Judge — May 26, 1923 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

Artist—It was warm enough an for last month’s rent! Bound To Be Cheerful by Walt Mason ¢ "Mm GETTING better day by day,” I I keep repeating as I stroll; this slogan soon will shoo away the ills that torture flesh and soul. I have a measle and a mump, I have some shingles d still I ery, at every jump, “I know I'll soon be well a; I cannot see where I improv ailments all seem here to stay; and still I murmur as I me “I'm getting better every day. Doe Casket meets me in the rain, and says, “My soul with much dismay it fills to hear you chant that punk refrain instead of taking beeswax pills. I've been your doctor twenty years, I've brewed you many a healing cup; now, in your dotage, it appe: you choose to pass the Old I up. You travel like a locoed jay, and mutter, while you writhe in ‘T'm getting better every —say, is such conduct safe and sane? Repeat that spiel a thousand years and it won't cure a single ache; cheap words won't ck rs, or prove Be in. my oc Iments are a f: ne again,” the Old Doe cries, “and take nine pills before each me depend on drugs again, be wi and drop that idiotic spiel.” “Tis true, ’tis true,” I ma reply, “you’ve doctored me sinc I was young; you've treated me hour ago when the landlord was here and for a spavin on my lung. You’ ed me for many ills whose names, alas, have been mislaid; I've taken forty million pills, and thrown in powders with a spade, And always, when one ill would go, another rose to take its pl if I lacked corns upon my toe, I had a bunion on my face. And at the end of thirty days your bill for rheumy eye NORMAL AR PrHOrey F32R - lectors throng my te would come to me il; and oh, the grievous row I'd raise, as T dug up the rd earned kale! You kept me broke twenty years, your bills were not a glad sweet song; as I review the past through tears, I wonder I endured so long. “T know the graft I'm working now will not relieve me of my woes; it will not heal my pimpled brow, or cure the wart upon my nose. In that it’s much the same as pills and all the drugs the doctors use; but, ah, there are no monthly bills to give me fantods and the blues! There are no long accounts to pay, when I proceed through town and yell, ‘I'm getting better every day I know I'll be entirely well! No man an charge me for my spiel, no bill col- and if the blamed thing doesn’t heal, at least it doesn’t cost a cent. So, Dr. Casket, go your v and send your patients to the hee “T'm getting better every day, and e night I’m getting worse.” Oh, it is sweet to find some boon, some me or plan, some honest bet, that doesn’t cost round doubloon, that doesn’t sink a man in debt. There are some forty thousand cures for human ills, and maybe more; and each of them, when tried, insures a journey to the poorhouse door. The learned physicians do not fear to charge according to your roll; and druggists would seem mighty queer who didn’t take a princely toll. And now at last we have a cure that doesn’t cost a mi thing; the French- man’ s lure—what wonder if I dance and sing? te “Got my doctor's bill this morning. These doctors most assuredly can “Well, they’re not in’ business for their health, you know.” Sas | Mrs. Juggler by Cyril B. Egan | H”™, pleasant to be a juggler— To pass the time away By juggling balls and oranges At the two-or-three What joy to be a juggler, To balance plate 1 i But oh, it is lots jc To be the juggler’s wife! To be the juggler’s wife— Serenely ornamental life: To pass the time away By handing golden « To hubby for his pla Coyly the while di A not uncomely shi Oh, I envy the facile juggler And his dextridigital life; But if born in another gender, That coughing spell at the theater. 18 I would rather be his wife!