Judge — March 10, 1923 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

9 CRIN Mi Ane Ha win Drawn by RENE Gua: Ballades of a Dub ly ALN. C. Fowler Mixed-up | Foursomes Much. e or other janes ‘simply wild” to These Aren't So “with me the sorts of pains They stir in me I'd hate to s I'd rather call it then a day And beat it home than f Why do girls try golf, ar These mixed-up foursomes much, They quit you cold whene'er it rains Or blows too hard for such as they, And, if they lose, each doll disdains To say she And will she pay Good Lord, nay, nay! These mi foursomes aren't much, To keep her score would beat the Of quick accountants to mere whe: She gets a twelve and then comp If you assign her more than trey Or four, at n , and then she mn Slip in her conversation clutch When you've a dead approach to lay— These mi > foursomes aren't so much. D'Envoi 0 Adam, hear my kick, T pre You surely got us dubs in Du When Eden gave Eve her entrée— These mixed-up foursomes aren’t so much, it i NH my Nir fi i AN fi A Kis Hint i) aN } } i A Scooty Blear by CW. Myers Here's NA PLACE like hame—if th’ opener is nae lost. * e# @ Ony college wad mak’ a stronger appeal in its drive for students if it wad add a gawf coorse. * 8 * a vera lang rough that hae na lost * Some film actc muckle ta picture busin Na doobt th’ French viewpoint is that th’ British premier hae lived oop weel tae his first name. * * Th’ laddie wearin’ lang pants for th’ first. time ¢ prouder than th’ duffer wha _is ed tae play with a three handicap mon. * * * th’ driver tae th’ bra y owner aften gets too si 's th’ cleek tae th’ spoon: “He plays juist like a sookin’ loon.” Says th’ mashie tae th’ putter: “Fd like tac thraw him in th’ gutter.” Says th’ niblick “He'll ne'er play ne th’ jigger: era gude, I figure.” Says th’ midiron tae th’ baff; “T think ye a’ are muckle daffy.” ‘f $ “Gad, that fellow ahead is slow. What snails him?” “The Jinx” by Stephen Lloyd Tes a jinx that sits on the end of my c Whenever I enter the game— He scoffs and he sneers; he arouses my fears, He beats me and I get the blame. He twitches my ear as I stand at the tee, “Wh ‘owd looking at you! Tee, hee! They'll know you're a dub when you swing that club, ‘That's what they all came out to see.” He dances a jig on the side of the trap, hither, sweet golf ball!” “This trap's made for you, roll in it, pray do, Your master will blame it on me!” says he. He flies to the bunker ahead of my drive, And calls bac! there is your grave! It’s quite a deep hole and in it you'll roll, And 04, how your master will rave!” He’s the siren that sings at the deep water hole, “Come in, the water is fine! “There's lip, you won't mind the dip! The mermaids invite you to dine!" “O! Who is this foe that uses me so?” T asked of a friend, my face grim. “Indeed, I don’t know, but if you feel so, Perhaps you had better ask him.” “Who are you?” I cried, as his form I espied, A grinning and grimacing elf; “Why, if you must know, I’m your double. Ho! Ho! Tam ‘Young man, afraid of himself!’ ” comicbooks.com