Judge, 1923-03-10 · page 8 of 36
Judge — March 10, 1923 — page 8: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Told at the 19th Hole" — A Judge Magazine Page This page presents three humorous pieces for an educated, country-club audience. The main feature is Walter Trumbull's poem "Told at the 19th Hole"—the 19th hole being the clubhouse bar where golfers gather after playing. The poem, set at Nassau Country Club on Long Island, uses mock-elevated language (echoing Gray's "Elegy") to satirize a mediocre golfer's self-aware excuses: he plays alone to hide bad shots, leaves divots unmended, and admits he'll never achieve par. The secondary pieces mock contemporary anxieties: wireless telephone technology enabling drunk calls at 3 AM, and "sky writers" (early aerial advertising). A third poem humorously describes hallucinations from homemade bootleg alcohol during Prohibition—green mice, pink tigers, purple deer—suggesting the dangers of amateur distilling. The cartoon by Gardner Rea illustrates the bootleg alcohol theme. Overall, the page targets upper-class leisure pursuits, modern technology, and Prohibition-era problems with genial satire.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
win Levick Nassau Country Club, Glen Cove, Long Island, N. Y. Told at the 19th Hole rae CAppIE counts his profits for the sing vacant green and empty tee To home and dinner plods his weary way And leaves the course to darkness and to me. From trap to trap I’ve labored many an hour, But I am not a weakling to complain, E’en though, forerunner of a coming shower, There falls a drop of solitary rain. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Is piled the turf from many a niblick crack; Divot on divot—many, I'm afraid, I raised and then neglected to put back. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife I play alone, but I will tell you this: Exclusive playing really is the life— There’s no one by to count the shots you miss. If I drop dead within some bunker deep— I never drop dead where the markers fly Write these I sleet The bunker is, of course, my usual lie: few words above the place “Here rests his head upon this cursed sand, A player who on earth was ne'er a star, But who had visions of a promised land Where hopeless duffers play the course in par.” * * & Frequently a woman is the bravest coward in existence. by Walter Trumbull Sus we stood and very still LS Awhile, Pierrette, ‘ And then you turned your face until Our swift lips met. As fickle as the breeze which blew, Yours was no nature to be true; But what is the poor fool to do Who can’t forget? + # « Just as soon as they get that wi telephone working we suppose some drunk’s idea of humor will be to call a friend up from London at 3 A.M. to tell him that the bar is open. Drawn by GanpNer O. Rea. Our village reprobate falls under the influence of the sky writers. 6 AY Y FRIEND’s apartment was aglow, AYE Well furnished, lots of space. Ili it then—I didn’t know The dangers of the place. He told me he had something new And from the closet shelf Took down a bottle of some brew He said he'd made himself. When we had drunk it seemed so queer To see the tall giraffe Essay to balance on its ear: It made us laugh and laugh. Although the purple deer were rough Tt was the boxing bout With the pink tiger, big and tough, Which put me down and out. I woke within my little bed To wonder more and more Why little mice, all green and red, Should dance upon the floor. And neither could T understand— My wits were somewhat dull— Why elephants should jump and land So often on my skull, The doctor came and chased them out; He had a fishy eye. He said I soon would be about. I felt about—to die. So should a friend produce a drink That’s something of his own, Take pru cid, glue or ink— But let that stuff alone. * * «* It’s queer how few persons live up to the opinion they have of themselves. comicbooks.com