Judge — March 17, 1923 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

“Yes, sir; what sort of a rug?” . “Well, it’s for a living-room. It orter be kinda green kind of a rug a feller could putt on good.” an’ not too rough, an’ lay flat. You know, the Ballades of a Dub by A. N.C. Fouler My Latest Caddy Is a Pip “or fifteen dreamy autumn days Of softly wooing, silken skies That tempt a man to go his ways Around the course with other guys Who're bitten by the bug likewise Thaven’t lost a ball one trip But always know just there it lies— My latest caddy is a pip. Til say he has an eagle gaze And wears a pair of ferret eye That penetrate the deepest m Of dog-legs or the rough’s surpris \ boob won't need a year’s supplies Of Silver Kings upon his hip Not with that youngster, for he’s wise— My latest caddy is a pip. Before, from shortly past sunrise Until the growing ev’ning haze Ti lose the pills a fellow buys At such a rate I'd oft surmise I'd have to raise a loan of size, Discount it at my bank and skip— Now I'm a bear for enterprise— My latest caddy is a pip. LEnvoi And, if my good luck doesn’t slip Til soon be Croesus in disguise— My latest caddy is a pip. Parew, you've slipped me a prize, Scooty Blear by CW. Myers Aus is a gawfer wha wiggles his toes when he putts. * + * When ye hear a mon braggin’ aboot his game afore frien’s wha dinna play gawf, ye can figure his handicap at aroun’ sixteen or mair, an’ ye willna miss it vera far. * * * I wonder if they'll find amang th’ relies o’ th’ tomb 0’ Tutankhamen ony 0” these articles 0” Corkscrews, beer checks, pretzels or sic * * * Some gawfers want th’ best o’ it, en when they play a simple dub; “d pawn thir souls for half a bit » members o” th’ Gimmie Club. mie lads are known a’ ower, alla Walla tae Peru. A stroke a hole, sometimes e’en mair, They'll ask, an’ aften get "em, too. Ane day a Gimmie laddie died An’ whaur he went I cadna tell; TW handicap was weel applied, Na doobt—I fear for him "twas hell. _ * 8 Sae far there is but little groun’ tae I fear for th’ future o’ gawf. As far a ken, neither Volstead nor Bryan hae taken oop th’ game. if The Bug by Alfred P. Reck [5 Movers avs of scientists rdly does seem so malady of man n they do not know. Yet there’s a bite of tiny bug For which there is no cure, It has the snake backed off the map, Its sting is deadly sure. There’s no escape when once you're bit, So just give up the ghost; You laugh and say that you’re immune— just an idle boast. When once this bug invades your skin You're gone for all your life. You can’t be freed by pills or drugs Or even surgeon’s knife. This little bug's a funny thing. “Oh, boy, it was a daisy!” The words you'll use can ne’er be found In dusty doctors’ books; They aré niblicks, brassies’ mashies And drives, slices and hooks. This malady makes men leave work For in the fields to roam. It builds up constitutions, but It sometimes wrecks the home. comicbooks.com