Life — May 22, 1902 — page 5: what you’re looking at

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

To Authors. HE man Muse Upon oatmeal wins all the glories In these the days of magazin 'Tis he who writes the cereal storie MEL W. who cultivates his Summer, HAT warm, vaporous, unwieldy, soft, humid, odoriferous and expensive thing called summer is ap- proaching. Summer land- lords are creeping out of their holes, mixing attractive paints in alluring colors and baiting their circulars with mendacious photographs for prospective victims. At seaside resorts, the board walks are be- ing mended, the bathing houses renumbered, and orders for new towels in microscopic measure- ments distributed in the dry goods district, while the barrooms are dug out from the sand, and what is left over from last year's beer put out for the first comers. Headwaiters are coming north- ward in private cars for new harvests. SOLE OWNER AND PROPRIETOR. Ticket agents in railroad stations are ruf- fling their tempers anew for the rush. Porters are practicing the open-palm movement, and every steamship is already suffering from overpopulation. Nature, holding the mirror up to herself, is satisfied at last with her appearance. The summer girl is com- ing out of her chrysalis, radiant and ready for the campaign. Clerks in counting rooms are growing restless, and are toying with their pens. Even lobsters in the deep sea are getting their fans ready. The cities murmur Jouder than ever, waiting to perspire. Streets prepare to radiate, and only the fountains sing a premonitory song of joy. Even the tall buildings sigh as they feel themselves expanding, and murmur sadly, ‘* We're in for it.” Only the brazen statues in the park don’t care. School children are looking forward to learning something. The mosquitoes are be- ginning to buzz, and baby flies are growing hourly more ambitious, while all the ants left over from last year are telling * oldest inhabitant” stories of the picnic pies that Providence used to make. Gentlemen farmers are going over their gardens with field-glasses and making ready to use up their winter profits. Caddies are coagulating, and the automobile and the trolley are getting ready for their victims. Lovers are beginning to linger in sha places, and wives and husbands are discuss- ing lines of departure. The ice man is packing up his conscience for a long rest, and the coal man begins to nod. ‘The sun glows with expectations pride, all ready with a new line of tans; while the west wind flaunts itself in the face of the madding crows, and sings flippantly : “What warm fools these mortals will be!” when summer comes. Tom Masson, In a Letter to Life from Rome. CONGRATULATE you on the independence your paper never falls to preserve. It Is a great thing in these days when expediency and money seem to rule and gain a sort of hypootiz- {og power over the minds of men, Some are doing a great work tn the world, and fair and chivatrous-minded menand women must realize this wherever your paper goes. When will the Engitsh masses wake up and sce how they have been fooled? Why doesn't somebody suggest that “Joe” has not sent one of his sons to fight and die for thelr country? I have some English friends who see all this, but they are in the minority, OME altars are like hotels — for transients only, comicbooks.com