Life, 1921-07-28 · page 26 of 34
Life — July 28, 1921 — page 26: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
**Top Section - "Strictly Business":** A con artist pitches a book compendium to St. Peter at Heaven's gates, using flowery language about literature and aesthetics. Peter initially welcomes him, but when the Stranger reveals his actual purpose is sales (not gift-giving), Peter refuses. The joke satirizes aggressive salesmanship and con artists who use intellectual pretense to manipulate customers. The mention of "Bernard Shaw" suggests this targets real salesmen of the era who exploited cultural snobbery. **Middle Jokes:** - "Nature faker" = a scientifictitious (fake scientific) person - Subway massage = ironic comment on rough urban transit as unintentional massage **Bottom Comic Strip - "There's the Rub":** Children argue over a caged bird. One claims the parrot bit him; another says he was teasing it; the third denies involvement—a simple children's blame-shifting scenario with no clear political meaning. The page demonstrates *Life* magazine's satirical humor targeting American commerce, pseudo-intellectualism, and everyday social absurdities circa early 20th century.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“Qh, excuse me! Are you the captain of this ship?” “Cap'n? No, indeed, mum. You see, th’ company hez ten vessels jes’ like this one, Well—I’m th’ lord high admiral o’ th’ fleet.” Defined “DA, what is a nature faker?” “A man who is scientifictitious, my son.” There’s the Rub OCTOR: Did you ever take reg- ular massage? “I ride in the subway every day.” LIFE Strictly Business HE Stranger stood outside the Pearly Gates, bearing in his hand a small black suitcase. At his third ring a panel swung back. “Who's there?” called Peter. “My friend,” said the Stranger, “you are interested in literature, are you not? You delight in the rapturés of romance, the zest of adventure, the high-souled melancholy of philosophy, and the tender strains of self-effacing poetry, do you not? You do. I can see it in your eye, in the intellectual mold of your head—” “But—” said Peter. “—and in your hands, which indicate, by their spatulate fingers, a ready appre- ciation of all that is aesthetically fash- ioned. I have here—” “Whoa,” cried Peter, jingling his keys. “a comprehensive compendium of all that is greatest in the literature of the world. No one can afford to be with- out it. It will shed its refulgent radiance over the homes of the poor, rescue the movie-stricken middle classes, and bring some light into even the separate estab- lishments of the rich. Here are James Russell and Amy Lowell, Tasso, Irving Berlin, Virgil, and Ring Lardner.” “I can’t stand it any longer,” groaned St. Peter. “You may come in. There's a tenor harp in my orchestra which lias been unused ever since Belial struck that discordant note. How’s your ear?” “You'll buy?” cried the Stranger. “Then it’s useless for me to come in. Just sign on the dotted line. I have another call to make this afternoon at Hades. My card. Yes, your credit is good. So long.” Peter looked at the card in some dis- appointment. “I thought it might be Bernard Shaw,” he said. “He’s due here next.” Louis Berton Crane, Jr. NE sweetly solemn thought— Let the Red bury the Red. “Hey! Your parrot nipped me finger.” “Ya teased him, that’s why!” did was— “I did not neither! All I “This—wow!” Jul a ee comicbooks.com