Life, 1889-04-25 · page 7 of 25
Life — April 25, 1889 — page 7: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "The Plaint of the Modern Infant" by Ben Bent This satirical poem mocks the constraints placed on middle-class boys at the turn of the 20th century. The speaker is a boy who fantasizes about adventures—riding wild broncos, shooting guns, building fires, becoming a burglar—activities he reads about in popular boys' literature and adventure stories. The satire targets the contradiction between what boys are taught to want (thrilling, dangerous exploits) and what their actual lives permit: sitting in bibs, eating luxuries, confined by wealth and propriety. The illustrations show wild adventure scenes contrasted with the sheltered, domesticated reality. The poem's bitter conclusion suggests the boy's only escape from respectability is inheriting money or becoming a banker—mocking both adventure fantasies and the privileged constraints of genteel society.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
THE PLAINT OF THE MODERN INFANT. T’S the dream of my life a marauder to be, To plunder and scalp and destroy ; Yet, alas, Fate has cruelly marked out for me The réle of a good little boy. On the plains I should like a wild bronco to ride, At citizens shoot with a ‘gun ;”” Build a fire on an Indian while he was tied, And chop off his fingers for fun. I could make a good show as a bold burglar, too— I’ve studied the ‘‘ cracking” of ‘‘ cribs ;” With what pride would I point toa safe that I ‘ blew!” Yet here I sit dining in bibs. I'm surrounded with luxuries, playthings and food, I’ve all that for wealth’s to be had ; I am forced by ironical Fate to be good— Lord knows how I yearn to be bad ! I have heard all the tales that are written for boys, To teach them to murder and steal ; In my heart how I envy the ruffian’s joys When he “does” for a ‘‘ pal” who would ‘‘ squeal.” All the years I have lived are but six, I am told ; I've wasted that much of my life ; I have threatened my sisters to ‘‘lay 'em out cold,” But can’t get a veal bowie-knife. Then my father's so rich and my mother's so good, I cannot become a low tramp ; I have no chance to steal and pretend to saw wood, Or under the haystacks to camp. With the talents I have in a criminal line And thirsting for gore, it's no joke As a parson or doctor my powers to confine— To live and to die a mere ‘‘ bloke.” Yet this fate is for me—a respectable lad. I'm doomed to eat honest-earned food— I have not got the faintest excuse to be bad, But, oh ! how I dread to be good. There are only two chances at present I see— Two gleams through life’s horrible blank— Of some widow's estate to be made the trustee, Or cashier of a national bank. Ben Bent. comicbookss,