Judge — March 1937 — page 9: what you’re looking at

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

up,” she said. We asked her if she thought she could make us loosen up, laying bare the black abysses of our soul. She remarked rather pointedly that she was not a psychiatrist. We made our adieus and left clear on only one point, that Miss Kay is a person ‘who listens to people for money. Our staff psychiatrist in charge of head- line writers reports this case from the Akron (O.) Times-Press: ‘“Pilikia Over Hoomalimali Lei Business—Takes Mele Kalimikimaka Out Of Hawaii.” You and you and you are the victims of an age of standardization. You eat the same breakfast food, wear the same clothes, listen to the same radio programs as your neighbor. You name your off- spting George or William or Homer. Not so Mrs. Emsy Jackson, of Paul's Valley, Oklahoma. A short time ago, in. dividualist Jackson bore her third child and named it Appendicitis. The first two children are named Tonsilitis and Men. engitis. Mrs. Jackson's baptismal rebel. lion intrigues us. Looking a few years into the picture we can see a young cou- ple strolling under the elms. We can almost hear the young swain, swallowing hard, say “Appendicitis Jackson? My, that’s a purty name!” There’s something touching in the simple faith of a young man who ap- roached the Red Cross official at the lemphis Auditorium during the flood and asked for a private room. The offi- cial, aghast at the idea of a flood refugee wanting a private room, lapsed into what he fondly believed was heavy sarcasm. “Certainly! Certainly!” he assured the unsuspecting youth, “wait until the bell. hop comes back to the desk and I'll have him show you the bridal suite.” The young man grinned happily. “Thanks, mister,” he said, unfolding a marriage certificate dated the day be- fore, “but how did you know?” Overwhelmed, the Red Cross man cut through several yards of red tape and had a small office fixed up for the bride and groom. The happy couple, duly grateful, retired immediately under the banner of the Red Cross, which, we un. derstand, assures protection from hostile aircraft, big berthas and house detec. tives. In Manhattan this winter, the more-or- less justly celebrated Elsa Maxwell con. ducted one of her famous society parties, this one having a farmyard motif. There were mechanical cows that exuded cham. pagne instead of milk, debutantes in pose exuding nuit de noél, and mem- ts of the Racquet Club arrayed in what they fondly believed to be 4 la mode for the American peasantry. This usually consisted of a straw sun hat, chin whisk. ers and blue Boss-of-the-Road overalls, These exuded what they believed to be March 1937 “Emerson has an uncanny knack at fitting shoes.” prairie dialect, like, “Haow’s crops, Si?”, “Pert’ fair, Lem.” Anyway, the piéce de resistance was a genuine hog caller from Chardon, Ohio, clad in his native cos- tume, whatever that might be. After do- ing his hog calling, to the edification of New York's beauty and gentry, report. ers asked for his impressions of the as- semblage. “They certainly were a funny lot,” the hog caller remarked, with what we think was commendable restraint. The City of Newark has, for the past few months, been conducting a school for jurors. Latest sepals have it that the school is not only flourishing but num. bers 150 eager women among its pupils. Jury duty opens up new vistas of adven- ture to the tired hausfrau. Bored with bridge, they can now spend their after- noons at the more salacious seduction trials and, what is even better, be re- munerated for their valuable time. Re sit-down strikers: We were no little amused upon reading in newspapers published in the strike zone advertise. ments which read: “if you're going to sit down long, get two pairs of pants.” Occasionally we get pretty close to inge- nuity ourselves or see somebody else who is having a rare flash, and somehow life after that seems better. With just such a feeling of mild exhilaration we contin. ued our motoring trip through the Con- necticut countryside the other afternoon after a short delay in our journey caused by a slight detour. Two men were working in the middle of the highway at what was the town of Woodmont, we are quite sure, and they were entirely oblivious to the passing traffic in that manner peculiar to all who engage in occupations involving man. hole covers. Craning our necks a bit we were pleas- antly amazed. The men were tugging and straining to stretch an old bicycle tire around the edge of their manhole cover, and even as we gazed the tire slipped neatly into position, not unlike a rubber edging on a fruit jar top. Well, that's all there was to it. The men got the cover back into place and straightened up. We noticed all the manhole covers along the road and sure enough, each had its rubber edge. The people alon, the highway had probably got good and comicbooks.com