Life — November 16, 1922 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

November This day did everything 9th go wrong for me. First the telephone bell a-ring- ing in my ear as early as eight o’clock, and it was a man wanting to know if he could interest me in a radio outfit. Then Samuel had to recall the hand last night wherein I took him out of a double which would have gained us three or four hundred, which we needed badly enough, God knows, but I will do the same thing again in spite of all his talk, for that he does overesti- mate his hands always and goes wild at the sight of six and seven cards in the same suit. Nor could I get my hair to suit me, neither, though Emilie and I did struggle with it till the wave was well nigh out. At some. pains to choose a gown to put on, too. No matter how much thought I take of what I shall wear or how large a ward- robe I assemble, I never seem to have the right garment for any given occasion. Methirks it is the same with all my sex. November Lay late, afterwards 10th walking through the town to counteract hav- ing eaten bacon for breakfast, for I could not behold Sam’s rasher with- cut ordering one for myself, so neg- ligible is my will power. All the shops gay with their autumn dis- plays, and I did marvel again that the only gownes I ever long to buy are always in the windows of dry clean- ers.... To an inn, where a gay gath- ering for luncheon because Edith Eyre is returned from traveling abroad. Much talk of our country- men and their goings-on in Europe, Edith telling of a man who halted the discourse of a guide on Mt. Vesuvius in order to give a full account of the San Francisco earth- quake, which he had, unfortunately, survived. I am determined to get to Vienna next summer, even though I must ship as a stewardess. For Lord! from what I hear, it is poss- ible to buy pear-shaped diamonds there for thirty or forty cents... . With my husband in the evening to Marge Boothby’s, where a great deal ot mad stir, and a man there who told me he had never had a drink in his life, and I did not know what to say in reply, if anything. November Early up, through hear- 11th ing Samuel’s song of “Come, My Soul, Thou Must Be Waking!” And sometimes methinks I should never have mar- ried him if { had known that he was an ex-choir boy. There were divers and sundry ‘similar points on which his mother held out information.... To a fortune-teller this afternoon with Kate Mitchell, and we all a-twitter over his remarkable revela- tions. But my husband, poor wretch, was skeptical when we told him of it, and saw no reason in paying out five dollars to hear our names and ages, which we already knew. And when he went on to say that there was no word of truth in the utterances of a sooth- sayer, I did ask him how the prophet came, then, to tell me that I had a loving and generous husband of exceptional efficiency and nobility of character. And that was the end of that, for which I thank God. BwL. Big Game Day AWN anew, and the young day lighting Wisps of flame in the sodden sky, Spreading far as the lashing, biting Morn winds hurry the gray clouds by; The brown grass under the silver shrouding Of shimmered mist on November's way, The brown road lit with the motors crowding The hillside over on Big Game Day. Such a morn in the days gone stray- ing Idly into the Land of Then Found me leaping from bed, half- praying Strength not given the sons of men, The flush that came from the earth’s rim creeping Along the edge of the rising flame, The wind flung into my cheeks a-leaping High with the thoughts of the coming game— High with thoughts of the task a-waiting, Grim when the new-born day was old. Then, when the weary sun, abating, Flooded the stands with a molten gold, The sudden dash and the wild cheers roaring— “Hur—rah! Hur—rah!” and your breath grown shy— The whistle’s shrill and the first cick soaring To tumble drunk from the Autumn sky. Tier on tier from the field receding, ’Gainst the gray of the outer bowl, Frenzied thousands in frenzy plead- ing— Ours is one with the Roman soul. The maidens banked like a florist’s glory In garments dyed at the rainbow’s edge, And only one (what an ancient story!) Could see me under the flying wedge. comicbooks.com