Judge, 1922-10-07 · page 2 of 36
Judge — October 7, 1922 — page 2: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "A Plane Song" by Edward W. Barnard This page features a romantic poem celebrating aviation rather than political satire. The illustration shows a woman gazing upward toward an airplane, suggesting the early 20th-century cultural fascination with flight as a marvel and symbol of modernity. The poem romanticizes flying—depicting the pilot's experience with metaphorical language about freedom, speed, and escape from earthly concerns. References to "Myra Jane" and "Lowell Hill" appear to be personal, possibly autobiographical details. The content reflects the era's enthusiastic embrace of aviation technology as poetic subject matter, typical of Judge magazine's mix of humor, satire, and general interest content. Rather than mocking flight or fliers, this celebrates aviation as an exhilarating, almost spiritual experience—a notably optimistic take during aviation's early commercial development.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
A Plane Song TTERISS no conereted boulevard pleasant as the shyland lane That sltims ambrosial groves and leads To Locust Hill—and Myra Jane. I fly to pay my best deroir, Not horsed and armed, for tilting fain, Like lnight forbears that 1 may boast, But in my plane, my eager plane. As I whisk over yellow fields The purple thistles nod at me: (My heart is lighter than the down They ll scatter broadcast presently!) A cloud keeps pace with me awhile, Anon my wings with light are sprayed; And so I swiftly, blithely fly From shade to sun, from sun to shade. ic! As we speed along lyric story tells, While thinly from slim steeples rise The hymnody of sacred bells. And orer all a note sustained That glads my heart and wales my smiles, The rumble of my motor's bass Marking the flight of lonely miles. I must not look ahead and see Cold mists upon this airy lane When I hare watched the day go out And said good night to Myra Jane! I must not hear all these dear sounds Blent in a dolor, deep and black, No! Make me deaf to discords all Till then—when I am flying back! Epwarp W. Barnarp. Now York City, N.Y. under 00 18 a copy iTMewonnell: Treas; W.D. y, 621 West tid iow York Cit