Life — December 30, 1897 — page 15: what you’re looking at

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

poems with them on the Ice. In this way the gentleman can get much needed recreation, and at the same time produce something to keep the wolf away from his door. The talented Mr, Richard Hard- ing Davis's stocking held a nice surprise for this popular writer in the shape of a complete set of his own works, Ilis delight may be imagined, when the public islet into the little secret that Mr. Richard Harding Davis is Mr. Davis's favorite author. Acopy of “What Maisie Knew,” written in chalk on a series of blackboards, was Santa Claus’s gift to Mr. Henry James, The author was charmed, and spent the whole day rubbing out and re-writing such passages as struck his fancy. It is fortunate that Mr. Marion Crawford is a large man, else his stocking would not have held the truck- load of paper pads and eighty gallons of ink which he found therein on Christmas morn- ing. An additional remembrance for Mr. Crawford consisted of a pair of artificial arms, both of which, when fastened on to an author, can be made use of for writing purposes, With the use of them Mr. Craw- ford may be expected to double his output during the coming year. Mr. Richard Le Guallienne received a A SOLILOQUY. “TO HAVE ANY SUCCESS IN PASHIONABLE] SOCIETY I MUST BE MORE UP-TO-DATE.” * LIFE: THE POINT OF VIEW. WHY [8 IT THAT beautiful portrait of himself enthroned in heaven, after designs by Aubrey Beardsley and colored by Edward Penfield, as a deli- cate allusion to his new book, “If I Were God.” The conception of the painting is rather large, as is natural, considering the subject, but it is said that Mr. Le Gallienne is not entirely pleased with the general results, He thinks the portrait is suffi- ciently good as a representation of the Almighty, but scarcely does justice to Mr. Le Gallienne. Mr. Stephen Crane's stocking was filled with red paint, which, we fear, shows that Santa Claus is not above playing a practical joke. Still, the famous author was pleased with the remembrance, and with the aid of a squirt-gun dashed off a story of the Greek war which, when translated into American, will appear in the Sunday WAirnal, It is a sad fact to record that Mr, Alfred ‘Austin was overlooked by Santa Claus on Christmas morn. The genial saint might at least have left a rhyming dictionary for the laureate, and that he did not do so is the only indication yet observed that Santa Claus does not appreciate to the full the real needs of mankind. We can only ex- plain it on the ground that in these days, when every square foot of transparent glass is decorated by a wreath, St. Nicholas could not be expected to take note of the wreath placed by her divine majesty—herself an author—Queen Victoria, upon the translu- cent pate of England's Premier of Poetry. Mr. Rudyard Kipling found an offer for his Brattleboro house in his stocking when he put on his spectacles on Christmas morning. He was very much pleased, but inasmuch as the offer of 87.86 was con- ditional, requiring that the purchaser should be insured against annoyance by neighbors, and should have free use of all WHEN A MAN ACCOMPLISHES ANYTHING 1T ALWAYS LOOKS $0 MUCH BIGGER TO HIM THAN TO ANYONE ELSE? the literary material stored in the attic, the talented Indian was compelled to de- cline the gift, We are sorry about this, because we believe that if Mr. Kipling were able to sell his Vermont house he could afford to live in New York for a week or two—simply, of course—and so gain a few ideas of life in this country which would be of great value to him when he comes, as he surely must, to the writing of a book on “The Manners and the Customs of the Irish.” In Mr. Kipling’s hands Mr, Croker might become as great as Mulvaney. There can be no doubt that Santa Claus has also visited others of our authors. Those named are the unly ones from whom we have heard, and we think on the whole that, as usual, Santa Claus has done well, and we trust that this Christmas season will find all our writers, from Sienkiewicz to Miss Libbey, as happy as happy can be.