Judge — December 29, 1923 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

Th’ White Pill vs. th’ Blue Pill by C.W. Myers an who goes in for golf and I'll ting so she w he top of her even roll over the green will ge ‘ary Garden. S* Mary disna like th’ game K That’ 's played oot whaur th’ air is “You show me a w show you that she is hen she wn and in shape it’s fit for th’ auld dame wheezes ‘roun’ tae cut flesh. doun Hoot! Mary, wi Is for she-women—real women, braw, gude— Wha never rave nor rant nor shriek nor froth E’en at ane wha is in sie brashy mood. lass! Th’ ancient game 0° Noo listen, Mary: Women wha dae hit Th’ wee white pill hae nerve an’ will— They're happier, healthier than that fat oot fit That's seckin’ tae reduce wi’ yoor blue pill! ttt Cc YNGRESSMAN BLATHER was campaign- ing for re-election and was on the platform of the local theater in the midst of a long, tedious address before a large gathering of his rural constituent of whom were growing restless. “And now, my farmer friends, shouted, “your servants in Congress, in- cluding myself, are trying only to help you. The important question is ‘What can be done to give you immediate relief?’ ” A little man in the back row climbed onto his chair. “T propose, sir,” he body drop the ast aid, “that some- s curtain on you.” TOLD AT THE toth HOLE HAT on earth kept you out till this hour of the night?” demanded Pat's enraged wife from the upstairs hall as Pat softly closed the front door at two- thirty a.m. “Well, darlin’,” replied Pat, “Oi’ve been iver since ten o'clock tryin’ to think up a good excuse for not bein’ home by nine forty-fi sae Benevolent Gentlenan—My little boy, have you no better way to spend this beautiful afternoon than by standing in front of the gate, idling away your time? Boy—V ain't idling away my time. There's a chump inside with my sister who is paying me ten cents an hour to watch for papa. s Mr. Woodpecker — You've been working hard this morning. Did you finally get your worm? Mrs. Woodpecker (tiredly, but proudly)—Yes, it was a case of nine- teen holes before breakfast for me. 14 Ballads of a Dub Celestial Golf Must Be a Pie N.C. Fowler I WONDER to what regions dim The souls of golfers shall be sped When they have lost their pep and vim And from the earth have vanishéd Where e’en the live ones long are dead— Conjecture halts for a reply And yet I think it may Celestial golf must be by A. mortal thing to dread 0 foozle will be slim, We'll play like Bobby Jones instead And, with a halo on each head, With wings around the cours With par completely Beyond the Milky W *Cross paths wher Angelie twosomes we shall trim And keep Saint Peter from his bed To see which side comes out ahead, While golden harps shall twang on high As past the victors proudly tread— Celestial golf must be a pic. LEnvoi O golfers, do not raise Old Ned Before you reach the by and by, Or you may otherwheres be led— Celestial golf must be a pie. tot FACON Situers, who had decided views regarding Sunday observance, on his way to the Sunday morning ices. He had gone but a short way from his home when he came upon an sidewalk. “Well, brother,” remarked the deacon triumphantly, “you are suffering just retribution for your sins. The churches stand empty while their members go gadding about the country in automobile But where on earth you driving to on a cold day like th “We were on our w plied the motorist drily. SA Crabshaw—You're very careful when you see a pedestrian crossing the street. Speedwell— © a new car and I don’t want to get any dents in the mud- guards. y to church,” re- Member (on the way out to club)— We've a peach of a blind hole at High- land! Guest—Fine, old top! What do you 3 stop there for a bit, before we sate Photiphar Gibbons, C.E., Took stance at the 7th hole tee. Made one healthy swat, Then gazed and sa “What! A birdie, when this par is three?” comicbooks.com