Judge — September 11, 1926 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

GRADE A cow DELIVERING MILK AT Four OCLOCK INTHE MORNING, | or” AN UNSAUTED PEANUT SAUTING ITSELF Ld) “Hooneo ) AN! NOT YIP | A BARGER! vy \ SHOP IN a \ SIGHT 7 A CUCKOO COCOANUT BADLY IN NEED OF A SHAVE. | es Or | A QUINQUAGENARIAN Quince | WITH THE QUINSY GARGLING THE QUIN-TESSENCE OF QUININE | WHILE A QUIN-TILLION Worm | DANCES “WIE COTILLION WITH | A QUINTETTE OF LITTLE | CIPHER BUCS. | The ote re PROVING | DIAGRAM “THAT A STIZAIGHT LINE IS NOT ALWAYS “THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN _—TWo PoinTs we Auer) Judging the Shows (Continued from page 18) which social position is apparently regulated according to the rigidity of the spine. The clegantos of the doctor's imagination move about in invisible strait-jackets and are as full of hauteur as so many people passing a garbage plant. The little heroine, on the other hand, is, for all her uncouth exterior, the possessor of a heart of pure gold. So God in His infinite wisdom sees to it that she is properly rewarded in the home- stretch and that all the society folk are put in their places. Once again, I confess my puzzlement to why producers of such balderdash send tickets to the reviewers and ask them to pass upon it. They must surely know that the reviewers will roast the tar out of it and so probably ruin their chances of making any money out of it. If a man who sold gold- bricks invited the cops to pass on them before disposing of them to the suckers, he would surely be looked on as being a trifle balmy. Yet certain of our play producers do much the same thing. Mr. B. F. Witbeck, who is responsible for “The Litt Spitfire,” is a poor business man. Ile must have known that, if he sent me tickets, this is the kind of review he would get. Why, therefore, did he send me tickets? Let me urge a greater sagacity on his part the next time he puts on another such affair. The leading réles in the Fagan trump are in the hands of Sylvia Field, Russell Mack, A. H. Van Buren and Theresa Maxwell Con- over. Miss Field works hard, like prisoner pounding rocks with a lolli- pop; it isn’t her fault that she gets nowhere. Mack is conventional in a conventional “mug” part. Both Van Buren and La Conover, as the social swells, are as aristocratic as Childs’ patrons entering the Ritz for the first. time. PAS Judge—The policeman says that you were traveling at a speed of sixty miles an hour. Prisoner—It was necessary, your honor, [ had stolen the car. “Oh, that's different. Case dis- Ulk (Berlin) missed.” ery How long is it since you have been in a police court “Twenty years, your worship.” “And where have then?” “In prison!” you been since —Pasquino (Turin) Banka He—You're a dear, Anna. Sue—My name's Ruth. “Anna love you with all my heart!” sweet girl, soe A lady novelist declares that a woman is rarely beaten in an argu- ment. Still, it would scarcely be right to say that ina battle of tongues —Humorist she holds her own. FINE WORDS BUTTER NO PARSNIPS SNEERED JED A PUZZLER FOR WISE LITTLE HEADS A handful of crumbs from the table is a boon to our feathered friends during the winter, as any dope can sce from this “humme 1 small boy named Voltaire lashing into a doctor's office one day. “Quiel:, Doctor Rosen- thal!” he shouted. sick at our house; came he's moaning and yelling and crying! “Who's thal?” queried the medical man, deftly lighting a cheap cigar. “Me!” ‘replied the clever roustabout, “I didn't have any- A snappy ansier like this is worth a comicbooks.com