Judge, 1923-06-30 · page 13 of 37
Judge — June 30, 1923 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis for Modern Readers This page contains three humorous pieces about golf from Judge magazine, reflecting early 20th-century American attitudes toward the sport. **"Ballades of a Dub"** is a lighthearted poem mocking amateur golfers who become obsessed with the game each June, despite their poor abilities ("I'm just a prune"). The joke is self-deprecating—the speaker keeps returning to golf despite consistently failing. **"Scooty Blear"** offers Scottish-dialect golf slang and observations. It pokes fun at various golfer types: chronic latecomers, those who brag about wins but renege on bets, and those who copy equipment fads. **"The Golf Fiend"** satirizes how golf consumes a man's attention, neglecting home responsibilities—the kitchen needs painting, he's abandoning gardening, abandoning his wife ("Ma's a widow"). The final cartoon panel humorously illustrates that getting par doesn't require skill—just lucky bounces. Overall, the satire targets golf's grip on middle-class men's leisure time and the sport's pseudo-sophisticated culture among amateurs.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Ballades of a Dub Along About Midway in June by A. N.C. Fowler Or ALL the times of all the year The days between May and July Best throw this dub into high gear To grab his handicap and try To shoot it from its perch on high— At golf I know I'm just a prune Yet par intrigues my wish and eye Along about midway in Ji There’s something in the air, it’s clear, Or in the azure of the sky That makes me lend an eager ear To hopes of bogey (or nearby), Assures me Fate will not deny Her long-deferred, elusive boon Of scoring like some expert guy Along about midway in June. So daily to the links I steer, Resolved at last to do or die, A victim to June’s atmosphere Of false, alluring subtlety; And daily hence I homeward hie, When gloaming’s born of afternoon, And sell my clubs to him who'll buy Along about midway in June. LEnvoi Tune Waele jade, elaaGehy Should all my hopes be dashed so soon By medals to make Hagen sigh Along about midway in June? Scooty Blear by CW PaLLou is the fourth member o’ th’ foursome wha is always late showin’ oop at th’ first tee. + * # ”, Myers A bilnip is a gawfer wha thinks in terms o’ siller when he wins but pays wi’ promises when he loses. « ©, % Th’ spirit o’ self-preservation is weel exemplified when a baldheaded gawfer gangs aroun’ th’ coorse bareheaded. * * + A southpaw frien’ o’ mine recently took oop th’ royal an’ ancient pastime. When buyin’ his ootfit, he asked th’ dealer whether he haed ony left-handed gawf bags. * * Noo that th’ British amateur g, title will stay at hame for anither it is obvious that th’ clubs used by th} American invaders met wi? Englan’s maist enthusiastic approval. * * * In th’ auld days mony a mon aiften tarried too lang wi’ his foot restin’ oon th’ brass rail. Noo, his best alibi for bein’ late for dinner is that he played a few extra holes an’ dinna realize what time it was. The Golf Fiend by Carlyle F. Straub H® 1s SELDOM home to supper; if he does come, he is late; The kitchen floor needs painting but the kitchen floor must wait screens are in the attic and storm door should come off, But father’s only rooming here, now that he’s playing golf. The the He’s ceased to dig the garden and he’s ed the tools away; he'll hire a man to plant the flowers we want some d At those who toil for exercise in to scoff, The stylish is pla: ne’s started ay to get it, father says, ng golf. He used to call men foolish when they raved about the links, But since he’s been converted, it’s a splendid game, he thinks. He is out there every Sunday and each afternoon he’s off; Ma’s a widow and we're orphans since he started playing golf. Phd Nurse—Yow'll be golf season has opened. Patient (indignantly)—I better now the don’t play 4 1S PAR NO MATTER HOW YOU GET IT If you looked up and topped your ball into the rough— from which you failed to get out with your niblick; but on the next try the ball found a cor- ner of the fairway and teed itself up on an old divot, from which you hit a tremendous brassie slice which finally dropped—that’s par.