Life, 1919-04-03 · page 33 of 60
Life — April 3, 1919 — page 33: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a whimsical illustrated poem by Oliver Herford about meeting a French theatrical actress nicknamed "Mam'selle Printemps" (French for "Miss Spring"). The satire works on multiple levels: **The Setup:** A theater manager named Tempus (Latin for "time") asks the narrator to write about a new French star. The joke plays on springtime—"Printemps" means spring in French, and the character is literally Spring personified. **The Humor:** The narrator sneaks past a grumpy groundhog doorman to find the actress primping by a pool, surrounded by Cupids arranging flowers in her hair. When she looks up and their eyes meet, the narrator realizes "she" is not actually a woman named Printemps, but Spring itself—the season. **The Satire:** This gently mocks the pretentiousness of French theatrical imports and the breathless romance surrounding them, while celebrating American nature and seasonal imagery instead. The elaborate French name means nothing; she's simply Spring. The accompanying sketch shows idealized nude or semi-draped figures in a natural woodland setting, reinforcing the allegorical theme.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Mam’selle Printemps ER Manager (a wise old Guy Named Tempus) asked me if I'd try To get in **Life’’ a line or two About Mam’‘selle Printemps, his new French Star. ‘Rehearsals start to-day,"* Said he. Je open first of May.’ A hole, half-hid in rusty grass, Was the stage door. | showed my pass. The Doorman shook his tail and scowled "You can't come in this way!"" he growled. You would have thought he owned the place. | sha'n't forget that Groundhog’s face — Seeing his shadow on the floor, He cried, “Be off!" and slammed the door. A Bluebird, recognizing me, Cried, ‘He's all right; he's here to see Mam'selle Printemps. Dull-witted ass! The man’s a critic—let him pass! Before a flow'r-rimmed pool she bent, Upon her mirror’d charms intent, While Cupids, one on either side, Their loving ministrations plied. One with a blissful maladdress Unveiled her slender loveliness, Another bound a chaplet fair Of purple crocus in her hair; Another gathered daffodil And apple-blossom; others still, With hyacinth and gillyflower, Turned Printemps’ room into a bower. Then she looked up . . | met her eyes . . Her eyes! “You darling dear! "’ | cried . . **And so It's you! How could you think I'd know Your name in French! There's no such thing! To me you always will be—Spring!" Oliver Herford. Imagine my surprise ! comicbooks.com