Judge — July 19, 1924 — page 32: what you’re looking at

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

“ The Gift of Gifts” Drawn by Angus MacDonall NOTHER very human home study by one of JUDGE’s most popular artists. The advance orders for this particular subject indicate that the supply of five hundred proofs will soon be sold The small illustration above gives only an idea of the picture itself The actual drawing is reproduced from the engraver's original plates on Heavy Art Mat, 15%x114 inches in size All the details of the original drawing are preserved in all their fineness A handsome and fitting decoration for any room in the home. Price Fifty Cents WET Sy “Land Ho!” Drawn ty Angus MacDonall THIS sentimental subject was greeted with universal acclaim by those about to be married, by those already married and by those who ever hope to be married The artist has given this age-old longing exceptional and unique ex- pression in the drawing shown in miniature above Our reprint is from the engraver's original plates on Heavy Art Mat, x 1114 inches Price Fifty Cents All proofs will be carefully packed and mailed postpaid immediately on receipt of your order and remittance addressed to Judge Art Print Departmerit 627 West 43d Street New York City “You needn't wait, chauffeur.” The Daily Visitors the day doorbell rings, and keeps me on the run; so many men are doing things that should be left undone! So many visitors appear, They make and fill our HROUGHOUT my on errands punk and vain! existence hearts with pain. I have a little cheap abode that’s painted pink and gray, and it is by a public road, where pilgrims wend _ all day. And nearly all approach my door, on errands punk and vain, and every pilgrim is a bore, and many are insane. No brilliant caller ever comes to charm my grouch away: but old, old men with toothless gums will talk for half a day. They'll sit them down upon my lawn, and modern times bewail, the good old times are past and gone, and jazzy things prevail. The old gray men who hate to croak, who spring their tales of woe, their coming ceased to be a joke, ten years or more ago. All up and down the dusty pike T look twelve times a day and murmur, “For the love of Mike, won't genius come my way? I'd like to see Sam Johnson now, that I am sore distraught, and have him eat my humble chow, and hand out gems of thought. I wish that men of mighty minds would seek my cottage door, and talk about their divers grinds for seven sad and drear, hours or more. dead, they But all the geniuse they we have instead long- winded bores, gadzooks!” only live in book: looped the loops Another caller at the door, a man in dingy black; the road is long, his feet are sore, he’s glad to reach my shac “I gather up old clothes,” he ¢ “for people in despair; oh, every day some fellow dies for lack of underwear. Upon the wind swept bergs and floes the poor Laplanders freeze; and they would side step all their woes if they had V. B. D.’s. The Eskimos have broken hearts, they suffer day by day; now, I have diagrams and charts to prove all things I say. I have statistics by the peck, the | best that ever grew; just listen, and I'll 30 open a prove, by heck, that all T say is true.’ “Here is, ‘a pair of pants, that you may with you bear, and cast off bonnets that my aunts have grown too proud to wear. I say, You're welcome as the springtime flowers if you will just depart, and not use up my precious hours with diagram and chart. And I'll throw in a pair of socks, an old plug hat, by jing, if you will can the windy talks you're suffering to spring. But no, this type of man would feel his duty was undone, if he cut out the dreary Spiel that weighs a half a ton. And IT must listen while he drones of things that make me tired, of hungry people gnawing bones, of cast-iron stoves unfired. I must examine all his charts, and all his diagrams; and ere the windy man departs I've muttered many dams. I'm casting looks north, south and east and west, for some one who can talk of books with interest and zest. Such people never pass my shack, or lean against its jambs, my visitors are bores in black, with charts and diagrams. Watt Mason. always anxious The Blotter Speaks I COVER up a word of praise Of Mamie’s decreased girth, Complaints about the service Or glad tidings of a birth. . . . I know the way you write your love, The latest gossip, or a fus I know the secret signs you use: Long pauses so—and kisses thus So much I know that I could sing . .. Tama most absorbing thing! We Have with Us Again Our old friend, the absent-minded pro- fessor, was about to leave for his daily grind. At the door he was struck by a sudden thought. “My dear,” he asked, “do you know what has become of my hat?” “Why, it’s right on your heac swered his long-suffering spouse. “Oh, never mind, then. ll look for it when I return home.” comicbooks.com