Judge, 1898-12-24 · page 20 of 30
Judge — December 24, 1898 — page 20: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three Christmas-themed pieces satirizing different aspects of American life: **"Triolet"** is a lighthearted poem about a woman's romantic inconstancy, wishing merry Christmas to former beaux while acknowledging love's transience. **"Sad Close of the Day"** presents two brief anecdotes: a boy disappointed after his toy steam-engine exploded and ruined the piano (earning him bed instead of Christmas joy), and a servant girl worried Santa won't visit because their room lacks a chimney. **"Why She Wept"** satirizes both organized charity and children's materialism. A poor girl cries on a charity doorstep, but her complaint reveals she *did* receive gifts (hat, dress, doll, Noah's ark, toys, candy)—just not the bicycle and bloomers she wanted. The satire mocks both the cold bureaucracy of "organized-charity" and middle-class children's ungrateful entitlement, contrasting sharply with genuinely destitute circumstances. The accompanying cartoon shows exaggerated circus animals, likely illustrating holiday excess.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
TRIOLET. RRY Christmas to all of the beaux I flirted with down by the sea. It really is kind, T suppose, To greet the devoted old beaux; + But fove comes like the summer and goes With the birds and the flowers, ah me Merry Christmas to all of the beaux I thought that I loved by the sea, ROMA PLAYTEN SEABURYS SAD CLOSE OF THE DAY. #4 DID you have a happy Christmas, Tommy asked Mr. Tenspot of Tommy Taddells. * Not very,” replied Tommy. “I fired up my new steam-engine to run on the top of the piano and it exploded and ruined the piano, papa said, and then he sent me to bed.” call in the mornin’ fer it?” se, mum, Santy Claus can't get into our room ‘cause they ain't no chimley, an’ I yer won't hang up this stockin’ when you're a-hangin’ up the children’s, an’ I'll CHRISTMAS MORNING AT THE JUNGLE CIRCUS. WHY SHE WEPT. LITTLE child was crying on Christmas morn. If it is pitiful to look upon childish sorrow at any time it is doubly so to witness it at such a time as this, when all the Christian world rejoices and makes glad at the recurrence of the hallowed anni- versary. The church chimes were pealing forth their joyous salutations, the sun rose o'er the city with unwonted brilliancy, the air was crisp and bracing. This little girl, a tot of three or four, lay sob- bing out her little heart upon the cold and cheerless pavement. Her face, buried in her thin and fragile arms, lay pressed against a doorstep—the doorstep of an organized-charity association, Extra- hard, ultra cold and essentially practical, the very essence of organized-charity statistics and self-aid theories seemed to glitter from its frosty surface and be re= fracted from its frigid lines. The matron appeared in the doorw “ Little girl" she cried hoarsely, little girl, why are you crying on a private doorstep, little girl?” “Because,” answered the little girl timidly, as she gulped down a combination of sob, sauerkraut, croup, and cream-aimonds, “ because I didn’t get nothing but a new hat and dress, and doll, and Noah’s ark, and woolly dog, and candy, nuts and oranges for Christmas, instead of the bicycle and bloomers that I had been praying for.” comicbooks.com