Life, 1922-10-12 · page 14 of 36
Life — October 12, 1922 — page 14: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
The cartoon shows a domestic scene where a mother is attempting to bathe a young child while the child protests, "I can't get him clean, Mother. Couldn't we leave him in soak over night?" This is gentle household humor satirizing the universal difficulty of bathing reluctant children. The joke relies on the child's literal suggestion—soaking overnight—as a humorous solution to the mother's frustration with getting the boy clean. Below is a poem titled "Questions (An Authoress Contemplates Marriage)" by M.C.L. It's a woman's anxious reflection on marriage, expressing doubts about whether her future husband will love her if she lacks domestic skills (baking, knitting, making furniture). The poem's final lines reveal ironic self-awareness—she wishes she'd learned to cook instead of write books, satirizing both women's limited expected roles and intellectual women's social anxieties about marriageability.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Little Girl: I can’t get him clean, Mother. Couldn’t we leave him in soak over night? Questions (An Authoress Contemplates Marriage) H, when you find I cannot bake A golden sponge-like angel cake, Nor even make a rust-brown pie, Nor knit for you a silken tie, With every other row deep blue To match the sailor eyes of you, And when you find I have no knack For making with a carpet tack A window-seat, or book-shelf small, That we could hang upon the wall, I wonder if you'll love me then, Will love me quite the same as when Upon that long expected day At last you'll take me quite away, To live forever, just we two, As million other lovers do— In a small cottage on a hill; I wonder if you even will Forgive, and kiss my tears away, When with burnt fingers I shall pay For never having learned to cook, Because I’d rather read a book? I have a bag of dreams instead, And I can weave around your head A spell, and show you fairy-land, Where we can wander hand in hand— And in the garden of your heart, In a small corner set apart, I can plant deep a rowan tree To make you always think of me, And I can make a wreath for you Of golden mist and diamond dew, And dress myself in Queen Anne’s lace— But would my fancies take the place Of things your mother used to make, Like shirts and ties and bread and cake? Or would you, man-like, turn away, And show at last your feet of clay? I wish that I had learned to cook, Instead of how to write a book! comicbooks.com