Life, 1910-12-01 · page 61 of 108
Life — December 1, 1910 — page 61: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous poem about creative writing, not political satire. The narrator is a Christmas poem personified, recounting its own composition during a sweltering July day. The joke centers on the absurdity of its origin: the poet conceived it while lounging in a hammock, repeatedly drinking lemonade to cope with summer heat. The poem itself describes winter imagery—snow, sleigh bells, Christmas cheer, roast beef—the opposite of the oppressive conditions in which it was written. The accompanying illustration, "The Mistletoe on Olympus," depicts classical figures (likely Venus and Minerva based on the caption) in a playful scene, establishing a lighthearted, whimsical tone throughout the page. The satire gently mocks both poets' struggle against uninspired conditions and the disconnect between creative subject matter and real circumstances.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
The Christmas Poem Remembers OW well do I remember the day when I was born. The time was middle summer, on a sizzling July morn: The place the back piazza of a cottage by the sea, Where lounging in a hammock, wearing negligee, stretched he, The author of my being—he who made me what I am— A summer song of Xmas, (paradox plus epigram). Upon a mission tabouret contiguous, was laid Convenient to his elbow, a large jug of lemonade. L lay at first a Notion vague, a faint and fluid germ, Deep down in Mind Subconscious. (Note the psychologic term.) Thence to a conscious Thought I grew, of embryonic shape, Yet vitalized with Potency. (Mark the unlearnéd gape.) The next I knew, my infant form was sprawling on a pad Which in perspiring fingers my originator had. Of “ trees" and “ breeze,"” of “ bow’rs"” and “flow’rs,"” two couplets he essayed, Then took of drinks a couple from that jug of lemonade. I felt so'queer and wobbly, so uncertain of my feet; My joints were weak and rickety, my limbs devoid of meat. But he who called me into life strove hard to make me grow, and And presently I learned to link such words as “ flow “ blow.”” I felt quite proud, but with a mad and most disgusted air My maker looked me over once, then flung me on a chair! He wiped his oozing forehead—that high brow for laurels made— And lifted to his thirsty lips the jug of lemonade. The click of ice revived him: with a glad “ Eureka "’ ery He laughed “Ha! Ha! A ‘timely’ poem is what I ought to try. He scored me in, he scored me out, erased and wrote anew; Line after line across the page his pencil fairly flew. He bade me “Ring the Christmas chimes, the gladdest of the year,"’ And “List the sleigh-bells jingle in the frosty atmosphere,” Just as the mercury toed the mark at nincty-in-the-shade And gave him a reminder of that jug of lemonade. The bee buzzed round the clover bloom, the locust in the tree, But I was carolling “ Noél’’ with quaint archaic glee. About their sand-built castles played the sun-browned girls and boys, While I was loading Santa with their next year’s lot of toys. THE MISTLETOE ON OLYMPUS VENUS AT LAST CATCHES MINERVA NAPPING In rippling tide some wave-kissed feet were dancing jigs— but no, My business called for men-kissed lips and Yuletide mistletoe. These placed, again my author laughed, and to his face conveyed With satisfied complacency, his jug of lemonade. Across the blue a snowy cloud went drifting idly by, And that suggested snow-drifts ‘neath a dark December sky. The dainty scent of mignonette his muse did next incline To bid me celebrate roast beef, plum pudding, ale and wine Thus every sound and spectacle for poet's topic fit Found fitting, full expression in its furthest opposite. So here am I, mid seasonable company arrayed, A by-product of summer and a jug of lemonade. Frederick Moxon.