Life, 1914-12-03 · page 49 of 92
Life — December 3, 1914 — page 49: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This 1917 Life magazine story satirizes both romantic adventure fantasies and women's changing social roles. A broke poet buys a "magic carpet" (evoking *Arabian Nights*) from an Oriental merchant and takes it to Africa with Mrs. Strappy, a wealthy, assertive woman. The humor targets: 1. **The poet's pretensions**: He's so poor he fantasizes about entering rich people's homes, yet romanticizes African adventure. 2. **Mrs. Strappy's character**: She's domineering, practical, and unromantic—constantly calling out the poet's excuses and "inventing" solutions. She positions herself as superior (declaring herself "Razor-Strap Queen Dowager"). 3. **Racial/colonial attitudes**: The cannibals and African setting are played for comic exoticism; the poet and Mrs. Strappy treat them as curiosities. 4. **Gender role reversal**: Mrs. Strappy controls the adventure, takes initiative, and treats the poet dismissively—reflecting anxiety about increasingly independent women circa 1917. The satire mocks both impractical male romanticism and the "modern woman" archetype.
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LAO LIFE KROES A Corner in Transportation By G. S. Girardet (Watch for Your Opportunity, Young Man!) ss INCE Fate is obviously against me,” I cried aloud, S “T shall resort to desperate measures!” “T have the very thing for you here, sir,” said a dubious-looking Oriental, accosting me. “What untoward destiny urged you to offer your wares to a man who has nothing but fifteen cents in the world?” “You may have it for fif- “T will endow a home for poets right away.” . “T don’t want a home. I want something exciting.” “Get married.” “T have no mone; “You are forever inventing excuses! initiative.” You have no itiative! Say the word and we start for the wilds of Africa right off.” teen cents, sir,” he said. “Here it is.” And he offered me a small but gorgeous Persian carpet. “It is no vulgar carpet, but the au- thentic traveling-carpet of the Arabian Nights.” “For fifteen cents?” “In consequence of a solemn vow, yes. Between gentlemen this ought to suf- fice.” “Here goes!” I cried. “Here are my fifteen last cents.” I walked into Central Park, the carpet under my arm. The sight of the palaces of the .rich stirred my despair once more. “Never shall I own a five- million-dollar abomination in marble,” I wailed. “ Never shall I be called a distin- guished clubman or a promi- nent globe-trotter. . . But, thanks to the magic carpet, I can at least enter their homes and peep . . .” “Why the wilds of Af- rica?” “I chose the spot at ran- dom, of course, If you pre- fer the South Pole . . .” “No. We said Africa.” She squatted by my side. We whizzed through the air, and in a second the carpet tumbled us into the middle of a glade. “And now, my dear irre- sponsible poet,” she said, “what shall we do next? It’s very hot here.” “Cannot be helped. don't invent excuses.” “T don't,” she cried, with a withering look. ‘You im- pudent!” “Here are some cannibals coming,” I said. “As a Queen Dowager . . . My hint- was not needed. Mrs. Strappy had advanced of her own accord. “Tam the razor-strap Queen Dowager,” she de- clared. Pray, No sooner said than done. 1 unfolded the carpet in the middle of the path, squatted upon it (it startled a policeman), uttered my wish and... “Well, I never!” said the Queen Dowager. husband had been the razor-strap king.) “My carpet’s fault entirely,” I explained. fifteen cents,” “T'll give you twenty-five cents for it: ten cents clear profit for you. Put them in the bank. Keep smiling and get a start in life.” “The carpet is not for sale, my dear Mrs. Million- aires. Strappy.” “My dear Mrs. Strappy, I am a poet in desperate cir- cumstances, so desperate, in fact, that I almost thought of looking for a job.” (Her late “Tt cost me “MAYBE SANTA CLAUS'LL COME IF THEY’S CLEAN” “Me Bamboo King,” an- swered the foremost of the cannibals. “You marry me?” “Not on your life! Here, Poet—what's your real name, anyway ?—come forward; here are the ladies.” I came forward. One of the women approached me and felt my arm carefully, I had seen women at home do the same to broilers in the meat-market. In return I patted her cheek; the effect was quite favorable. I have a little way of my own with women. . . Before long we sat before a kingly feast. “As like as not, it’s human flesh,” I said. “Excuses again?” she asked, with a frown. “I? No! I delight in it.” 1 swallowed my piece; she swallowed hers. “Excellent,” I said. “Beats French cooking,” she retorted. (But that was not true.) comicbooks.com