Judge — December 23, 1922 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

REWER | hat; I have all kinds of books tosell, but none by him, for- sooth; yet here are works by Harold Bell, and others by Old Sleuth.” HE critics elder day boomed many a Ure son kate; they watched he ob Southey ing hay, and called him trily great. When Bob sent forth an epic pome the crit- ies whanged their gong, and wondered how a human dome could frame such mi song. And now if you would hire a jay to read a book by Bob, you'd to hand » princely : or he would jump Willie, who lives in a tall apartment building, entertains his job, this wicked but fond hope. Sizing Us Up by Walt Mason . LEWIS wrote his book, he Mon some twelve dec- Jes ago; it doubtless was the fiercest bunk this world will ever know. Yet all the people of his time perused it with delight; they said it was a thing sublime, and Matt could surely write, “This book will live while there are men on carth; no other modern tale can give so much of he worth.” And men like good old Walter Scott, and Byron, too, and Moore, ap- praised that awful bale of rot as one that would endure. Oh, reader, if you'd know *s punk, what’s hollow, cheap and vain, just spend an evening with “The Monk,” and go to bed insane. I wonder as I paw it o’er how men could ever say that it was worth a ton or more of books by Bertha Clay. I wonder how men fig- ured out that it would famous be when men like Byron were in doubt of im- mortality. HE critics travel pretty strong, be- stowing praise and blame; their guesses, though, are mostly wrong when they apportion fame. “This man,” they say, “is writing odes whose fame will never die; he’s traveling, by shining roads, to summits clear and high.” And ten years hence some pilgrim roams to where choice verse is sold, and asks for that great singer's pomes, and offers minted gold. “Ods_ herringbones!” the bookman cries, “there's no such bard as that; to all the poets I am wise, they’re pasted in my They joshed poor Whitman year by year, they smote him with an ax, and handed nosegi bright and dear, to Whittier and Saxe. And nowadays they pick out men whose fame will live quite long, and I will bet my old gray hen that they are guessing wrong. For critics cannot elevate a man to high renown, or camp upon some other skate and always hold him down. ‘OM, Dick and Harry do the trick— the voters in the street, who trot along the pave of brick on brisk and busy feet. ‘They like an author or they don't—what boots the reason why? They'll read a novel or they won't, and they're the ones who buy. They blow themselves for Sherlock Holmes and all such tales of guile, as critics prove that other tomes are loubly worth their while, They read the works of old Doe Crane, the songs of Eddie Guest, while crities clamor, and in vain, that other books are best. The critics say that genius starves, for it we have no use, while mediocre talent carves the fatted duck and goose. Our rotten taste, so help them John, they hundred se fame ey Dirge for Christmas Aftermath by LW. Bonsih HI, T wouldn't mind the bric-a-brac Or gorgeous rainbow ties T wouldn't mind the slippers With the yellow butterflies, T wouldn't mind embre “d coats Though wear ‘em I eowill If it were not for the fateful fact— T'll hafta pay the bill! Oh, green is green and red is red, And junk is always junk. The use-proof gifts T have received Would fill a ten-foot trunk. But T wouldn't mind the snickersnees Or fussy feather quills If T could be quite certain I'd not hafta pay the bills! wae Mrs, Homebody—Would you care to join our class in domestic science and modern housekeeping? Miss Leftorer—I1 don't know. Does it include a course in how to land a man to keep house for? “Hey, Santa Claus, you're losin’ your stomick!” ss — boo — com