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LAUGHING
Hemlock Corners Traffic Court — where in the Spring a young man's fancy curves often land him before the magistrate; while a young lady's leads her — ah. me!
HEAR ye! Hear ye! All those having business to come before the honorable court of Hemlock Corners will come to order!
There you go again with them dem formalities, bailiff! Ever since you was over to Beaver Crossin' to the picture show and seen that costumey picture of the Court of England, home folks and customs don't seem to be good enough for you. Stop puttin' on airs
GAS!
by
George Turner
Even ihe Supreme Court Could Gather Some Valuable Ideas on Legal Procedure From This Comic Traffic Court of Hemlock Corners
and let's get down to busi the first case?
The first case has been of. judge. I put it over i lar.
Wat's
taken care i your cel
'How do ye mean yer horn was indifferent, stranger?" Well, Your Honor, it just didn't give a hoot."
Good! Well, wat's the second? Hey, stop that noise, stop that noise! Wat's goin' on here — don't you hear me poundin' my gavel? Constable! Constable— get those two bulldogs apart. Come up here! Wat's this all about, constable?
Yer worship, these two teas quarrelin, fightin', and otherwise raisin' Cain on the public highway after what looked like had been a auto wreck. I brung em in.
You look like a wreck yerself. Look at that new unyform the church give with the proceeds from the ice cream sociable! No use you tryin' to look like a representative of the law and order. Where's yer badge?
Guess I lost it in the excitement.
I want damages! I want damages! This man ran into me and if I don't get paid I'll . . .
You'll shet up! That's what you'll do. Now let me hear what happened, or can this here matter be settled out of court?
Well, that's what they was tryin to do. judge when I separated them.
Now let me git this straight. Who ran into who? Who was the socker and who the sockee? What have you to say. Farmer Brown?
This man run into me. I uas just comin out onto the Tile, never thinkin . . .
Well, why wasn't you thinkin"? Has yer brains declared a mausoleum, or a mortuary — or whatever that thing was Hoover declared?
The word is crematorium, yer worship.
Thanks, constable. I knew it was a dead issue of some kind. Well — what about it. Farmer?
He tore right out an' smacked me — never Mowed his horn or nothin.
How about it. stranger — did you blow ver horn?
Well, yer worship. I must tell the truth . . .
Yeh, yer dem right ye must. What (Turn to Page 42)
RADIO DOINGS
Page Nine