Life, 1921-07-28 · page 14 of 34
Life — July 28, 1921 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains two satirical pieces: **"Bad Form"** (top cartoon): Depicts a woman in silhouette pointing at two men. The caption jokes about her being well-connected because "her father is in the advertising business." This satirizes the social climbing and status-seeking among the wealthy, where professional connections matter more than actual merit or character. **"Going the Pace"** (bottom cartoon): Shows two society women in conversation. Mrs. Castlebury brags about her busy social schedule ("slumming"), while Mrs. Van Antler expresses wonder at finding time for additional activities. This mocks the leisure-class obsession with constant social engagement and fashionable activities—even pretending to visit poor neighborhoods ("slumming") as entertainment. Both pieces ridicule upper-class frivolity and social pretension.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Bad Form “Hasn’t that girl got a wonderful follow-through!” “Follow-up, you mean. Her father is in the advertising business.” Going the Pace Mrs. Castlebury: Ive had such an interesting day. I’ve been slumming. Mrs. Van Antler: My dear, you are a wonder. I don’t see how you find time to add anything more to your social activities. LIFeE Plaint of a Dog—Muzzled ATTY, jet-black flies With globular, striated eyes Of-gold-green, purpled rings; And fan-shaped, gossamer wings, Pirouette spirally In the blurred blue air, Tantalizingly Just where My cold black nose Itches And twitches Upward at those Odious black straps that bind my snout, Keeping the happy world of barks in, And the happy world of flies out. What did I do To deserve this? I ask you, Sir and Miss, Passing freely by my master’s lawn Without a hateful muzzle pressing on Your chin and jaws: What weighty laws Did I violate with my wagging tail Or my gladsome bark? Those flies, They bask and drone On the bristling hair of my back. I can’t even yawn And with feigned indifference attack The conceit of that blue bulge Beneath their wings. They know they’ve got me. And I know, bitterly, That no more can I mince the tasty things. Flies, listen. (Nobody else will.) Tell me, I ask, This abominable contrivance, This unsightly corset, this tooth fence, This ghastly mask That distorts me so I look as bent on bale As master’s wife does in her new French veil: Tell me, do I merit this, I who never snapped at chick or child, I who lay with paws crossed and eyes mild, Even when the foul dog catcher passed With the wretched quarry that is his? Nay, even so circumspect was I In the dignity of my full doghood That a quill-tailed feline, arching by With snarling spit, scarcely would Elicit a growl from me. I ask you, flies—O, stop your roaring In my ears. I’m better snoring In the sun than seeking for the plan That drove amuck the mind of man When he invented muzzles. Martha Ostenso. comicbooks.com