flags and goods like those! I'd like to sail a rak- ish craft and sink the ships of Spain; I'm weary of this workday graft that taxes brawn and brain. I’m tired of selling rusty parts for Fords and kin- dred boats; I’m tired of greasing choo- choo carts to earn some paltry groats. I fain would fly a banner black, and be a Corsair bold, and cleave the ocean’s stormy track, with riches in my hold.” But when I’ve thought it o’er awhile, I see where I'm astray; the Corsair was a man of guile, for which he had to pay. They always pinched him late or soon, along some Spanish mains, and then beneath the silver moon his stiff would swing in chains. And while it swung by night and day, the grocer and his clerk would view it with a leer and say, “The safest thing is work.” It’s well to dream of pirates dire, “TI seem to see those chargers prance—they're snorting as they pass” READ strange tales of hero knights who rode on pawing nags, and pushed their spears through other wights, and made such deeds their brags. And as I read I say, “Odsprunes, the world was better then; the voters didn’t sing cheap tunes, but slew their fellow-men. And it is better far to slay some caitiff on ‘he road, than punch a rusty, lyre all day, and frame a cheer-up le. But when I’ve laid the book aside, I take another view; I seem to see the dead knights ride on horses roan and blue. I seem to see those chargers prance, they’re snorting as they pass, and bear knights in cast-iron pants, and hats of hammered brass, An that’s an idle thing to do, a vicious thing, in fact, when there were wet elm trees to hew, and stumps that should be whacked. Sometimes the daily rou- tine hurts, we long for bygone styles, when blacksmiths made the people’s shirts and tinsmiths made their tiles. But well I know these times are rich, the times we live in now; if we have nags we promptly hitch the critters to 13 when evening shades descend, and you are snuggled by the fire, and half asleep, my friend. But in the glaring light of day such dreams should have no place; for if you do not bale your hay it’s simply a disgrace. It’s well to walk with queens and kings when night has come to pass, but one can’t dream of foolish things, and cut his share of ‘ass, erThis world’s a good old ball of wax when all is said and done, and if we all ee down to tacks, great triumphs may won.