Life — August 6, 1903 — page 19: what you’re looking at

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

“THERE GOES THAT CONPOUNDED CAP AGAIN.” goes below 0 (Cent.) only when she is made love to; and as for love in Boston, where the dominant note is anaffair of the stomach,an affair of the heart naturally enters in but hard! That is to say, it is only strangers in the city whose dyspepsia is liable to be cured, A Philosopher. “VE will put on a new train,” says the general manager of the Zippety Split Railway, ‘that will go from Chicago to New York in ten hours,” At this the Chicago man shows little interest. ° “You don’t seem to enthuse much over the prospect,” remarks the rail- way man. ‘Don’t you think it will be a splendid thing to be able to reach New York in such a short time? ” “Excellent? And why?" is the moody rejoinder, ‘Can't I have my pocket picked just as well at home?” It is not often that we see such cheering evidences of local pride. $abbath $chool. HAT there is no necessary quar- rel between religion and the zeit- geist, a great church in New York raising a fund of one hundred thon- sand dollars with which to provide ‘wages for Sabbath school teachers, goes still farther to show. Speaking of the zeitgeist, why shouldn't the geist walk for Sabbath school teachers as for others ? As regards the labor of love, the wise ancients had a saying that who- ever loves is mad. Certainly, if any- body is justly open to the imputation of being daffy, he is so who labors for anything but spot cash these days. “ULL MAVE TO GET SOMETHING THAT WILL 6TAY ON MY HEAD.” Devil-Flies. FOOLISH TROUT, For a gluttonous dream From your placid bed "Neath a cool, green stone to be routed out, Hither and thither drafted about In the artful windings the light cast weaves On the wimpling stream ; Ds and tempted, lured and led By the make-believes Of a wisp of feather and tinsel gleam ! So gross the bait Your As you give up the ghost When played, ensnared, you are swung d, hed and spanned, Ina silver spasm, for an anglers boast, And snugly creeled in alder leaves That your gasping spirit may pass at leisure For your sins of greed, to a gourmet's pleasure ! And yet, O trout, We who fatuous rise From our limpid pools At the goad of each anxious question, doubt, Ever foreboding famine or drought In face of God’s provident sun and rain, Who are counted wise We, the anglers, like you, are fools As we leap and strain When the devil casts us his tawdry flies! We pierce his garb, But, scenting gain, Tho’ we rue the barb, Yet we swallow the bait Of dancing gaiety, deathless fame, Marked with shame, And we stifle our souls, and call it fate, And cry the mocking skies in vain, While the great gods laugh in sardonic pleasure On the shining sands, as they take our measure! Marguerite Merington. it's stantep ur.” “coop ueavens! comicbooks.com