Judge — August 11, 1923 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

Farmer West—Gosh, Mandy, th’ movies are right—there are sech folks! THE GOOD OLD WEATHER I OLDEN TIMES, T have been told, high conversation was an art; the words of men were good as gold, and warmed the er’s throbbing heart. The table talk of Rogers’ day— the anecdotes men used to tell! Then every bright distinguished jay sprung cpigrams that rung the bell. Sam John- son and Macaulay, too, and many others I could name—they were a gifted, witty crew, whose bright remarks have brought them fame. And I would talk of Blake « of Whitman’s loud barbaric y: all the delegates I know discuss the weather and the crops. I meet the pastor in the streets—for bookish talk my spirit yearns—and ask him if he’s fond of K nd if he’s stuck on Bobbie Burns. “On graver things my mind is bent,” the pastor s unrestrained; “I mark the E discontent; for seven weeks it hasn't rained. The oats are firing at the roots, the corn is brown that ould be green; I wonder what those ned galoots who run the weather bureau nm I ask for water when I pray, I've put it up to Providence; by Walt Mason there'll be a seedy crop of hay unless refreshing rains commence, And while I'm 7 ing, praying hard, for novelties in rain or snow, you talk about some tinhorn bard who died a million years ago. You sce the landscape burning hot, the crops all dying in the heat, and you refer to Walter Scott—you make me tired, so help me Pete!” SBUKED, I sadly slink av hide behind a tree or roc but in a fortnight or aday Tycarn again for bookish talk. Then to the banker I re- pair; the banker is a stately toff; I like to seck him in his lair and talk his tawny whiskers off, “Forget,” I say, “the sordid grind, forget. the kopeck and the yen, and brush the cobwebs from your mind by talk of books and writing men. If akespeare were on earth to-day, and sought the well-known magazines, and tried to sell a deathless Jo you sup- pose he'd draw the beans? If Milton tried to decorate the North American Review with odes and epics truly great, would he draw down a check or two? If Francis Bacon came to life, the mid- and 17 night brand of oil to burn, could he support his aunt and wife on what his fountain pen could earn? If Thomas Gray should now unfold his elegy to modern hicks, don’t. you suppose he would be told to grind out snappy limeric The banker says: “I will be frank; I think you are a windy scout; you have rubles in my bank, and think I dare not throw you out. But have acare! I'm full of w and will not entertain a bore; the way these burning south winds blow is making everybody sore. A week ago there was a ring around the justly famous moon; and men were prone to dance and sing, they thought there'd be a rainstorm soon, The fre were honking by the brook, which was another sign of rain; but all the signs have failed, gadzoc and all the omens were in vain. T! pumpkins wither on the vine, the string beans shrivel on their strings, and you blow in this bank of mine, and talk of bughouse bards, by jings! Oh, go, before I lose control of my poor nerves, all drawn and tense, and swat you with a ten-foot pole, and hang your hide upon the fence!” some comicbooks.com