Life — December 10, 1925 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

Atlantic City rs no excuse, but I will say «y only went down for the day. And what they saw when they were there Was what they would, the silly pair. They paced the Boardwalk to and fro, And said they took in every show. Just what they saw they couldn't tell, But everything was “cute” or “swell.” When some one said, “How was the se They both were plainly up a tree. At which their friends cried, “Oh, good land! They never saw the sea or sand.” Said Lutie, “Sure, we saw the sca.” Said Myrtie, “What else could it be? It's on the right going towards the Pier, We must have passed it often, dear.” Beatrice Herford. A Pint of Prevention UDGE (sternly): And why you been drinking? Motorist (meekly): Please, your Honor, the doctor told me my blood was getting watery, and I put in a lit- tle alcohol to keep it from freezing. had HIRTEEN finger rings and twenty cirelets were found upon the hands of ankhamen. The reaction of Miss Peggy Joyce to this report is said to have been one of condescension. THE INVENTOR OF SCALP TREATMENT “WELL, I'M ALL SET FOR CHRISTMAS, ME STOCKIN’S IN THE WAS Pariah I AM a reporter. Other people's business is mine. And for the past three weeks I had noticed this sus- picious-looking fellow lurking about our suburb. He was tall, and not bad-looking. Yet his manner was at once defiant and inconceivably furtive. He would skim down for the first train to the city in the morning, shielding his face with his coat collar. He would return late at night, to gain his house by cir- cuitous side streets. And on the trains he would flee like a shadow into the last seat and bury his face in a news- paper. “Not dressed well enough for a boot- legger,” I decided. “Might be a Grade- A forger with a price on his head.” I shadowed the fellow. And the closer I got to him the more evident became his guilty secret. Never did I sce him look a man squarely in the eye. One evening I dogged his foot- steps right up into his vestibule. By a quick effort, I managed to get my leg inside the door before he could slam it shut. Never have I been faced with such abject terror. “Out with it,” I snapped, “or I'll have the cops on your neck. Who are you?” He knew he was trapped. “I've been trying to start out here,” he choked, “trying to forget, where no one had ever heard of me.” I was not to be softened. “Come, who are you?" “I am the man,” he whispered, cling- ing to my lapel, “who dropped that punt in the Yale game of 1900.” Stanley Jone Them Days Are Gone “CEE the pretty snow,” said the uncle who loved children, “Pretty, my foot!” cried little Horace. “Now I'll tell one. We're goin’ to enter the ice races and we don't want snow.” “Jack Frost is busily painting all the windows,” continued the genial vis- itor. “He's the berries,” snapped little Helen, “How can I sce Berty drive up in his chariot when that old stuff spoils the v Uncle pulled out a cigar and bit into it viciously. James A, Sanaker. ‘S EE if you can laugh that off,” said the fat man’s wife, wiring a but- ton onto his vest. comicbooks.com