Life, 1909-09-30 · page 13 of 32
Life — September 30, 1909 — page 13: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains a satirical poem by Harry Graham criticizing an unnamed ex-President for killing a giraffe during a hunting trip in South Africa. The poem mocks the hunter's claims of "sport" and "courage," arguing that shooting a harmless animal is not honorable—he'd better "slay the cart-horse and the cow" if he wants real sport. The satire culminates in an epitaph: "HERE LIES—a fearful epitaph—THE MAN WHO MURDERED A GIRAFFE!" The accompanying photograph labeled "AN OLD PRINT" appears to show two men examining the dead giraffe, though the image quality makes specific identification difficult. The piece satirizes trophy hunting as cowardly rather than manly, reflecting early 20th-century debates about hunting ethics.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
The Mombasa Massacre 2 on hearing that ex-President Roosevelt had added two fine giraffes tc jis bag of South African game.) O THEODORE, in days of yore, Your courage I admired! What fame you won, with rod and gun, What laurels you acquired! The grizzly bear, within his lair, You bravely would pursue, And goodness knows what buffaloes And other things you slew Ere (on the Cinematograph) I saw you slaughter a giraffe! That kindly beast (alas, deceased !) Is harmless as a cat; It seems a shame you shouldn't aim At higher game than that! Go forth and track the savage yak, Go seek the tiger’s gore, Pursue the gnu, the kangaroo, The lion and the boar! Go rob the bison of her calf, But, oh, don’t murder the giraffe! For if, in short, your views of sport Such massacres allow, You'd better stay at home, and slay The cart-horse and the cow; Or men will doubt those tales about Your sportsmanship and grit, Who read with gloom, upon your tomb, In blood-red letters writ: “HERE LIES "—a fearful epitaph— “THE MAN WHO MURDERED A GIR a Harry Graham Didn't Bother Him COMMUTER was walking up and down the platform waiting for the train that always seemed to be delayed. “This is a terrible road,” he said. addressing a prosperous looking by- stander. “T've heard a great many complaints about it,” was the reply. “Yes,” went on the commuter, “nearly every morning I’m late to business, and when I get home at night the dinner is cold. How do you find “Oh,” returned the other, “T have no kick coming. I'm the president of the road and I always travel in an auto.” HE man who writes for posterity may get idolators, but few reade-s. comicbooks.com