Life — December 29, 1892 — page 36: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

22 DIANA Brockden Brown, Emerson, Whittier. ADRIAN: And their works endure in the hearts of their countrymen. But the men of to-day—aren’t they building up a beautiful set of literary associations for their country- men? Imagine our descendants making pilgrimages to the house where our Daisy Millers were (according to tradition) supposed to have lived and spoken bad English; where our Tom Sawyers \ocked in their school teacher: to the ruins of the Tuxedo Club to see where Charley Rich broke his stick and swore horribly when he was refused by A/iss Million ; to Beacon street in search of the lamp-post under which A/’ss Prudence stood when she consulted with her Soul ! Dtana: That's enough. I know the whole tribe, and I would not walk half a block if I were assured that I could shake hands with any one of them in the flesh. there is the sun shining on the Castle of Invern purple hills, and a gleam of Moray Firth! It is lovely and I love it, and it is the end of a beautiful day. ApRIAN: Then why do you look pensive ? Diana (laughing): | was thinking by contrast of the way in which the sinking sun strikes the red tower of the Produce and old Liberty's halo, and the Brooklyn Eleva- The old school did—Hawthorne, Cooper, Simms, Exchang tors— ADRIAN: And the Multifloor Apartment House on 59th street, and a six-room flat. DIANA: Yes—home, ADRIAN: The Home of our Romance. (Chorus of “Bus drivers: “Royal Hotel, str,” “Culloden “Sutherland Arms,” “ Take you right up.”) Robert Bridges (Droch). Mother: LOOK, ANGY—SEF Uscte Wituiast PROLGIT YOU FOR CHristas! dingy: WY DIDS'T NE MAKE IT A DOZEN AND A BOX OF CIGARS SOAS 1 COULD HAVE. THE wuat Mas. BOTTLES OF boys WINE AROUND TONIGHT AND HAVE A GOOD TIME? *~LIFE-: THE CHRISTMAS BIRD. The Horse: \1'S A FINE TURKEY, EH, Jimmy ? Jim: Fine? It’s a DREAM!! A KIND INTENTION. S Tom De Witt sat in the cheerful glow of his steam radiator, on Christmas Eve, and listened to the wind howling through the branches of the evergreen trees stacked up in front of the grocery around the corner, he realized that it was a bitter cold night. And also that the janitor was too busy in collecting his holiday tithes from the tenants to do the square thing in the matter of heat. Although Tom had drawn his ulster over his smoking coat he felt sad and chilly. He knew not why. He had just sent the janitor away with a crisp five dollar bill in his pocket, but even this deed of kindness had failed to cause a cheerful reaction on the giver. Tom felt his thoughts turning gloomily to the contrast be- tween his own condition of comparative luxury, and that of thousands of poor people to whom Christmas was a wretched. mockery. He realized that there were persons who had no janitors to tip. Some of them might be homeless children whose stockings were never hung in the chimney-corner to be filled by kind and loving relatives, simply because stockings and chimney- corners and relative: s which they did not poss Tom thought of the litle ragged newsboys whom he had seen shivering in the street, and wondered whether they had any part in the gladness and joy of the festal season. He doubted that any one of them had eve! ed a Christmas dinner in his life. A Christmas dinner!) Why not? The benevolent thought ran rapturously through Tom's brain. Was there any reason why he should not gather a dozen of the weary little waifs together and stand them as good a dinner as he could find in the city. Of course there wasn't— and he resolved to make his sudden impulse a solid and sub- Poor little fellow stantial fact. So he hunted up his hat and gloves, and after changing his coat went out in the street. He walked over to Broadway, and then guided by the comicbooks.com