Judge — February 1937 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

BY BAIRD JANUARY 1.—Lay late, pondering how sorry a thing it is that the effects of the revelry with which the old year is ushered out should not be dissipated by the dawn of the next one, for there is no gainsaying that many of our citi- zenry are greeting 1937 with jaundiced eyes this morning. But, as Samuel says, there is no moral agency on earth, not excepting the exhortations of the Arch. bisbop of Canterbury, so potent as a hangover, so mayhap a spiritual resur. gence not equalled since the Reformation will pervade our borough and last at least until Epiphany. All the morning gone enlisting the Postal Telegraph to sing greetings to my cronies over the telephone, a service which I did discover to my great joy only a few weeks ago, and the company did arrange for me to listen in on their choral work so that I might know how their efforts were re. ceived, and Marge Boothby’s excitement was so intense that I feared she might have a stroke. Then to the sorting of our Christmas cards, which last year Bova (601 LEONARD lingered in their golden bowl until well after Labor Day, and I liked best the small gunny-sacks of sandalwood from the Fulton Ourslers, Mistress Whitney's picture of her horse, Forty Winks, and the Peter Arno cartoon from Alice and Eddie Simmons which I am sure they did not send to their clergyman or their maiden aunts. Finally up to array my- self against the arrival of New Year's callers, and was strongly impelled to cut my throat when Helen did announce that my black velvet tea gown, which she was steaming over Sam's bathtub, had slipped from its hanger into the water, and did check myself from a ti- trade only by recalling Lady Macbeth's “Things without all remedy should be without regard.” So did on my blue and gold brocade, and then out to the pantry to look to the punch, which Katie’s un. wonted garrulity convinced me she had been sampling beyond the need for testing it. My inspection finished in time to greet Angie Hopkins, who arrived with the grim, sarcastic announcement "Ob! I thought we were going to paint flowers.” Judge that 1937 was off to a fine start with her, forasmuch as her maid had fallen in love with the new butler, and when I made inquiry as to how she had reached such a foul conclusion, Angie quoth, “Well, she has stopped wearin, her glasses.” A great company by mid- afternoon and Jimmy Cooley did tell how, on the morning when he had his teeth pulled, he had instructed a cab driver to take him to “One thixthy-thixth East Thixthy-Thixth Street,” and the man had responded cheerfully, ‘’Thure. Get in and I'll take you to Aell if you want me to.” JANUARY 2.—Wakened too betimes yy a terrible clatter overhead, and was minded how once Willa Cather, desir- ing complete quiet in which to write, had insured it by renting the apart. ment above her as well as her own, a gesture which has always stood as a high with me in temperamental extrava- gance, albeit those who buy an extra theatre seat to hold their wraps and accessories are no mean contenders for such a distinction. So reading again for the hundredth time in “The Story of Ferdinand,” which Harriet Hughes did send me, and the amusing text by Mun. to Leaf and the remarkable illustrations by Robert Lawson did delight me as much as ever. Fell upon my breakfast of melon, hamburger steak, and French fried potatoes with much gusto and high hopes, for this day I do start the amaz- ing diet on which so many of my cronies are losing weight and waxing strong—beef (or lamb chops), potatoes and fruit for every meal, and nothing else. It is the only regimen that ever I heard of in my life which guarantees its addicts full and contented stomachs. Several cronies in at tea time, and we fell to discussing the psychology which makes it virtually impossible for the av- erage servant to hear correctly over the telephone, and Charlie Towne did tell how his cook had told him the other day that Mayor Hylan had called him up, and he was three days figuring out that it must have been Manie Howland, which it was. And Cora Scovil did re- late how once she had been warned downtown that a cyclonic storm was blowing over from New Jersey, and had telephoned her maid to be sure to close all the windows that instant, even if she had to enlist the superintendent's aid in pulling down any that happened to stick, and was at some pains to ex- plain the strength and magnitude of the windstorm that was on its way. “Now do you understand, Anna?” she had concluded. “Yes, Mrs. Scovil,” quoth Anna, “Who's coming and when?” comicbooks.com