Judge, 1923-09-08 · page 6 of 36
Judge — September 8, 1923 — page 6: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis of Judge Magazine Page This page contains two main sections: **Top cartoon** depicts a wealthy woman (Mrs. Smuriche) complaining about her dusty car to what appears to be a car salesman. The satire targets wealthy consumers' complaints and consumption habits during an era of automotive expansion. **Middle section** contains brief comedic dialogue about self-made men and class assumptions—typical early-20th-century social commentary about American entrepreneurship and inherited versus earned wealth. **"Might of the Mite"** by Cyril B. Egan is a poem celebrating humility and moral authority over physical power or royal status—reflecting Progressive Era values emphasizing character over aristocratic privilege. **Bottom cartoon** shows a rural doctor scene with comedic dialogue about anesthetics, satirizing rural/urban medical practice differences and class distinctions in healthcare access. The overall page reflects common Judge magazine themes: wealth, class pretension, and social contradictions of the period.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Mrs. Snuriche—I'd like to get a new car. “Ts he a good salesman?” “He sold framed éopies of the Declara- tion of Independence in England.” Oscar—Every man must sow his wild ice—Yes, only some land is more fertile than others. Rees Boy—I suppose you dance? Girl—Yes, I love to “Well, then let's love “My Dad is a self-made man.” “I'm glad he assumes all the blame.” Rural Doctor—I'll perform the operation now and use a local anesthetic. Mrs. Stocksanbonds—Local anesthetic? Haven't you an imported brawnd? No, indeed! 4 roo eth f Mine is all dusty! Might of the Mite by Cyril B. Egan Lt Thing— Little King— There is no crown upon your he You hold no scepter in your hi But from your downy cradle be You stir your pinkie to command: You've but to cry, Or wink your eye, And all this household retinue Shall leap to see what they can do— For you, Little Thing— Little King! Little Thing— Little King— Wee, tender, rosy-petalled flower, Phough you shail ever grow in power, As strong of body as of brain— Still, my son, is this your hour: Never again Shall you reign With show of such a royal right: For in the land where love is all, The mighty man becomes a thrall— The mite attains the kingly height! Little Thing— Little King! ery Dill, (reading paper)—“Man cats ke then goes to hospital.” Billdiff—Stomach trouble, or did the poor fool make some remark about it? comicbooks.com