Judge — January 20, 1923 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

Heavy traffic—keep to the right. slaps at the person as he descends and contributes mightily to the crash. Nor is the ice content to let you lie where you fall. ‘The concussion of the impact is by no means the end of the adventure. Having hit bottom, the skater is com- pelled to slide along until he comes in con- tact with some stable object like a tree. Occasionally he is not so fortunate that, for if the ice matters according to its heart's desire the flying human missile is directed against some other skater, still erect and confi- dent, and both victims become unwilling participants in a resounding carom shot. There was one pond we used to know which was never content with anything less than ten or no count. The fact that we didn’t want to play at all made no difference. can possibly arrange ved upon us in the the repeated assurance of some kind and older acquaintance that he would support us on the ice and insure us against falling. It was the invariable practice of these kind friends to extend the necessary sup- port for a little while and then suddenly withdraw it. The pretense was that the victim, having acquired confidence, would proceed boldly and successfully on his own, It never worked out that way. The very instant we were deprived of something upon which to lean we always leaned on the ice. or did we ever have any luck in the way in which we fell. ‘Through some curious mischance of bal- ance our fect constantly went up and we descended head downwards until it was not possible to go any farther. We have a that there is something architectur- ally imperfect about us. And, by the way, when we revise the world and make ice warmer we shall also range to have it much softer. ‘There is no good reason why it should be so im- placable a substance. Our skating ambitions were modest enough. We never had any desire to go fast or far. There was never a time when we would not have been content to main- tain the status quo. As for fancy skating, we saw no sense in it. We have known men who could write their names upon the ice. But once written there was nothing in particular to be done with the name. No bank would have been in the least’ interested. No, we never wanted to write our name upon the ice. We would rather : it upon enduring granite, because that is a practice which may be pursued, if one wishes, exclusively on warm and friendly days. tt The Stenographer Speaks by Pearl Spaulding AM tired of getting up early—of bolting my breakfast — and jamming my hat on any old way. I would like to snuggle down into soft pillows through the morning hours, until a“ pussy-foot- ing” maid brings The best part of the sport. No speed but very classy. in a steaming tray of breakfast and the morning paper. I am tired of racing breathlessly blocks to the nearest subw when my fect hurt—becoming sardine in the jostling, suffocating in- terior of the Sub—then chasing madly to business for fear of being a few minutes late. I would like to dawdle luxuriously through a very careful toilet—giving each plucked eyebrow a last caressing pat putting in a final invisible hairpin and after cocking the latest thing in millinery becomingly over one cye—seat myself in a limousine and murmur languidly, “Hick- son's, James.” That going, going, gone feeling. Tam bored stiff with my job—the zzer that summons me to His office—note book in hand—of spenc ig the perfectly good hours of the day at everyone’s beck and call. I should like to lunch at the Ritz—give a bor party to a matinée and later, in gor- geous, glittering evening togs, attended by one or more slim, elegant, “Arrow Collar” men, worry through an evening of dinner, dance and diversions. Heigho! Back to earth for me. goes that buzzer again! There