Life — July 24, 1913 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

“RIB The Heights of Absurdity OU’'VE heard of them, no doubt. Mr. and Mrs, Twitter had lived on the Heights of Ab- surdity ever since they had married and had begun to take their place in the world. Every- body they knew lived there. They were never lonely. Mr. Twitter’s salary was not large. They had to economize in many ways. They kept one maid—not that Mrs. Twitter was frail; quite the reverse— but so that she might have leisure to go around amongst her friends and play bridge and amuse herself while Mr. Twitter was at the office. They had no children—really couldn't af- ford them on Mr. Twitter's salary !— but they managed to be fairly happy without them. One thing that did worry them a little was that they were both inclined to put on flesh. There were two reasons for this. One was that they “lived well”—I think that’s what they call it on the Heights of Absurdity—had three “good, square meals” a day and a “snack” at bed- time. The other reason for their un- due stoutness was lack of exercise. Mr. Twitter motored to the train in the morning, and back again at night. He rarely put a foot to the ground. Mrs. Twitter, too, rode everywhere in the auto. She was most uncomfort- able, what with increasing flesh and the demands of the modes for slim- ness! She was girded so snugly, poor lady, that had it not been for the auto, she could never have gotten ‘round to the luncheons, teas and din- ners that filled up her waking hours. Obviously, something had to be done. They consulted an eminent (and very expensive) physician, He ad- vised the use of aerated waters at meals (since he could hardly advise them to eat less!) and exercise—yes, exercise, If the Twitters had lived on the Plains of Common-sense they would undoubtedly have seen that the obvious thing to do was to discharge the maid and get rid of the auto. Mrs. Twitter would have cooked plainer things and fewer of them, and the exercise in- volved in doing her own work would have made her as slim as a young girl —to say nothing of the luncheons and dinners she would have missed for the lack of the auto—and time to go to them. As for poor, fat Mr, Twitter, there was—had he chosen to consider it—the lawn to mow, or the snow to shovel--as the season provided—or the furnace to tend to, or all sorts of odds and ends of things about the house to do—to say nothing of the walks to and from the station which he might have taken. It seems strange, but this solution never occurred to the Twitters. In- stead, they joined a country club, though it strained their resources a bit. Mr. Twitter played golf nearly every afternoon, while Mrs. Twitter sat around on the porch of the club- house and waited for him to be through. Then they had a bountiful supper and motored home. Mrs. Twitter went to a fashionable gym- nasium twice a week, and swung clubs and learned fancy dancing, and other days she had an energetic masseuse roll and punch her till she wept and bemoaned her fate. It was at this point that a fiat went forth from the heads of the firm for which Mr. Twitter worked, to reduce expenses. So salaries were cut right and left. Mr. Twitter suffered with the rest. Then, indeed, they did worry, if you like! The first of every month was martyrdom to both of them. Noth- ing but bills—bills—bills! that they could not pay. It was only in mid- month that the Twitters were happy— then they could forget! But it did not enter their poor, troubled minds that they could relinquish anything they had. “It isn’t. as though we were extravagant,” wailed Mrs. Twitter, dabbing her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “ We have nothing that our neighbors have not. We buy only necessities!” She pushed’ back across the breakfast table the bills Mr. Twit- ter had handed her—her dressmaker’s bill, the bills for her gym and fancy dancing, her masseuse’s account, and the bills overdue at the department stores. Mr. Twitter wriggled uneasily. “I'll pay the chauffeur and the servants,” he said miserably, “and let my club bills go for the present—everyone else is behindhand. The steward told me so last month. And so they literally worried along. They got deeper and deeper into debt. By degrees anxiety wrote itself on their fat faces. They got careworn and old. Still they kept on in the routine—the treadmill, if you please— of their little “set.” There are all sorts of ways to be happy. This was the Twitters’ way. Every once in a while there were whacking big doctors’ bills in addition. The strain gave Mrs. Twitter nervous prostration. An operation was in order. Mr. Twitter, too, suffered from the effects of a heat stroke acquired one very hot day in town. Mr. Twit- ter was dressed in heavy woolen tweeds—he wore a thick coat and waistcoat. It never occurred to the poor man to take them off and be cool. None of his “set” ever did such a thing! There are glorious martyrs among the men folks on Absurdity Heights. So T sitter sweltered and succumbed. The Twitters still live on the Heights of Absurdity. They have plenty of company. They think this world is a cruel place. But they pay out good money to the doctor to keep them in it—who knows, they might be worse off in the other world! And all the time there are the quiet, peaceful Plains of Common-sense lying in full sight. Sometimes, at the first of the month, when bills flutter down like evil-winged bats, the Twitters gaze wistfully across to these level plains. They look at each other, brightening with a sudden thought. Perhaps—yes, perhaps they could—— But no, All their “ set” live on the Heights of Ab- surdity. C. Hilton-Turvey. comicbooks.com