Life, 1913-05-15 · page 14 of 52
Life — May 15, 1913 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical poem by Wallace Irwin critiques wealthy people's dismissal of poverty. The opening quote from Dr. Albert Shaw frames the theme: the rich claim hunger among the poor is merely psychological, not real. The poem's narrative follows a starving man encountering well-fed people offering empty platitudes instead of food—a Chateau Lafitte wine suggestion, fried eggs, a hash-mill. Each rejection of genuine need reinforces the satire: the affluent convince themselves the poor aren't *actually* hungry, merely lacking "pride" or proper attitude. The illustration shows a wealthy woman distributing charity while poor children gather beneath, visually embodying the disconnect between wealthy benevolence and genuine destitution. The bottom caption—about tomato soup—emphasizes how the poor make do with minimal ingredients, undercutting the poem's central irony.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“There is no ‘submerged tenth’ in New York... the increased cost of living has grown out of the astounding expansion of the wants of the entire population Lusuries of the Jew ccome the wants of the —Dr. Albert Shi HE was withered and old, Snow white was his hair, As he shivered with cold On a bench in the Square. “How famished I feel!” His voice was a creak. “T've had not a meal Since Saturday week.” “Cheer up, worthy man!” I cheerfully said, “Sure Charity can Still offer you bread.” “Me bread? Say, you fake, What I takes when I eat Is a porterhouse steak in a speech. LIFE With some Chateau Lafitte. If you ain’t got that same, Well, I'd relish for sure Some guinea supréme, Or a good plat du jour.” “Your palate is high!” I exclaimed in disgust, “Though I cannot deny You are long on the ‘crust.’ Come now! Over there Is a hash-mill for gents Where they serve wholesome fare For twenty-five cents.” “Gosh, Boss!” O’er his face Came a sorrowful look. “T've tried that there place And I don’t like the cook. I may be a tramp But I knows howta cat!" Up rose the old scamp On his tottering feet. “Stay, Uncle!” I cried, Hunger, an Illusion “Limp and weak are your legs. Come, keep down your pride With a mess of fried eggs! He fell in a faint. A policeman in blue Approached, “ Sir, it ain’t Very thoughtful of you!” Though I told him my tale, Still he frowned like a Moor And convoyed me to jail For insulting the poor. (This story ain't true, But it’s based on the raw, Though stern, point of view Of one Dr. Al Shaw. No, friend, you are blind Or else biased or green, If you've not met the kind Of a tramp that I mean.) Wallace Irwin. “WHEN YOU MAKE TOMATO SOUP, MRS. JONES, DO YOU USE A TOMATO?” “NO, I JUST MAKE IT PLAIN” comicbooks.com