From the Evening Star, October 9, 1912. By Walt Mason. Judge Rinktum makes no foolish breaks, no blunders bald or shocking; he goes his way day after day, and no one hears him talking. He answers “no” in accents low when some one asks a question, or murmurs “yes,” as in distress from verbal indigestion. He won’t debate, he won’t orate, or break his solemn quiet; he shakes his head—all has been said—he wants no wordy riot. So in the town he has renown as being crammed with knowledge; his bunch of brains more lore contains than Yale or Harvard college. We’re proud of him, this jurist grim, this man who never chatters; the referee and umpire he in all our village matters. The dames are proud when he has bowed in stately recognition; if Rinktum stands and shakes your hands, he betters your condition. Yet this old boy, our pride and joy, whom some consider greater than Cicero or G. Pinchot, is but a selling plater. If he should drain his massive brain and take out all that’s in it, he wouldn’t need to do the deed, much more than half a minute. Oh, just look wise and you will rise and have good things before you; but talk too much and you’re in Dutch, and no one will adore you.