Judge — April 23, 1927 — page 16: what you’re looking at

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

| Well, well, how time does fly! This morning 1 looking through my memory-book. and, girls, it sure drew the old tears to my eyes! All those old friends, all the jolly times, all gone, all gone! There was one picture in | particular which carried me back. | It’s this ‘“‘snap’” I took of the | “bunch” in good old Public School 39, Borough of Queens. There they are, my five insepa rable pals, cheery laughing good was fellows all. Look at them: good nature, comradeship, clean fun bubbling out of every face in the lot. The two fellows on the left are the two Pickerbaugh brothers, whom the world now knows as the two Pickerbaugh brothers. Staunch friends, a bit serious but always ready for a prank or innocent lark. They’re out in St. Helena now, doing well in the grocery business, bless their souls! And next to them Harry Lefkowitz, who is none other than good old “Jimmie” Walker, our Mayor. Harry was the wit of the “bunch” and always had a laugh- ing retort or ready quip on his tongue’s end. I remember the time he said to a teacher, “Say you remind me of a pie!” “How's that?” asked Mr. McCracken, the physics teacher. ‘Because you got such a crust!” smiled Harry, and the laughter was universal. Great boy, Harry. Too bad he died. And then, next to “Peaches” Faun rade he 5 itations; you should have heard him. He could imitate anything, but his specialty was imitating an old sow in the barnyard who'd found out that her bank balance was overdrawn. He used to have him, old | THAT OLD GANG O’ MINE us in a stitch. I heard recently that he went in the insurance game up in Providence, R. I., and if good nature and warm friendship mean anything, “Peaches” will go far in the lumber business. Good luck, Fauncey, old kid! And “last but not least,” there was good old John McGraw. There was a good story about John; he'd been kicked in the head by a horse and they had to put a silver plate in his head. We used to “kid” him a lot, as the saying goes, and Quent Picker- baugh said, “I wish I was as lucky as you, being born with a silver plate in your head!” Old Quent was a card, sure enough! Well, so it goes! Here today and gone tomorrow! That's life. But I always say. there’s nothing like getting out the old pictures and looking through them and then tying them up in a good fat bundle and heaving them in the ash-can. I guess I’m sentimental, but after all, old faces are the best, and gosh, how I'd love to see that old gang o’ mine! —PereLMAN Pleasant Village The stranger had been riding all day, and when the train ar- rived at the little town he de- seended to the station platform and wondered how he going to spend the three hours before his connection left for the west. It was a pleasant hamlet with wide streets, shady lawns and plenty of trees. The spire of the only church in town pierced the blue of the sky and stood silhou- etted to the east. Pleasant people sauntered down the elm-flanked Main Street. Ruddy-cheeked lasses occupied themselves with domestic duties on front porches end the drone of the local saw- mill floated lazily on the air. Here were peace and piety—rest and goodness. The stranger grew thirsty. It had been a long ride and a long time between drinks. Yet he re- proached himself for his wicked appetite. Even the thought of strong drink seemed to profane this rustic simplicity. But he couldn’t deny the fact that he wanted a drink, badly. So he sauntered over to a well-preserved old gentleman who was whittling in the shade of a maple tree. Friend,” said the visitor, dis- creetly lowering his voice, “where can I get a little snifter—just about three fingers to tide me over In this baby carriage this very enterprising young lady delivered 4,607,482 quarts of Scotch last year. comicbooks.com