Judge, 1919-10-25 · page 11 of 36
Judge — October 25, 1919 — page 11: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Our Daily Grief" Cartoon Analysis This is a humorous essay-illustration about human nature's need for complaint and hardship. The cartoon shows four figures gathered around what appears to be a dying fire in winter—the visual reference to the text's opening: "I prance and neigh and swear and refresh the dying fire." The piece satirizes the human condition by arguing that people *require* discomfort to feel alive. Mason's narrator claims he enjoys complaining about summer heat, winter cold, and various ailments—and that neighbors actually gather to watch his theatrical displays of grief and frustration. The satire is that perfect contentment would be insufferable; we need problems to gripe about to feel purposeful. The illustration by Ralph Barton depicts ordinary men in winter clothes—recognizable types rather than specific political figures—embodying this universal human tendency toward discontent. The satire targets no particular group but rather human nature itself: we're happier being unhappy.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
E AND NEIGH AND Swear AND REFRE si THe Dyno Our Daily Grief By Watr Mason Mlustration by Rawr grief or care; it is doubtless fine and grand, but I couldn't stand it there. Prenss talk about a land where there is no it never heard a If this planet had no woe, wail, if there were no fits to throw, life would soon grow flat and stale. I am happy when I kick, when I paw around and beef; it would make me pretty sick if there were no signs of grief. When the summer days are hot, and the sun through heaven swings, as the pesky flies I swat, I hand out some lurid things; oh, I roast this torrid clime that is melting down my fat, and I have the blamedest time, for I like to cuss like that. All the neighbors gather ‘round, and they listen while I rant, while I paw holes in the ground, while I roar and sweat and pant. And I feel I'm cutting g . that I'm making quite a hit, while I talk like sounding brass, while I throw the ribald fit. When the winter winds are cold, and the skies are bleak and gray, you can hear me rave and scold as though working by the day. And the neighbors gather there, gather round me to admire, while I prance and neigh and swear and refresh the dying fire. If our days were alv mild, never cold and never hot, I would be distinctly riled, saying some one should be shot; I would be profoundly vext, if the weather n BARTON man were sane; for I've got to have a text for a sermonette profane. And the land of perfect bliss that my saintly friends describe is inferior to this, for a kicking human tribe. If I landed on a shore where no shadows ever dwelt, and where sorrows nevermore could be seen or heard or felt, I'd be weary of it all in a half a day or less, and I'd shed some tears and bawl if I couldn't find distress. For I'm built to fight with care, and to have a head that’s sore, and I’m built to tear my hair, and I'm built to walk the floor. And I have to woe I can dandle on my knee, or I'd never, know anything like perfect glee. We are kickers every one, and we sing the same old tune; when we look upon the sun, we are boosting for the moon. We are happy when we're sad, we are coming when we go, joy will always make us mad, if it has no str das a church, I am healthy as a cheese, but for symptoms dire I search, hoping I have some disease; for I want a chance to tell how my ailments torture me, and I want excuse to yell and to beg for sympatl For a man must have a grief in this vale of tears and strife, or there’d never be relief to the staleness of this life.