Judge, 1920-11-20 · page 13 of 32
Judge — November 20, 1920 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Loved and Lost" – A Satire on Modern Women's Ambitions This piece satirizes early 20th-century anxieties about women's changing roles. The narrator laments his lost love, Arabella, contrasting her practical domestic skills (cooking, pie-making) with the "modern" women now pursuing him. The satire targets contemporary women's ambitions in art, music, and intellectual pursuits—painting, singing, writing like "George A. Henty" or "Ellen Yaw" (likely a reference to opera singer Ellen Beach Yaw). The joke is that these accomplished women neglect domestic duties. The poem mocks both the narrator's excessive sentimentality and contemporary complaints that educated, ambitious women made poor homemakers. The illustration shows fashionably dressed women in various poses, reinforcing the theme of modern femininity detached from traditional domesticity. The satire reflects Judge magazine's conservative stance: women pursuing "high art" and independence were abandoning their "natural" roles as cooks and wives—a common refrain in early 1900s American satire.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
On, sv Luscious AkapeLtow, with you Nevermore conn Back?" Loved and Lost By Wav Masox Mlus tration by ad and heartsick fellah when the evening shadows I; then I think of Arabella, who is gone beyond recall. Other girls may come and guy me, as the damsels like to do, but my dear one isn’t nigh me, and I sound my loud boo-hoo, She could makea pie delicious, and that’ssomething toapplaud, now that cooks and bakers dish us pies as tough as prairie sod. Oh, she was a peach at cooking, and her pies were safe and sane; for her equal I am looking, but I'll always look in vain. Other maidens, other chickens, flock around me as I write; they can dance to beat the dickens, keep it up the livelong night; each one’s in her way a winner, all are luscious, smooth and sweet, but they couldn't cook a dinner that an earnest man could eat. Oh, L hear their laughter mellow, and their foot- steps swift and light, but I sigh for Arabellow, who could get a steak just right. There are maidens all around me, and they lure me with their eyes, and their flashing smiles confound me, to their beauty 1 am wise. And I love all things of beauty, and adore a handsome face; I consider it a duty to stand up for charm and grace. You would think my course was shocking, and with you I would agree, if I wasted paper knocking all the pretty girls I see. But when dinner bells are ringing and I’m hungry as a bear, to my memory are clinging thoughts of one supremely fair; I can see her in the cellar, sorting out some spuds to fry; oh, my lovely Arabeller, why did you forsake me—why? Rate Barton 1 know maidens without number who can paint to beat the band, slinging ochre, lead and umber with a free and gifted hand. They are filled with high ambi praised by all artis- tic gents, and they make such jays as n look like twelve or fourteen cents; to grow greater still and greater, that is all these damsels beg; but they cannot boil a tater, and they cannot poach an egg. Up the paths of art they're speeding, all the damsels, wearing bells; but their husbands will be feeding at the second rate hotels. Oh, a man must have his vittles, if you'd fairly win his heart, though he sits around and whittles saying pretty things art. If [had the pen of Shelley, or the ringing lyre of Scott, I sing of Arabelley, who served coffee good and hot But she’s gone, that saintly critter, with a tinhorn sport she’s sloped, and the hour was dark and bitter when my dearest one sul cloped I know damosels a-plenty who can sculp and paint and draw who can write like George A. Henty, who can sing like Ellen Yaw. But my inner works are yearning for a meal I can enjoy, and the sirloin steak is burning, and the doughnuts but annoy. So the smiles of maids enchanting do not move me as they should, for I’m hungering and panting for a roast that’s not like wood. All the world seems punk and yellow since my dear one jumped the track; oh, my luscious Arabellow, will you never- more come back?