Life, 1916-12-07 · page 26 of 94
Life — December 7, 1916 — page 26: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page presents **World War I era Christmas content** (likely 1914-1918). The poem "Christmas Roses" is a sentimental elegy contrasting pre-war London pleasures—champagne lunches, skating, polo—with soldiers' deaths. The refrain "England—we sent our sons to you!" expresses the sacrifice demanded by the war. The illustration labeled "FAITH" appears to depict soldiers or a grave scene, reinforcing the elegiac tone. The brief satirical dialogue at bottom—"Trimming the Chapel"—mocks class pretension: a servant leaves her employer despite generous telephone privileges because she now has "me own private wire," suggesting wartime social mobility and newfound independence for working-class people. The short editorial quip questions whether Christmas's commercial exploitation actually benefits Christian mission work, implying hypocrisy in how the holiday is observed. **Overall theme**: Wartime loss juxtaposed with domestic social shifts and critiques of commercialism.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
1006 Christmas Roses W ate your toast and marmalade And drank your warm champagne With luncheon at the Carlton And tea in Mincing Lane. We skated down at Prince's And rode in Rotten Row, Then trotted to the Gaicty To sce the blooming show. But now the feet of armics tread Over the garden of our dead. A sash—a sword—across the blue; England—we sent our sons to you! We learned to speak our Kipling With proper splash and swing. We bought bouquets in Regent Street, And rooted for the King. We loved old London—fog or fair— And cheered your polo score. Deep in the dust we trailed that day To hear the lion roar. But now the masted banners wave Together on our soldiers’ grave— Bravest and best—proud, strong and true; England—we gave our hearts to you! There on the field of ages, Beneath a weeping sky, Wrapped in the mist of golden years, Our sons and brothers lie. Their shattered shield has fallen In shadow where they rest, Victors for God, the Cross and Right With roses on their breast! Do you hear the wen mourning, World of the old and new? Our dead with the men of England; Our hearts and tears for you! Kate Masterson. Christmas Life FAITH F the observance of Christmas ac- complished as much for Christianity as it does for commerce missions to the heathen would no longer be an- achronisms. TRIMMING THE CHAPEL RS. BAKER: Bridget, why are you leaving us? I let you use the ‘phone whenever you wish. Cook: Yes, mum, but I'm used to me own private wire.