Judge — July 9, 1927 — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE Speaking of summer camps, why not get together jolly little gang and rent a furnished cottage down at the seashore? You'll find that the place is very nicely fixed up with soap-box chairs, large packing-case tables and a few extremely anemic beds. But what do you care— you're on your vacation. And when you see the great, big, roar- ing waves dashing up on the shore you forget all your cares and worries, hang your clothes on the nearest peg and start for the water. It starts to rain, but that seems to make things all the more merry, so you dive and. splash and feel extremely exuberant and proud of yourself in general. When you get back to the cottage you find that the roof has leaked and your clothes have fallen from the pegs and your new green and white sport suit has all run to- gether. = But your sunny disposition simply refuses to be downed. So you make for the shower. One of the gang volunteers to act as guide, grabs a loaf of bread and dives for the woods. After going about a hundred yards he starts dropping bread-crumbs where the path should have been. When you are just about wholly de- voured by curiosity, ants and a lot of other creatures, he explains that the bread-crumbs are land- marks to enable you to find your way back. Pretty soon you come to a small clearing and in the middle you see a small bucket with a string attached, suspended from the limb of a tree. This is the shower. You silently offer up a prayer for the recent rain, clasp your lifelong friend and guide by the hand, bid him a fond adieu, strip off your bathing suit and step under the shower. You pull the string, there is one splash and then—nothing. You give the string a few more tugs, but- it doesn't do any good. There's no use waiting for another rain, so you decide to hurry back to the beach to get dried by the sun since there seems to be a of towels. You start in the direction from which you thought you had come—but no bread-crumbs. You start another —no success. You keep do- ing this for a couple of until you are suddenly — struck with the idea that the ravens must have eaten up the bread-crumbs. searcity hours ae The next morning your con- science starts to hurt because you know how rushed the boss most of the employees aw: cationing, and—well, it just seem a shame all around. You le: for town with blood poison s ing in one finger from a sardine can cut peach of a sunburn and still feeling extraordinarily rocky. The first person you meet is the office joker—really a great guy. He slaps you on the back with a “Hi kid”—and completely destroys six of your largest and very best blisters. Well, you must have had a good vacation it took you six weeks to get back in shape this time—last year it only took three. Best Steppers “Lazy Weather” (no show) “The Cat” (no show) “Pardon the Glove” (no show) Rivers” (no show) “Yes, She Do” (no show) “I'm Back in Love Again” (no show) “Hogan's Alley’ (Talk About Girls) “Baby Me” (Merry-Go-Round) Something to Read I noticed her at the news- stand as she carefully scanned the rows of periodicals that were on display. Clearly, she was going on a long journey and hers was a discriminating taste in literature, to say the 1 No haphazard selection of frothy fiction and in- consequential reviews for this lady. She peered through her lorgnette at the various covers and quite deliberately selected those periodicals which seemed to appeal to her. Finally she had under her arm a total of six maga- zines—one a , iconoclastic monthly, one a more sprightly re- view of the theater, one a socicty journal, one a good, substantial mental publication from Boston, one a high-class fiction magazine and, of course, a copy of Jupce (advt.). To my surprise, a few minutes later the porter ushered her into my car and I reflected that she was indeed well prepared for the short five hour ride to Boston. Well, the train got under way after a few preliminary jolts, and after we were running about two or three minutes I glanced at my lady of the literary inclinations, and noticed to my surprise that she was napping lightly An hour out she was still sleeping— soundly now. Two hours out she was still sleeping. Three hours out she was still in the wel! known arms of Morpheus Then we reached South Station, Boston, and she woke up! —A. L. L. Frrenp—That’s not a mirror, George; that’s a picture. Drunk—’Shaw right; I can’t see anyway. comicbooks.com