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Judge Broyles Finds Fun
IIEARST'S SUNDAY AMERICAN, ATLANTA, OA., SUNDAY, APRIL 20. 1913.
Amid Police
Court Woes
|:
Best Known Jurist of His
Kind in South, Who Fixes
Fate of All Sorts of Hu
manity in a Day on Bench,
Tells of Rapid Repartee in
Which He S o metimes
Comes Off Second Best
BY JUDGE NASH R BROYLES
W hile my court, of course, is the groat municipal clearing
house for the troubles and woes of humankind, still it's
not all pathos. There’s a lot of comedy mixed in, and
tins serves to temper the depressing melodramatic effect. Some
times we put on a bill here that would make a roaring hit on the
regular vaudeville stage. It’s these timely laughs that dry up
.the tears and dissipate the clouds of gloom that form so easily
and overspread the court,
• * •
You know, 1 was just thinking to-day how a big crowd here
-du the courtroom several years ago enjoyed a laugh at my ex
pense when old ‘Texas’ made one of her regular and frequent
-appearances before me. ‘Texas’ was a woman, and that’s the
“only name she ever had so far as anyone knew. She was an old-
time circus performer, and, in her day, was considered one of the
best. But ‘Texas’ struek the bumps and began to drink. This
npelled her finish. The drink habit, finally put her down and out
and she landed here in Atlanta. She became the most notorious
^drunkard in the city and was one of the old regulars in police
court.
~ One day ‘Texas' came up on the same old charge, ‘drunk on
the street,’ and this time tried to work on my sympathies. It was
the first time she had ever done such a thing and it took me by
surprise.
She pleaded guilty, as usual, and then begged me foe leniency.
“Judge,” she said, “please be light witli me Ibis time let
me off easy and relieve the monotony.”
- The idea of old ‘Texas’ asking me to be light, somehow filled
me with disgust, and I replied, just as sarcastically as I could:
“All right, ‘Texas,’ I'll be light with you twenty live sev
jenty-five.”
The old circus rider started and looked at me in wonder, but
jiever said a word. The court officer led her back to the pris
oners' room, and was just about to close the door, when ‘Texas’
jituck out her head, and, in a shrill, piercing lone, shouted:
. “II—, Judge Broyles, that ain't light!"
It brought down the house.
• • #
~1~)UT it remained for an old negro woman to really put one over
■D on nie strong. She was up for cruelly beating her boy. I
reprimanded her severely, for she had whipped tile child
unmercifully, and told her she ought to he ashamed of herself for
-being so cruel.
As I was about to write down the tine, she stopped me.
- “Can I nx you one thing, judge?” she said.
* “What is it, aunty?” I inquired.
T “It's dis, ,ledge Broyles, wus you ebbor de father oh er
worthless eullud child lak dis one?”
rOT
i
c
ONJCR DOCTORS—smooth negroes who scare ignorant ne
grors nearly to death with weird, ghost-like stories ami
then flim-flam them out of their money by selling them fake
.‘conjur bags’—furnish a variety of court humor, and one of these
went so far as to victimize me. Oh, no, I didn’t buy a ‘conjur
bag.' The ‘doctor' simply tricked ino -stole his ease right out
"of my hands and me looking right at him, too.
A negro woman victim hnd handed me a small viul con
taining the supposed ‘conjur medicine' a dirty, nasty looking
concoction, containing small bits of earth worms—and I had con
victed him.
With the plea that the ‘medicine’ was absolutely harmless,
the negro took it from my hand as though to explain the ingredi
ents. fn another moment, he had swallowed that stuff. It didn't
kill him, but it killed the ease. He had destroyed the evidence,
and 1 had to dismiss the case.
• • •
I HAD an old negro man before me shortly after this who took
A the prize for the most unique explanation of watered milk.
He was the possessor of a lone cow that was his sole support.
The city milk inspector examined the cow’s milk one day and
found it woefully below the standard - -in fact, it seemed to be
nothing more than whitened water. The old darkey was arrested,
and, when he was haled before me, I asked him what he meant
by watering the milk.
“I jest drenched dat cow out good, jedge, dat's all,” he re
marked in confident tones.
F didn’t quite figure it all out, and asked him to go a bit more
into detail.
“It wus dis way, jedge,” he began, “dat cow wus sick, bad
sick, an’ i jest fed her on watermillion rinos—1 guess I intis’ er
fed her too much. I jest sed to myself, dat cow is givin’ too much
milk. ’ ’
• * *
O NE of the funniest characters I’ve ever ran up against in
this constant and motley stream of humanity was a stal
wart, raw boned mountaineer from North Georgia who
had come to Atlanta with a gallon jug of real old ‘Mountain
Dew.’ and who, naturally, was picked up in the street drunk.
When he ambled slowly before the bar, I sized him np as an
expert drinker—one who could well take care of a wholesale sup
ply of old mountain corn.
“Well, old man, I suppose you took on a little toO much this
trip,” I remarked in a kind of consoling way.
“To my amazement, he replied bluntly that he had taken
but one drink. I looked over that big frame, and .just put his
statement down as one of the ordinary court-room lies, of which
I hear so many every day.
“How much do you take for one drink?” 1 ventured, merely
to draw him out.
“Oh, about a cl n hat full," said the big mountaineer care
lessly, as lie scratched the two weeks’ reddish growth ou his chin,
i didn't ask him anything else—1 just told him the price.
• * #
1 WAS called good and strong a few years ago by a bright young
fellow on the strength of some good advice 1 had adminis
tered to him, and since then I’ve been a bit careful. The
chap was from a nearby town, and, in an effort to see the sights
by the aid of the bright lights, had tanked up a little too much.
I lectured him on the evils of drink, speaking as kindly as 1 could,
and told him 1 wanted him to consider me his friend and that T
would help hint all l could. I then imposed a small fine. He de
clared lie didn’t have a penny,
and said he would have to go
to the stockade.
“Surely you have a friend
here—get him 1o advance you
the amount of the fine,” I ad-
•dsed.
“All right, judge, you're my
friend, you let me have it,”
came with startling quickness.
* # *
W HEN it comes to distin
guished personages, po
lice court has Washington beat
to a frazzle. Whether fond black
mothers have hopes that their
offspring will become great is a
matter of speculation, but at any
rate it seems that most of them
try to bestow the most famous
names in history. In a day's
grind in police court, a specta
tor would hear such distinguish
ed names as these called to an
swer before the bar of justice:
George Washington—this is
one of the most common; Rob
ert E. Lee, William McKinley,
Andrew Jackson, Napoleon, and
others of equal fame.
Then many negroes, whose
surname may be Jones, Smith,
Brown and the like, bear such
titles as Governor, Major, and
General.
But the nicknames form the
queerest variety—almost every
negro man and boy has a nick
name. And they are always
stuck on to typify some special
characteristic of the namee. For
instance, “Battle Ship” is a ne
gro oi a roving disposition who
will tight if cornered; “Bullet
Head” explains itself; “Plank
Face,” ditto; “Slick,” is a
smooth thief; “Sleepy,” looks
the part; “Crazy,” acts the
part; “Blue Steel,” always car
ries a pistol. These are only a
few—there are thousands. Many
of these negroes are known to
the police and police eourt only
bv their nicknames.
# * *
B UT there’s one thing that
gets—pardon Ihe street
slang—that gets my goat
-that is the way strangers in
court mistake Recorder Pro
Tem Preston for me. Of course,
I’m not going to say anything
about Judge Preston’s age, but
then it’s a fact he's older than
1 am. And I suppose he must
look more distinguished. We sit
here side by side, and, you
know, a lot of people think he is
the recorder and make their
pleas to him. I’m completely
ignored. Judge Preston, too,
humors the joke and pays strict
attention to what is being said,
but never says a word. I don’t
know how many times this has
occurred. It’s not until a fine is
imposed that the astonished
stranger finds out who is who.
HAVE A LAUGH With Miss BILLY LONG
The Young Lead
ing Woman of the
New Stock Com
pany at Atlan
ta Theater Tells
Some Stage
Happenings
L
ITTLE pats of powder,
Little daubs of paint
Help to make a woman
Ijook like what she ain’t.
But this is to be what I am and
what my experiences have been. So
let’s get confidential right off.
* * *
O NE time I was a very nervous
woman. It was my first ap
pearance In ‘’Wildfire,’’ and I was
playing the role which the immortal
and ever beautiful Lillian Russell
assumed. The part calls for my ap
pearance before a doctor friend
whom I am supposed to greet with
handshakes and warm words of
good will.
I made my appearance all right
and was as busy as a suffragette
with the handshake thing. In fact,
I was very vigorous with the hand
shake and would not turn loose
when I felt my fellow player trying
to get away from me. But I was
shaking hands with the wrong fel
low. Instead of greeting the tall,
handsome doctor, I found myself
fussing over the little jockey.
* * *
I T was my first performance as a
leading woman—and with a new
leading man in the part. I was not
sure of myself and neither was he.
During a death-bed scene the lead
ing man was on one side of the cot
and I was on the other. We both
had our heads buried in the pillows
weeping. There was a scene to fol
low, but the leading man had for
gotten this. Of course when he lifted
his head from the pillow after weep
ing, all was in total darkness. He
reached over and touched me on the
head, saying: “Well what the h—?
Who wished this on us anyhow?”
• * *
D URING the time I was playing
Lady Isabel in “East Lynne,”
I had a negro maid and yard boy
who used to get together and re
hearse “East Lynne,” the negro maid
playing Lady Isabel and the negro
yard boy Archibald Carlyle. One
afternoon I went home and they
were rehearsing on the front porch.
This is what I heard: On a cot lay
Lady Isabel—dying—(this was the
negro maid). Archibald Carlyle (the
negro yard hoy) was standing over
the cot saying: “Oh, Lazy Isabel, is
yoh dying? How pale you looks.”
* « *
O X a jump from Detroit to Port
Huron, Mich., we made the
trip on a freighter which carried a
cargo of live stock, mostly pigs.
After we were several hours out, the
captain sighted another ship coming
toward us. When within hailing
distance the captain grabbed the
megaphone and shouted the usual
greetings. The other captain asked
our cargo and our captain replied:
“Pigs and actors.” After a few*
minutes, an old-time actor with the
company went to the captain, re
marking: “Say, if you meet any
more ships, if it is ail the same to
you, would you mind putting the ac
tors before the pigs?”
* * *
I T is sometimes a matter of wonder
what little things will land an
important engagement for an actress.
Recently I was asked to see "What
Happened to Mary,” now' playing at
the Fulton Theater in New York,
with the object of considering a part.
After seeing the play I visited the
management and told them I liked
the play and role. But I could not
be engaged at that time. Why?
There was a question of my being
able to operate a typewriter with
speed. I asked to be led to a ma
chine and then and there demon
strated that I could write fast. Im
mediately I was engaged.
MORAL—If you want to be an ac
tress learn everything: housekeep
ing, typewriting, telegraphing and
all the lost arts.
* • *
B EFORE leaving New York last
week I went to see a woman I
have long admired, May Irwin. She
surely gave mo many a good laugh
in her play, “The Widow by Proxy.”
One of the best is quite appropriate
at this time. Miss Irwin prepares
to palm herself off as the widow of
a man she has never seen.
“Don’t do It,” pleads her friend—
the real widow—“you may be ar
rested. Think of the disgrace of go
ing to jail!”
"Disgrace nothing,” replies Miss
Irwin, “half the titled women of
England have been in jail.”
• * *
T N one of our productions a few
A years ago we had an opening
ruined by an amateur who permitt
ed that old "mind over matter” to
get the better of him. He was sup
posed to come on the stage and an
nounce "Dinner is served.” Just
before the time for his cue he was
ardently engaged in shooting craps
and when he rushed from the game,
betting was uppermost in his mind,
and he spoke:
“Come on; I’ll shoot you two hits.”
I drew the curtain.
‘Actor’ Donlin and ‘Ball Player’ Grapewin—Each Yearns lor Other’s Role
And Here Is an Expose of the Lure
of the Footlights and Diamond
by Two Celebrities Who Know
/ cont on
ktD - put
ONE OVER
th’ plate
I T’S funny
There 1b Mike Donlin. surpass-
- ing baseball player, who wants
lo be an actor.
And Charley, Grapewiu. surpass
ing actor that he Is, will tell you in
words more or less effective:
"Nix on the stage l‘d rather play
baseball."
They both were in Atlanta last
week with the Grape win show. They
both were ready to talk about the
most interesting subject in zoology
_• the pet hobby
Mike Donlin, leadiug you to Char
ley Grapewin, tells von
“He's a durced good baseball
player. Don't forget that.'
• Charley Grapewiu. away from
.Mike Donlin, utters words at which
“Mike might blush
» “He’s a durned good actor, let me
Mell you.’
But when they are together, It is
.a different story. Charley shows
•you, as a token of his esteem for
.you. his most precious possession.
■ a contract whereby he is a member
of the Cincinnati National League
“ball club.
“How did it happen?" murmurs
Mike, in a derisive aside.
’ "Oh. I didn't want to." Charley
asures him. haughtily, "but my su-
Iperb form and playing made them
force me into it, you know
“ia-a-a-h is Mikes coalmen
•'Everybody knows you couldn't hit a
house w ith a blunderbuss. They keep
•you because they tignre that people
who pay to see you on the stage will
also pay to see how many kinds of
fool you can make of yourself on
the side lines."
“Booh." snorts Charley. "Im as
good a baseball player as you nre an
actor.”
Mike groans.
“Ouch.'’ he mutters, am I as bad
as that."
"Well,” says Charley, “you're op
timistic, 1 can say that for you. Like
the old man In the Dayton flood the
other day:
"He wus sitting on the roof of his
house watching the flood, when a
neighbor, who possessed a boat,
rowed across to him.
" 'Hello. Bill.’ ho said. All your
fowls washed away by the storm?’
" 'Yes, but the ducks can swim.'
“‘Apple trees gone too, eh?’
Weil, they said the crp would be
a failure, anyhow.'
“ I see the river's reached above
you windows.'
" 'That's all right, Sam. Them
winders needed washing.' ”
Then they laugh, and begin again.
"There is nothing," remarks Mike,
“like the stage "
“I should say that a good drink is
better." responds Charley.
"I didn't say there is nothing bet
ter, did I?" asks Mike. "I said there
is nothing like it."
"No, you’re right there," admits
Charley And then the comedian
gut s on to tell you about his base
ball team at Long Branch New Jer
sey. Ever} summer he collects u
91 t
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fn
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bunch of college players who are
summering In the neighborhood, and
defies ail comers. It is a great
team, he says. Last season it had
a record of two defeats out of
twenty-six games.
"We play for the import of it." ho
says. "Pretty good for a bunch-of
amateurs, hoy? We play good ball,
let me tell you."
Mike derides him.
"We play good ball, do we?" he
mimics. "Hates himself, don't he.
1 guess you think you can play base
ball. because you made a hit on the
stage. I must say for you that you
act better than you play hall."
1 will have you know, sir." says
Charley, drawing himself together
like the hero in the melodrama,
"that 1 have a contract with Cin-
cin—”
"Nix, nix on that." remonstrates
Mike. “You heard what I said about
that."
But Charley must tell about his
team at Long Branch, "Grapewin’s
American Stars," he calls them.
He is left fielder in the line-up.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“! lost out on my own team. 1 was
third baseman. And a good one
too.” This for the benefit of Mike,
who smiles. “But there comes a
Brown University boy out to spend
the summer with his folks. Little
Oeorgte Johnson. And he makes
third base. Let me tell you that
when he gets out of college and into
professional hall you’re going to
hear from him. There are none
better.
"But I'm out in left field, and far
away from the stage. 1 get so far
away that even forget ‘The Awaken
ing of Mr. Pipp.' and when I want to
put It on in vaudeville. I have to
rehearse mj own play like a be
ginner.”
“Oh, talk about something else
hut baseball," says Mike, disgusted
ly.
"Xo." Charley refuses. He is on
his hobby.
“Oh, very well. then. I'll recite
my poem," threatens Mike.
Now it is Charley's time to laugh.
“Poem? Who? You? Why. you
poor boob," he chants. "Yon couldn't
tell a poem from a sausage."
"I can’t, can't I? Well listen,"
and Mike reels off this:
“Have you heard of yottng Charley
Grapewin.’
The way he plays ball is a sin.
He can act pretty well,
But I’m here now to tell.
That he don't know who's out and
who's in."
"Ya-a-a-h," he lapses into prose.
Who's goat is gone now, hey?"
Charley offers to buy.
For once lie says something nice
to Mike.
You can play hall." he admits.
"Remember that old Irishman they
tell about who used to come out to
see you. aud the way he would work
around to get off in the afternoon?
Various were his excuses. This is
what they tell on him:
“ 'Me grandmither’s dead, sor,”
he said one day. “and I'd like to go
to the funeral.' It was all right with
the boss. Bnt a few days later he
made the same request.
“And what’s the matter this time?"
“ ‘Well, the matther is, sor.' said
Pat, ‘that me grandmither’s dead;
may the saints rest her soul.'
" 'Why, that's what you said be
fore.'
Share I did. sor. but that wor
me mither's mither, and this is me
father's mither.'
"He got off and returned with an
other request several days later.
" ‘More grandmothers dead?’ asked
the boss.
“ ‘Yts, sor. there he,' said Pat.
‘It’s me mither's mither. sor, and
she's to be buried this a-afternoon,
sor.'
‘ But Pat, you said your mother's
mother died before.'
“ 'So she did, sor,' said Pat, ‘but
me mither was married twice, sor.’ ”
They become serious just for a
minute.
"Don't talk about baseball," says
Mike. "I don't want to be known
as a ball player. If 1 can t make
good as an actor with my acting,
then I don't want to make good at
all."
“Baseball and the stage," he phi
losophizes, "are diseases. No. not
diseases, maybe, hut a disease, be
cause they're both ulike In their ef
fects. Once you get inoculated, you
can't quit.
"There's Charley, now," he points
out. "Quit the stage two years ago.
and swore he was going to stay quit.
He said he was going to stay home
on his farm and fish, and play base
ball in the summer with his college
hoys. But he's back. Just couldn’t
help it. And Monday, out at
Ponce DeLeon Park the old baseball
fever came over me, and I'm good
for a season's spell of it. It's some
what of a misfortune."
"Yes. they are diseases." admits
Charley. "But one is an antidote
for the other. That's how I keep
young."
Now they bruin again.
"You? Young?" Mike laughs.
"Oh, grandpa."
1 can prove I'm young by my
contract with Cincinnati—” begins
Charley.
“Good night!” Mike flees.
“But I am young,” insists Charley,
now alone. "Age is a state of mind,
not a matter of years. I’m young,
and I’m going to stay young, and I’m
going to play baseball until I die.”
Fearful that the affectionate bad
inage which passes between him aud
Mike Donlin might be misunder
stood, he explains.
"Don't mind Mike and me.” he
says. “We were just kidding. Mike's
a good actor, and he holds his place
because he is good, and not because
he was a big league star.”
And Mike says that Charley is a
good player.
And commendation from such
sources is praise indeed.
K
yd be
OR NOT
TO BE-
THAT —>
■m
SOMETHING
ABOUT TAILS
By JAMES RAVENS CROFT.
(Copyright, 1918, by The Star Company. Great Britain Rights Reserved.)
T AILS are both useful and ornamental.
It's a toss-up whether tails are more useful than ornamental, or
more ornamental than useful. It seems that sometimes they are,
and sometimes they are not. However, the possessors of tails look
better, get along better and are happier with them than without them.
A good deal Is known about some tails and very little about others.
Take the mule, for instance. Knowledge of the mule’s tale is limited,
for obvious reasons, beyond the generally understood fact that It’s not
to be monkeyed with. Here is an interesting thing, though, that is little
know;n outside the limited circle of those learned in mule nature:
If a weight be tied to a mule’s tail It won't bray. That is, the mule
won’t.
But be careful.
It seems that the animal is unable to get vocal action unless Its tail
is free to vibrate up and down. This knowledge was found mighty useful
by commissary men and other mule-handlers of the armies during the
Civil War. It was often necessary to get out of the way quickly and hide
till the enemy passed, and to guard against the tell-tale he-haw, stones
and other weights were tied to the mules’ tails.
Being accustomed to facing death almost daily, the men didn’t hesi
tate so much to tamper with the tails.
It is believed that this discovery was made in Missouri, where it’s
said that a mule will he gentle and kind toward you for twenty years
to get a chance to kick you off a bridge.
Herewith is the pigtail code: Tail curled in tight kink—pig healthy,
full and, therefore, happy; only one curl in tail—pig hungry and not so
happy; tail hanging limp—pig sick; tail sticking straight out—pig scrappy.
And here is something known only to the few: If you wish to lift
a young pig and not have it squeal or make any sort of noise, take it
by the tail. Strange, but invariably true, it won't whimper, or even grunt.
It is well to know this, and better to try it, should you ever have
occasion to remove an infant porker from the home litter when mother
is there. It piggie should squeal she would think nothing of taking off
as much of your shanks as she conveniently could with only one mouth.
A cow switches her tail when provoked or worried. A cow Is a sura
shot with her tail. She can look straight ahead of her and soak the milk
maid or man square in the mouth with the switch of her tall a dozen or
more times consecutively—that is, she can if the milkmaid or man will
sit still and let her.
Don’t try to avoid this annoyance by tying the cow’s tail to your
ankle while milking. It disturbs a cow to find her tail hampered, and
should she decide to vamoose you’d be placed in an undignified position,
especially if you were a milkmaid.
It' you should find yourself in the near vicinity of a hull, and he
should lay his tail gracefully over ills back, lower his handsome head
and hand you a at-last-I-have-you-in-my-power look, you might as well
reconcile yourself to the fact that he doesn't include you among hla
friends and Isn t keen for your society. It's better to go away from there
at once.
The heaver s tail is uot exactly ornamental, but it’s self-supporting.
A possum, or opossum, to be more literary, frequently uses its tail
as a sort of near-lasso. It can loop its tail around the neck of a chicken
aud get away with it easily enough. It has also been caught in the act
of trying in this way to drag off a goose-egg—difficult to do, considering
both tail and egg are hard and slick.
I he possum is, perhaps, the greatest unemotional actor or actress,
according to its sex; but its tail is its undoing in the star scene. When
a possum has "possumed” until even the dogs are fooled, watch its tail.
Dead possums' tails tetl no tales. If the possum's alive, Its tali will
move in due time. It may be only a slight, almost imperceptible move,
but it will move.
Like the rest of the feline, a cat s tail in its natural and unruffled
state is an impassive thing. But a cat's tail easily carries off the Car
negie medal for bravery. Even when a mere kitten is scared out. of
nine-tenths of its lives, its tail is erect, bushy and defiant. Ihe average
canine laboring under half ihe fear would be giving an exhibition o'
trying to ride its tail at top speed into the adjacent landscape.