Judge — November 24, 1923 — page 31: what you’re looking at

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

Sa me but ity id- al- nd jon in lat he ng ry le nt Oo. ae ee made very familiar to American readers. ‘These tales are sure fire stuff, and could very well be used as a text-book in one of those courses now given by our leading universities, designed to teach students how to sell stories to the magazines. First, they are in effect detective stories; Mr. Tutt takes a case which seems, perhaps, hopeless, and by clever manipulation brings the judge and jury around to his way of thinking. There is xcite- ment of unraveling a myster nd, Mr. Tutt always takes the case of the under dog, and when he wins you have the satisfaction of seeing virtue trium- phant, quite as in the old style melo- drama. Third, the tales are told with copious broad, slangy humor. There is nothing sly about this humor, nothing ironic or satirical. It is laid on with a trowel, the Disraeli flattered Queen Victoria. These stories are to literature what the G. M. Cohan or the Winchell Smith plays are to the stage. They can’t fail. We really don’t see why Mr. Train shouldn't get an honorary degree from Columbia. TON Scottarp, who has sung sweetly in a minor key lo! these many years, has evidently taken up golf. Ina book of quatrains (“The Epic of Golf,” Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) he alternately celebrates and damns the game. Most golf poetry is sad stuff, but Mr. Scollard keeps the rhythm of his verse, whether he does of his swing or not. His is amusing and pleasant book, illustrated by our old friend, A. B. Frost, and caleu- lated to make you long for spring and the feel of a driver, as you read it by your winter fire. Or maybe you don't. Maybe your father was a good business man, and you go to Palm Beach. sae Mike—Say, Claney, did you hear about Pat having pneumonia? Pat—Shure, and that’s tough luck. How did he get it? “Oh, working in an open shop.” THANKSGIVING, 1923 They didn’t always have turkey. 29 Fall Flora by Wm. S. Adkins T HANKYPANK upon the bank Is in a golden glow. The thingumbob is on the job In autumn, as you know. The what’s-its-name is all aflame. My botany withal May faulty prove but I do love The flora of the fall Fae “Strange to say. T owe my advance in the world to the colic,” remarked Mr. Nupoppe. “How's neighbor. “Well, you see, T used to be a shirt salesman behind the counter in a depart- ment store, but since the baby came I have become a floorwalker. that?” asked his bachelor rrr Question—If a carcless female driver hooks fenders with those of another car driven by a man, and the fault is en- tirely her own, what is the best solution? Answer—Vamp him.