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

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

“Yes, sir, they’ve been lots of improvements since you were out last summer. reforesting, fixed the roads, and Hank Smith’s wife died.” THE TRUTE TELLERS © Hotp the liar up to scorn and y he'll meet a dismal fate when from this world he’s rudely torn and sent where heaps of brimstone wait. Perhaps the liar who would lie that he may beat his fellow-men or injure trusting gents should fry for seven million years or ten. But there are liars who deserve the highest praise we can impart; their falschoods show, in every curve, that lying is a genial art. I groom myself with ceaseless care, and do not feel myself a sham if I would have the sprightly air of secming younger than I am. My thinning locks I comb across the gleaming bald spot on my head; I would not seem a total loss, and so I walk with eager tread. I kalsomine my ruddy nose, and shine my teeth of tortoise- shell; and wear the most expensive clothes that Punkville’s merchant tailors sell. So when I leave my house at nine, and start to walk twelve blocks or five, I feel th am looking fine, and I am glad I am alive. nd he ex- mien: “You're You surely I MEET a liar on my w: claims, with friend] getting younger every day! By Walt Mason are an evergreen! Though you are getting up in years, you flourish like the green bay tree; the bloom of health is in your ears, your whiskers are a sight to see. No youngster has a quicker step, you're hale and sound in form and mind, you are so full of vim and pep old Father Time is left behind!” Perhaps he means it as a jest, but such a jest is passing sweet; such language soothes an old man’s breast, and r : him feel as good as wheat. If there’s an angel writing down the record of our good and guile, she marks such falsehoods with a frown, and then forgets them with asmile. The liar goes upon his way, a cheerful nod and beck he gives; he’s brightened up a cloudy day, and I shall bless him while he lives. pb now I meet a long-faced man who'd rather croak than tell a 1 the truth unbroke his plan, the truth should not be knocked awry. He looks me up, he looks me down, he walks around me seven times, he notes my raiment with a frown, and then he lectures me g Done a lot of betimes. “You surely are a musty wreck, you look like thirteen picayunes; the more you thus your form bedeck, the more you look like last year’s prunes. It is a grievous thing to see an old man dolled in flossy rags, when he has gout in foot and knee, and when beneath his years he sags. You are a most unholy sight—I _ sp the plain unvarnished truth; there’s none more ghastly than the wight who tries to ape the airs of youth. Go home and deck yourself in crape, and wind some sackcloth’ round your face and get your house in proper shape for that great change which comes apace.” Jo poust the things he says are true, and truth is mighty, men have said; but I rebuke him with my shoe, and sit a while upon his head. And when I kick him in the slats and swat him with my twin-six lyres I feel a vengeful joy but a sentiment that soon expires. He spoiled a happy day for me and I go homeward feeling punk, and sit beneath my banyan tree and splatter tears around its trunk. comicbooks.com