Life — September 6, 1906 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

Life’s Little Problems HERE was once a Genie in the servi poor and struggling, but gifted, young Artist; and he complained early and late and often of his job. Not without reason, it may be said, for the Artist led the poor old soul such a dance that his patience was worn to a thin thread, and he finally spoke plainly and to the point. “I,” remarked the Genie, “have, from your childhood up, been your especial guardian, and I must confess that I am more bored and harassed by the vagaries of your artistic temperament than tongue can tell.” The Artist shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “T have always known that you were a Genie of very ordinary caliber,” he answered; ‘therefore, you cannot be expected to understand the exquisite sensitiveness of the highly wrought artistic nature. It is so attuned to the beautiful that” “There you go again!” cried the Genie, grinding his teeth. “You have bowed down and worshipped that pampered artistic temperament until it is swollen with pride and insolence and lays much virtue to itself because of its caprices and eccentricities; but I assure you that I have reached the limits of my endurance, and I am minded to give you such a jolt that you will not soon forget it.” “That’s just what you can’t do,” said the Artist, trium- phantly. ‘There is one thing the artistic temperament will not tolerate, and that is a bit or a curb. Another thing, here I live in a garret aloof and have few friends and go poorly clad, and you promised me fame, and honor and wealth. Now, I assume, somewhat optimistically, no doubt, in view of your recent conduct, that you mean to keep your word.” “Bother take it!” exclaimed the Genie, “I had almost for- gotten that old promise; but—my oath is sacred.” “Ha! ha!” cried the Artist, and he laughed loud and long. ‘You are bound by your sacred oath.” Then to celebrate the victory, he let out a few reefs in his artistic temperament and gave himself carte-blanche to go as far as he pleased. Within a week the Genie was a sad sight. During that time he had not known one restful moment, and,.as he was far from young, it told upon him terribly. His best friends and his mirror informed him that he had aged a thousand years, so he took the fortnight’s vacation allowed him by law and retired to the desert to meditate. When he returned, even the Artist scarcely recognized him. His brow was calm and peaceful, his smile placid and his step alert. “Dear me,” remarked the Artist, “the change has cer- tainly done you good. I didn’t realize how seedy you were.” “My son,” the Genie replied, “you have had your innings; now I propose to have mine. Let me inform you that my physician has ordered complete rest and foreign travel, and rather than have you without a guardian I have arranged for Anthony Comstock to take my job. He will entertain you daily with dissertations on art.” The Artist raved and protested and finally fell at the Genie’s HAZARDS OF MODERN PASTIME Autoist and Balloonist: wey! Keep To THE RIGHT feet, the beads of cold sweat standing out upon his brow; and begged and implored, groveling most piteously. But the Genie was adamant. “One year with Anthony as your guardian angel,” he said, “and you may have fame, honor, wealth. Refuse this, and it means forever the garret with all that it implies.” And the Artist chose—Anthony or the garret ? Which ? Do you know ? Mrs. Wilson Woodrow. comicbooks.com