Judge — April 21, 1923 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Drawn by Gitnent WILKINSON. Peevish Young Husband—Why the deuce do you make that din every evening? His Bride—So the neighbors sha’n’t hear you kissing me. THE PLUTE IS POPULAR by Walt Mason FE HAs a bundle in the bank, all kinds of iron men; he has the kroner and the france, the guilder and the yen. He has some six or seven cars, to suit his every mood; his dark and opulent cigars smell not like onions stewed. He has his yacht, his horse and hound, this prince of plutocrats; he wears silk shirts the whole year round, and has nine stovepipe hats. And often, at the Blue Front store, when we assemble there, to thresh all vital matters o’er, we roast him, hide and hair. It isn’t right that any man should have so much long green, and own a roadster and scdan, and cke a limousine. It isn’t right that any guy should | while others toil, and sip a rich illicit while we drink « or oil. “He toils not, neither does he spin,” says Johnson, through the smoke, “yet he has money in a bin, while we are always broke. We labor with the pick or spade, we labor with the ax, and after all, the coin we've made must go to pay some tax. I've paid my tax on seven dogs, which did my purse exhaust; our Government is slipping cogs, our bulwarks are a frost. The rich man swaggers through the town, and oh, it jars and riles, to see the people bowing down, and greeting him with smiles.” “T think about the needle’s eye,” says Gaffer Pete McGrew, “and of the camel that would try to gain a passage through, when I behold this wealthy man, and contemplate his hoard, who journeys in a rich sedan, while I can’t bu Ford. There's surely comfort in the thought that plutes can’t get inside, up there where shining gates are wrought in gold twelve cubits wide. The rich man is a haughty skate, he thinks that he is It; but when he’s reached the pearly gate, he fails to make a hit. ‘Go to, go to,’ St. P ‘the lift will soon go down; for you there is no snc no p sss harp or crown. You had a bundle while on earth, a package large and fat, but here such doodads have no worth—go down, oh, plutocrat!) Had you distributed your wad among the honest poor, I would not smite you with my rod, your presence I'd endure.” T often wish I had the chance to tell this snobbish plute that when he dies his spirit’s chance will not be worth a hoot.” a “I often meet him in the mart,” says Graybeard Edwin Drood, “and his apparel, gay and smart, would feed a widow's brood. And when a meeting thus takes place, resent- ings rise; I look him firmly in the face with stern, ng eyes. I've seen him eringe when thus I gazed, and fairly looked him down, and doubtless he was much am: mark my wrathful frown.”