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—— . ... *. — ) Vr OT'V I . iX U * 1M1 .'liUi. LlLL ■■HM 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 f-% -\ rj - fn n LJ r^j n 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.