Life — July 14, 1898 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

The Literary Hack. E writes of woods and pastures green ; Gray roofs lie round about; Above the smoke-stained chimney-pots Tho sun, at times, peeps out. The sport of Fortune—well he recks The fickle jade’s attack. His wit is keen, his touch is fne— The literary hack. Grotesque to some his fate may seem; Ho pictures Fashion Street ; And yet the meagre rent he owes Is more than he can meet. Ho sings of diamonds for his queen, Of ornaments of gold— Although the sum the poom brings ‘To him is wealth untold, Amid his lines fair woman walks, Her whispered vows we hear— Perchance the maid whom best he knows Serves him his lunch or beer. And while the waltz or reel he weaves Into a dainty rhyme, An old hand-organ sounds below In wretched tune and time. True heart and light, all praise to you Whose words, though careless, free, Are sent from out your humble den ‘To live deflantly. Brave skylark, from the heights you reach Your song comes ringing back To us, who envy you your lot, Oh, literary hack! oin L, Sabin. A Landscape. WE have a wonderful picture at our house on which we feast our eyes at least twice a day, when the light comes soon enough and lin- gers long enough to make the dimming darkness of gaslight unnecessary at the morning and evening meals. Alice sits at table so as to face it squarely; I can get a favorable view by leaning a little bit to the left and cocking my eye to the right, and we compare notes as to effects of light CC cc SO Ce EVEN A CANNON HAS ITS USES, and shade, which are but rarely the same, even un- dersiinilar conditions of season, wind and weather. The details of the picture change from time to time as completely as though it were a panorama. with its shifting views. Sometimes there fs the richest coloring to be found in the work of any of our Orientalists; occasionally there is the deep, cool green of an English park, while at other times there is only the peaceful monotone of a Corot. Perhaps twice a year we get a brief glimpse of a snow scene which transcends in beauty anything I have ever seen elsewhere. And we have all this without the aid of draperies, coloring or artificial lights, while the picture is never moved. We always see the same features of landscape—the same slope of lawn to a high picket fence, the same trees and brushwood and tangled grass on the other side, with a strip of roadway, just visible through an opening, on a hill in the distance. And the frame of the ple- ture is about the size of an ordinary window sash. Frederic Mason. “WHAT ARE YOU CRYING ABOUT, LITTLE BOY?” “CAUSE U'M SO BEASTLY MEAN AN FREDDIE NONE OF MY CANDY.” si [FISH THAT I AIN'T GOIN’ TER GIVE comicbooks.com