Judge — February 2, 1924 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

BEDTIME STORIES for GROWN UPS (you little dears!) The Story of the Lions Whose Roar Was a Razz UT IN THE RUBARBS of the great city there lived, not so long ago, two breathless dames whose passion it was to hunt lions. Literary lions hunted they, and Artistic lions and even low-browed athletes if they were often and favorably enough spoken of by the newspapers. They spent maiy wearey hours in ambush before the lions’ lairs and by their water-holes—well perhaps not water. But they always felt amply repaid did they catch but the fleeting- est glimpse of the noble beast. And joy unspeakable—they were quite overcome if the lions themselves in per- son would roar at them individually, even the littlest bit of a roar. Some- times the celleloid lions would be willing to oblige and say it to the dames credit, they baited well their snares. And afterwards their friends and relitives could usually persuade them to recount the thrilling incidents of the chase. Yes, it was not hard to per- suade them to talk about it; but stop- ping them. . . . Now it came to the ears of these modern Dianas that certen of the wari- est of these Kings of the Jungle fore- gathered at the Hotel Awgoonin. RrcanGon The price of coal being what it is, we devise this invention for salvaging a winter’s supply. Great, huge, shaggey lions they heard were there; and close cropped lions— females but deep-roareres and ferocious killers notwithstanding. Rare and un- usual species, trophies to délight any lion-hunter and to furnish the make- ings for many an unctious mouthful. So the dames began their indefati- gable stalk. They fairly haunted the hotel at tea time and often stayed on to dinner, trying the while to apper casual and to see everything without looking. But their patience’s only reward was a few unimportant lion cubs; some of those critters that feed on the lion’s leavings; and a lot of just folks, like themselves, carelessly intent. They had quite decided to abandon the hunt here and seek other covers surely their prey had escaped or their beaters had given them a bum stear— when they chanced into the hostelry for lunch. They had never worked the hotel so early before, figureing the lions as nocturnal brutes. But pic- ture their glad surprise when they saw two perfectly lovely, big shaggey litarary lions earnes ting and con- versing: one of them, a king truly; the other, a huge bear-like beast. They knew them at once, else to what pur- pose their devoted perusal of Inanity Fair and the movey magazines. Exerting some pressure at the head waiter’s vulnerable spot, they secured a table right next to the lions, so near that they could almost reach out and touch them. They could scarcely re- strain themselves to a decorous walk. What a feast of wit and wisdom would be theirs. How the air would sparkle and crackle with biting jests and keen epigram. What breathless tales of stiring adventure and thrilling heroism would they hear from the mighty hunter and _ storey-teller. They'd have something to talk about now, they'd tell the world. Seating themselves, their ears fairly reached over and grabbed every pre- cious word of the celebrities. “Say! That guy’s the luckiest stiff in the world playing poker.” “You said it. I missed a flush last night and tryed to bull it through and he called me for twenty bucks on a pair of fives. Can you beat it?” “T'll say you can’t.” MORAL: Great FOLKES FOR LITTLE FOIBLES FALL. —H. L. Moffet. comicbooks.com