Life — August 14, 1902 — page 14: what you’re looking at

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

Q grim despair, gt succumb) 3! it remenniber, when you're glum, That the hardest things to bear Are the things that never come. ~~ Sormed Scat’ Stinyon. Words. FEW weeks ago a caller at the house of a friend of the “Hoosier Poet” heard a frag- ment of conversation between a visitor and James Whit- comb Riley, who had been talking of how poorly paid was the jon of literature. ‘But, Mr. she said, “surely you have no cause for complaining. You mnst be a very rich man. I understand that you get a dollar a word for all you write.”” ‘ Ye-e-es, madam,” said Riley, with his slow drawl, ‘‘ but sometimes I sit all day and can't think of a d—n word !"" HE PASSER-BY: My little son, your heavenly father does not want you to work in the garden on Sunday. He wants you in Sunday school, Tue Boy: But my earthly father wants me to dig bait. Printers Jok saya: The earnest conviction with which Live cartcatures, abuses and denounces the death-dealing automobile 1s equalled only by the earnest conviction with which the automobile advertisers use its space The ablding faith with which pages are used ar to verity Ribert Hubbard's beltet that “roast” ultimately has tenfold the advertis- Ing value of the ** boost Well, who knows? LIBERTY TAKES 4 NiouT OFF. Gamblers. LUNG on the whirling cosmic wheel, ‘This great green sphere spins out the game ‘Through alternating night and flame, Reckless of what the players feel. Eager, each change of luck they mark, With curse or prayer, or grin or smile, And win or lose a little while, And then go back into the dark. And some lose all, dead broke aud blank ; Most hedge, some plunge to make or break, And some win w But none will ever b don every stake, ‘ak the bank. By their drawn brows and quivering lips, As their stacks slowly grow or shrink, The Looker-On might almost think ‘They played for money, not for chips. And one vague dread without a name, Shadows on everybody here— By what back stairs can we get clear, Should the Powers come to raid the game? Frank Lillie Pollock, Letters. NEw YORK, we read, has a lit- ~” terateuse who writes six hundred and sixty thousand words in seven months; Philadelphia a litterateur who in an equal period puts four hundred and forty-three thousand five hundred words on paper. Chicago and Indianapolis also ran, presumably, but seem to have been distanced. It is understood that Boston de- clined to enter because the rules of the race specified that a word isa word, regardless of length, breadth and depth, One thing seems to be settled; the literary and commercial centers of these United States are substantially coincident. qT? isn’t climbing the ladder of fame that makes one dizzy, so much as it’s the looking down. [PiRst ENGLISH LORD: Did you propose to Miss Porkpacker ? Seconp Enouish Lorp: No. To her father. I hate to have any busi- ness dealings with a woman, LIFE'S ESTEEMED CONTEMPORARIES. See page 132. Pentic Ortxtox . MAREER's, Ponca, Tar Cextuny, Tur Herat, comicbooks.com