Life, 1899-08-24 · page 6 of 13
Life — August 24, 1899 — page 6: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis of Life Magazine Page 146 The page features a photograph labeled "AT LIFE'S FARM" showing people relaxing outdoors near a building—a leisure scene emphasizing rest and nature. The main content is a poem titled **"Money to Burn,"** which satirizes wealthy idleness. The speaker complains of boredom despite riches, contrasting himself unfavorably with working poor who at least have purpose. The poem criticizes the privileged for wasting resources and opportunity while laborers struggle. Below the poem, a brief dialogue between **CATTERSON** and **HATTENSON** jokes that a weak, indecisive boy might become President—likely satirizing contemporary political leadership as ineffectual or unqualified. The satire targets class inequality and questions whether wealth without purpose constitutes a meaningful life.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
146 Our Fresh-Air Fund. Previously acknowledged 83,274 66 HK... . 25 00 Quasimodo. - 300 Asmall boy who enjoys cool weather.. 30 00 E.K.N. . no IMLS. + 600 Eaith P. Smith - 100 Ethel Harvey . 600 PLA. M.. 500 HLT. 3 500 In Memory of E. C. B. 200 Josephine L. Coster. Jack and Maggte. Pay Schoolhoys’ penny box W.d.Dh. : In Memory of Lowry Proceeds of a Sale by Mra. C. RW. Canaan Street, N. H . ADB 56025 Prescott Childs, Hoods Fl. Sheridan “ Rath,” Bluefield, W. Va. $3,513 43, “Money to Burn.” “pve money to burn,” he yawned, and I’m sick of the smell of smoke, Tho life of the man of leisure fs a beastly solemn joke. I’ve fished and fished for pleasure, and had only fisherman's luck, Till I'm tompted to take my treasure and give it a good-by chuck. I was sick bofore of baching, I’m sicker of married life, My honeymoon’s not over and I’m tired to death of my wifo; And she’s just as tired of me—wo can’t seem to hit tt off— We're sick of our bikes and our coach; wo're sick of our yacht and golf. I'm dead to the old world, dead to the new; I'm weary of drink and grnb; I'msick of Me and I’m tired of You and of every bore of a club!” “ Money to burn!"—no fop, but a demon of mockery spoke, For his fellow-men bake in the sun; with the fumes of the heat they choke. Tho sky goes mad with the glaro, and tho pitiless, withering beat Turns overy house to an oven; to a canyon of hell, each street. But the pavements are seething with wretches who stagger and jostleand run, From the dawn that kindles the carth to the dusk of the burnt- out sun. They are wouaded like soldiers in battle, these private heroes of peace, But they have no fame, no triumph, and their struggles never cease. For, summer or winter,tbe poor must work, and fight off the useless groans, Though the sun strike them down in the loathesome ditch, and the horses drop dead on the stones. “ Money to burn!” and the paupers have only their flosh for the fire, ‘Tongues parched, and brains that fry, and cinders of fleree desire, When tho poor lay down their shovels, they hasten to tenement- cheer, ~ Are glad to sleep on a roof, and rich ina can of beer, AT LIFE'S FARM. But the wealthy shut down their desks and rush to the seaward trains, While the laborers stay and sweat, and dream of the twilight lanes ; And the little ones wail and fret, too feeble even to play, And their mothers look from the tubs and watch them wasting away. They can’t earn the money, they can’t get tho time, to travel the paltry miles To tho long, soft sand whore the waves make rhyme, or the hills where the lake-land smiles, Money to burn!"—my God! and he doesn’t know what to do With the dollars that rescue souls from the straits want drives them tol! Aman has a right to arespite from lending his bones to the rack, And the world owes a woman a moment to foster her cheek- roses back ; But, most, the world owes to its children the freedom of All Outdoors, Tho playground of legended forests, wide meadows and water- sweet shores. And the rich bave this privilege royal, to help the downfallen to riso And get back to Nature for comfort, keep touch with the eartly, and the skies, O fortunate You, that have monoy to burn, go set Pity’s altar aglow f Pay back to the toilers thut built it up, a tithe of the wealth you owe; And help God’s poor from tho bitter fire of unrelinquished woe! Rupert Hughes. ATTERSON: I don’t know what to do with that boy of mine, He is weak, vacillating, apparently without any mind of his own, and ready to do what anyone else tells him. Hatrersox: Never mind, old man, President of the United States some day. That boy may be comicbooks.com