Life, 1922-06-08 · page 6 of 34
Life — June 8, 1922 — page 6: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
**The Main Cartoon:** The large illustration depicts a mounted sportsman riding away from a frustrated woman standing near a windswept tree, titled "The 'Punch' Sportsman." The caption reads: "Every week for the past seventy years I've had to do this. I'm fed up." **The Satire:** This mocks the predictable formula of *Punch* magazine's humor—apparently depicting the same domestic conflict scenario repeated weekly for decades. The woman appears to be Ermintrude (referenced in the text columns), suggesting the cartoon ridicules how *Punch* recycled identical marital-discord jokes as their standard comedic format. **Accompanying Text:** The page includes humorous anecdotes titled "Eye, Spy" and "The Traveller," which are unrelated short comedic pieces typical of the magazine's miscellaneous humor format.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
LIFE, WITH APOLOGIES TO PUNCH a The “Punch” Sportsman. ——s ge “EVERY WEEK FOR THE PAST SEVENTY YEARS I'VE HAD TO DO THIS. Rocem Kigov er greet I'M FEp up.” “EYE, SPY—” ERMINTRUDE has never held my ac- complishments as a gardener in very great awe. To her I am just jolly old Phil. Which, after all, is all that I am. I therefore found it difficult to con- vince Ermintrude of my desire to dig. “Dig?” she said. “Dig what?” “Oh, any jolly old thing,” I replied, somewhat nettled. As if, once I had given enough thought to the thing to have come to a conclusion to dig, I had not also selected an object for my en- deavours. “Are you sure you know how?” she asked. “Absolutely,” I said with dignity. I find that it does not pay to become elaborate in reporting to Ermintrude. She doesn’t listen after the first three words. “Abelard didn’t know how to dig,” she said. “Abelard did know how to dig,” I replied heatedly, “and, even if he didn’t, I don’t quite see why some ob- scure inhibition in his make-up should have any effect on my perfectly decent impulses here in Devon.” “You forget, dear,” said Ermintrude, “that Abelard was also a monk.” “A very rotten monk, though, you must admit. Just think back, like a dear.” I had her there. “Dig if you feel that you must,” she replied, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s just wasted energy. Will you have some tea first?” “Ripping idea!” I said, and vaulted into the tiffin table. “Do you know, old thing, I’ve about come to the con- clusion that I sha’n’t dig at all.” “Tea or lemon?” said Ermintrude. R. C. B. THE TRAVELLER |, Who'd choose to be a traveller?— = That anxious railway-guide unraveller I Who spends his nights in berths and 4 bunks, His days in chaperoning trunks*; Who stands in line at gates and wickets To spend his means on costly tickets | To Irkutsk, Liverpool and Yap And other dots upon the map. He never rests, but always hurries It From place to place, beset with worries About hotels and future trips And just how much to give in tips. He plods through galleries, museums, Cathedrals, castles, coliseums, And villages reputed quaint With patience worthy of a saint To give his friends the chance of hooting, “You didn’t visit Little Tooting ?!!” * Yankee for boxes. comicbooks.com