Judge — January 24, 1925 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

een =—_on The impressionable suburbanite reads the summer number of Jupcr. The Unattainable HERE once was a maiden beaute- ous and charming, Who hated bridge and Mah Jongg, wines, and ales; She could bring a conversation to a lucid termination, And she never even craved the Prince of Wales. All the current dances were to her abhorrent; She preferred to dream beside a babbling brook. So why not sign this jewel for a worse-or-better duel? Well, you see, I read about her in out the light to be in the dark. How to make it easier for both Mama and Willie. Dill Pickles HERE is something about a dill pickle that always saddens me. I don’t know what it is, but I never could look a dill pickle in the eye without a lump coming up into my throat. They seem to live so much within themselves. Companionship doesn’t mean much in their sad, short existence. And so I am always kind to them and considerate of their feelings, for beneath their rough outer surface I am sure a heart of gold beats within, a heart filled with compassion and tenderness. Their lives are filled with woe. Plucked in the bloom of youth and immersed in a sea of brine their piteous cries unheeded, their vitality sapped, their careers curtailed, they pass a harried existence for the glory of some red-nosed delicatessenist, to be buried eventually in an onion sandwich, or drawn and quartered and chopped into chowchow. Lonely, heartsick, sorrowing, on- ward through life they go, with never a murmur, never a sigh. Although I have met thousands of them, I have yet to hear one bewail his sad lot. Intrepid, courageous little souls, piti- ful examples of man’s inhumanity to pickles! That’s why I never eat— —And I never liked the darn things anyway! Nate Collier anal “Is Ir Hor Enovucu ror You?” — comicbooks.com