Life, 1914-12-17 · page 25 of 40
Life — December 17, 1914 — page 25: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page from *Life* magazine contains a political poem by Owen Seaman (from *Punch*) addressed to Germany during World War I. The cartoon above depicts a couple stranded in a snowy forest with their car stuck—captioned "Her Mistake: 'Hurry, James. I am nearly frozen'"—likely a visual metaphor for Germany's predicament. The poem is **sarcastic mockery** of German military achievements. Seaman taunts that despite Germany's boasts of conquering France, they've accomplished little: bombing Notre-Dame, failing to take Paris, and now being pushed back toward their borders. He invokes Russian forces to the east and British naval blockade as closing threats. The poem's bitter conclusion sarcastically "credits" Germany's one true achievement: the brutal invasion and devastation of Belgium, where they killed civilians and destroyed infrastructure. The satire's point: Germany's only real accomplishment is atrocity. This represents Allied wartime propaganda depicting Germany as failing militarily while excelling at war crimes.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
HER MISTAKE “HURRY, JAMES. 1 AM NEARLY FROZEN" To the Enemy, on His Achievement (By Sir Owen Seaman, in a recent issue of “ Punch”.) OW wanes the third moon since your conquering host Was to have laid our weakling army low, And walked through France at will For that loud boast What have you got to show? A bomb that chipped a tower of Notre Dame, Leaving its k like trippers’ knives that scar The haunts of beauty—that's the best lame You have achieved so far. Paris, that through her humbled Triumph-Arch Was doomed to see you tread your fathers’ tracks — Paris, your goal, now lies a si ” march Behind your homing backs. Pressed to the borders where you lastly passed Bulging with insolence and fat with pride, You stake your all upon a desperate cast To stem the gathering tide. Eastward the Russian draws you to his fold, Content, on his own ground, to bide his day, Out of whose toils not many feet of old Found the returning way. And still along the seas our watchers keep Their grip upon your throat with bands of steel, While that Armada, which should rake the deep, Skulks in its hole at Kiel So stands your record—stay, I ery you grace— I.wronged you. There is Belgium, where your sword Has bled to death a free and gallant race Whose life you held in ward: Where on your trail the smoking land lies bare Of hearth and homestead, and the dead babe clings About its murdered mother’s breast—ah, there, 8, you have done great things! comicbooks.com