Judge — January 26, 1924 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

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Spanish Mahe: Blue Sect $ 6 32 Cal.16 SHOT $ GENUINE GERMAN LET US ALONE HEN WAR disrupted every land, and captains raised their shouts, we all went forth, a busy band, to bother other scouts. It was a virtue then to wend on errands I abhor, and tell the neighbor and the friend just how to win the war. It was a merit then to beg for money and supplies, to pull the patriotic leg, and worry other guys. We viewed with bitter scorn the wight who didn’t give enough; we meddled, med- dled, day and night, for meddling was the stuff. On meatless days we gnawed old bones, on heatless days we froze, and told the world in trumpet tones how this would queer the foes. On wheatless days we lived on peas and things we didn’t like; on Peteless days—forgive the wheeze— we had to do with Mike. “Ah, well,” I often used to say, “the war will end be- times, and we'll resume the good old way, forgetting all these crimes. Oh, then a man may live in peace beneath his tree and vine, and read Charles Swin- burne to his niece, and sip denatured wine. Then people will not pass the hat and peddle bonds about, and all these drives for this and that will promptly peter out. A man may sit beside his gate, conversing with his aunt, and none will sing a hymn of hate, or paw the ground and rant.” The peace for which I longed is here, the clouds of war are flown, but still the meddling ones appear, and won't let me alone. I only ask to calmly sit beneath my upas tree to dream and swat the flies and knit, and drink my pale green tea. I only ask to eat the tripe I've earned by honest toil, to fan my face and smoke my pipe and read the rules of Hoyle. I would not bother any gent or skate that ever was, I would not try to raise a cent for any worthy cause. Oh, here I'd sit the livelong day, until the evening dew; “Let me alone,” I humbly s “and I won't bother you.” UT NOWADAYs a man can’t sit beneath his wormwood tree, and play his saxophone and knit, while golden mo- ments flee. Men learned to meddle in the days when war was all the go, and now they can't forsake the wi they learned in times of woe. They cannot bear to see me rest in quietness and peace; there always is some stern behest that makes my pleasures cease. I hav: to leave my lemonade, my Charlie Swin- burne odes, to walk nine miles in a pa- rade, along some beastly roads. Com- mittees seek me day by day, with some new work to spring, and civic duty, so they say, requires this sort of thing. I have to meet a live wire bunch this morning, on the beach, and there they'll have a basket lunch, and I must make a speech. The movement for a Great White Way is going good and strong; the boosters hold a fest to-day, and I must sing a song. We're raising funds to pave Main street, each man must do his share; there'll be a get-together meet, and I must lead in prayer. I only ask to sit in peace beneath my banyan tree, and rub rheumatic bones with grease, and drink my Hyson tea. I only ask to pay my debts, and eat my wholesome pie, and smoke alfalfa ettes, and watch the world go by. Exist- ence would not be so worse, my chai would seem a throne—but meddling is the nation’s curse; men won’t let us alone. —Walt Mason. Big Game Collector (determinedly)—From now on, take it from me, I go in for postage stamps! comicbooks.com