Life, 1922-04-20 · page 26 of 34
Life — April 20, 1922 — page 26: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page from *Life* magazine contains several pieces of social satire typical of early 20th-century American humor: **"The Soul of Wit"** mocks vapid society women who cannot tell a joke coherently. The narrator launches into an anecdote about Scottish men but constantly digresses into gossip about furs, a Pomeranian dog, and correspondence—completely losing the thread. The satire targets wealthy, scattered women of leisure whose self-absorption and pretension render them incapable of genuine wit or communication. **"Her Principles"** presents a cynical progression: a woman resists temptation in youth, gradually succumbs with age, and finally desperately wishes for temptation in old age—satirizing hypocrisy about morality and desire. **"A Trip to the Holy Land"** illustrates a common con: someone falsely claims their worn-out car has traveled 55,000 miles without repair—mocking people who lie transparently when selling used goods. **"The Golfer's Lullaby"** is lighthearted verse addressing a baby as if it were a golf ball, playing on golfers' obsessive passion. All pieces exemplify *Life*'s satirical tone targeting pretension, dishonesty, and social absurdity.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
He Gives People the Willies Her Principles HEN she was eighteen she was tempted frequently and frequently resisted temptation. When she was twenty-eight she was tempted occasionally and occasionally resisted temptation. When she was thirty-eight she was tempted seldom and seldom resisted temptation. And when she was forty-eight she wished for temptation and—continued to wish. Next! EXT ¢t’ th’ feller that has suddenly resigned from a lucrative position, or who wants t’ sell out on ac- count o’ failin’ health, th’ worst liar we know of since th’ days o’ th’ feller that had a family horse t’ sell is th’ liar that points t’ his car an’ says, “Ther’s a little boat that’s gone fifty-five thousan’ miles an’ she’s never had a wrench on her.”—Kin Hubbard. A Trip to the Holy Land The Soul of Wit HEARD the funniest joke today. Really, Frank, you'll explode over it. I did. People stared at me as though I were some sort of freak, but I couldn’t stop laughing to save my soul. I was convulsed. Carry told me. She has a new set of furs. Silver fox. Stunning. Fred gave them to her. Birthday, you know. Some women are so fortu- nate. Anda Pom. Oh! The darlingest little creature. | adore it. It has such an air. Not quite blasé, but indif- ferent, aristocratic. Not at all moved by anything common. place. Carry said that when her uncle called, the profes- sor, you know—Isn’t it strange that man never made any- thing of himself? Disgracefully poor. Anyway, when he called the Pom was bored stiff. Sniffed audibly several times. Discernment, you see. Let me see. What was I saying? Oh, yes. The joke. So witty. You'll collapse when you hear it. Well, there were two Scotchmen and they passed a post office. By the way, did you mail the letters I gave you this morning? They were important. One of them had a check for Céleste and you know how independent that woman is. Sues if you let your bills run even six months. That sort of per- son has no sense of delicacy about monetary matters. I'd drop her in a minute if she didn’t make the only wearable gowns in town. That reminds me. I must order some to- morrow. I haven’t a decent stitch. Well, the first Scot said to his friend, “Wait a minute, Jock.” Funny, that all Scotchmen are named Jock, isn’t it? He said, “Wait a minute, Jock, I’ve got to write a letter.” And the friend said, “Are you going to write it in the post office?” as if anyone would. Imagine trying to answer your correspondence in such a place. It takes me hours and hours to think of what to say, and then I always have a splitting headache when I've finished. And you know what my headaches are. Frightful. That’s why I dread letter writing. And then the first Scot answered, indignantly, “Of course not. I’m going to write my letters at home, but my fountain pen’s dry and I have to fill it.” Isn't that the funniest thing ever? I think the Scotch are so witty. So dry. Don’t you? James K. McGuinness. The Golfer’s Lullaby LEEP, little one, Father watches o’er thee; Thy bed’s a good lie, thy pillow’s a tee, And thou, a wee ball all brambled and white, Shalt sail through the air on a magical flight. Hush-a-bye, little one, lie still, and so Straight down the fairway of Sleep shalt thou go. But if thou dost toss and dost turn in thy bed Thou wilt go into the Rough then, instead; And Father will hunt for thee all the night through Down courses in Dreamland, through grasses and dew— High grass of bad dreams and bunkers of tears, Wide fields of wakefulness, sand-pits of fears; He will hunt through the dangerous dim Out-of-Bounds (Where a dark phantom Bogey lives, haunting the grounds) But never will come on his little lost ball Because it. would never lie quiet at all! So hush-a-bye, little one, lie still, and so Straight down the fairway of Sleep shalt thou go. Evelyn Lawson. Morortst: State Road? NatIvE: How far is it to the next village hy the About four detours. comicbooks.com