Judge — September 2, 1922 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

The Prophet at Home by Walt Mason Ts prophet’s honored not at home, where we are onto all his curves; to distant places he must roam, to get aurels he deserves. In this, our little country town, where Lizzies snort the livelong day, we have some people of renown, whose fame has traveled far away. We have a poctess whose lyre makes all her rivals. stand aghast, the crities cheer her and admire, and say that Sappho is outclassed. And when she goes to distant parts she’s treated like a sceptered queen; her picture, fit to break men’s hearts, in all the public prints is seen, In distant towns the women’s clubs discuss her poetry at times, and look with scorn upon the dubs who can’t apy te her rhymes. But here at home her frequent bids for love and honor are denied, for she is prone to wear old lids of fashions that have long since died. And she’s so wrapped up in her art that she forgets to comb her hair, and garments up to date and smart no woman ever saw her w the So when there is a yellow tea, or any other sort of fest, or high, uplifting jam- horce, the poetess is not a guest. Famed is her volum but here at home we all confess that dames who handle rhymes and runes should drop that graft and learn to dress. * voice, E HAVE an orator whe when it’s unhitched and gi Thautauqua hosts r . isco Bay. His name's a household) word from old Redondo clear to Rome, and it seems foolish and absurd that we don’t honor him at home. When in some other town he lands, committees meet him at. the ty-seven jadsome strain. But when to his own town he comes, from victories in burgs afar, the loud triumphant drums to mi welkin flop . The owner of the Blue Front store observes the hero as he goes, and says, “That faker’s here once more—I the accessories” fiend If Ford made yachts wish he'd pay up what he owes.” Up speaks the tailor, mournful wig owes me for the suit he wears; he knows my | yune 2 fight, but not a pica- The butcher speaks, in “Twas seven years ago sold him liver, lights and bones, and I have whistled for my pay.” C UR Foremost Citizen is Blac is not known ten miles prunes his trees and paints his s| he is known as first-class pay. monkeyed with a harp, or sung a about a rose; he peddles strings of € man carp, and always pays up what owes. He is no orator, ‘tis true, he never made the welkin bust; but when the a song grocer’s bill is due, he always antes up the dust. I fear that’ no’ enraptured throng has heard him speak in trumpet tones, but when the bill day comes along, he pays the butcher for his bone: And so we si the fa » up folks in town, not by they have abroad, not by their ay renown, but by the way they use their wad. We do not care what people think in Boston or Baltimore; in Pumpkinville we judge a gink by his own stand-off at the store. And dames must d as we decree or outer darkness i gh famous poets they may vil have to keep their hats on tae The Country House Hostess Speaks Her Mind by Carolyn Wells TH summer season’s over and the guests have gone awa) Of course they all brought presents, and I view with some dismay, Bird sticks, bird hs, bird houses, door knockers and door stops. All sorts of porch doodaddles from the neighboring giftie shops. Queer things of painted tin, to hang on my veranda wall; And fearsome jugs of pottery, to decorate my hall; And dinky sofa-pillows, and dolls for telephones, And paperweights, of scenery painted on cobblestones. Framed ses for my guest room, of sentimental drool And green one-legged | useless garden tool And _ teetery tea tables, and smoke-a- diddle stands, And candlesticks, hand-painted by mis- directed hands, ets filled with And strings of semi-precious junk to dangle round my neck And knitted scarfs and sw am a nervous wreck. I hope I’m not ungrateful, but the clouds would show a rift, If I could speed one parting guest who hadn’t left a gift! aters—till I comicbooks.com