Life, 1913-02-06 · page 12 of 48
Life — February 6, 1913 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page satirizes the rising cost of gasoline in early 20th-century America. The left side features a poem mocking how expensive fuel has become, complaining that "wallets that had bulges now have dents" and gas prices have reached "three-and-twenty cents." The illustration depicts a conversation between a woman and a man about the high cost of motor oil, with the caption: "ARE YOU SURE THAT THESE EGGS HAVE NO CHICKENS IN THEM?" / "YES, MISSIS. THEY ARE DUCK EGGS"—a joke about adulteration and fraud during an era of rising prices and consumer suspicion. The right side includes political verses addressing President Wilson and oil magnate John D. Rockefeller, linking the gasoline crisis to broader concerns about corporate greed and government responsibility during this inflationary period.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Gasoline N a hundred proud garages Where the menials give massages To the autos standing idly in a row— In the bosom of each voter Who presumes to own a motor There is Anger, there is Anguish, there is Woe. By Oh, it’s shocking and surprising How Petroleum is rising And the wallets that had bulges now have dents; And if Gasoline goes higher We'll no longer curb our ire, For it’s selling now at three-and-twenty cents! | By nefarious devices They increased the butcher's prices, Which, we held, was really going pretty far; But it’s simply past forgiving When they raise the Cost-of-Living To the Gentleman who has to have a Car! What's the good of Long Wheel-bases Or of Bronze Transmission Cases Turkish Cushions, or the Seven-bearing Crank, Or of Chrome-Nickel Gearing Or of Patent Wheels for Steering When the Gasoline is lacking in the Tank? “Tell us, tell us, Puissant Mortal Throned within the White House portal, “ ARE YOU SURE THAT THESE EGGS HAVE NO CHICKENS IN THEM?” “YES, MISSIS. THEY ARE DUCK EGGS” 272 ~ LIFE» Proud of Presidential labors (nearly donc), How, without extreme prostration, We may mend the situation And the Autos of the Nation may be run?” In his Morris chair capacious, iver gentle, ever gracious, Moved Our President, awaking from a doz He consulted nearly cighty- and weighty, Seven law books, wi And responded, smi Heaven knows “Tell us, teli us, Doctor Wiison— Oh, we'll drink your health in Pilsen, We will treat you to cigars in silver foil, You, we'll fervently kowtow to If you'll only tell us how to Deal with him that boosted up the Price of Oil!” Doctor Wilson frowned umbrageous As he answered, “It’s outrageous! We must discipline the Miscreant Accursed. Be he Lawyer, Priest or Layman I will hang him high as Haman !— But, you know, you'll have to catch the Fellow first.” “Tell us, Playful Petrol-seller, Mister John D. Rockefeller, Won't you tell us how we're ever going to buy Gasoline at present prices For you may have had adv That the Article is quoted rather high.” ces, J. D. R. was heard to mutter As he waved his Golden Putter (He was Holing Out upon the Seventh Green), “My advice to you again is That you ought to Save Your Pennies Then ‘he-putted and (ha! ha!) he missed it, clean! So we're sitting, dark and doubtful, Melancholious and poutiul, By our thirsty, gasolineless Motor Car; And if no attention’s paid us And if someone doesn’t aid us We Are Going Right Around to Tell T. R.! Arthur Guiterman, What Are Books Anyway? HERE in New York are the bookshops of yester-year? Newspaper correspondents have recently been indulg- ing in comments on the disappearance of the old bookshops of the Metropolis. At one time they were quite numerous, but they have been gradually growing fewer, until now it is quite difficult to find a place with traditions, where one may browse and “snatch a fearful joy” for a half hour or so. What do these correspondents expect? It is almost impossible to get through the day’s advertise- ments before dusk, without indulging in mere literature. ome comicbooks.com