Judge — July 8, 1922 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

NVENTORS need all kind of pep, for we're opposed to all that’s strange; we kick at every forward step, at everything that hints of change. We see the damsels wearing gowns which do not drag upon the pave; = rend our beards and beat our crowns: good old times are in the grave! We place our hands before our glims, the modern styles offend the gaze; we see so much of female limbs we languish for the , good old days. The good old times when women wore long gowns that hid their legs and feet; nine yards went dragging on the floor, or, peradventure on the street. The modern styles are full of sense, they’re an improvement on the old, al- though we sit upon the fence, and talk old times, and rant and scold. We always knock on all things new, and progress makes us tear our hair; there are so many rags to chew, and every gent must chew his shai re! “I lived at Punktown-in-the- Hole when first an auto reached the place; with staring eyes we watched it roll, and voted it a rank disgrace.” The World of Knockers BY Watt Mason IttustRaTION BY Henry J. Peck LIVED at Punktown-in-the-Hole when first an auto reached the place; with staring eyes we watched it roll, and voted it a rank disgrace. Zeb Thompson's team of old bay mares all panic-stricken ran amuck, and galloped up two flights of stairs, while harnessed to a heavy truck. And every Dobbin tried to waltz, and voiced a protest with a neigh, and staid old cows threw somersaults and mules and don! ran away. Along the village street we stood, and jawed the man who ran the bus; we thought the gallows was too good for one who'd kick up such a fuss. And in our wisdom we declared that autos would be banned by law; no sinful chugster would be spared, each one would feel the halter draw. We ranted for a year or two, and tried to cuss the vans away; and then the fact hove into view that buzz-buzz carts had come to stay. And now we drive our choo- ing wains, and of their pep and speed we brag; slow travel gives us piebald pains, we laugh at him who drives a nag. HEN I was young cheap caadles gave the light by which we combed our hair, and my old grandsire used to rave if coal-oil lamps were mentioned there, “I'll have no lamps around,” he cried, “they’re dangerous as they can be; these candles were my father’s pride, and they are good enough for me. Jim Beck- staff bought a coal-oil lamp, abandoning the candle plan; a hundred miles we had to tramp to find the fragments of that man, But in my father’s day the lamp was used in every Christian home; its mild effulgence used to camp upon that parent’s lofty dome, and as a sort of ghastly joke the old lamp in my memory blooms, and I recall how it would smoke and fill the house with beastly fumes. There came a day when my Aunt Jane said gas was what we ought to burn; and father split the roof in twain with lan- guage toasted to a turn. “G'S is a vile and deadly thing, it poisons people in their sleep; a jet’s left open, then, by jing, the crowner comes, and orphans weep.” And thus at every step we kick, pro- testing with a frantic shout; if there’s a mudhole, there we stick, until some fellow pulls us out. Oh, we are down on things new; we see them come with stony glare; there are so many rags to chew, and every gent must chew his share! comicbooks.com