Life — December 7, 1922 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

* LIFE Jinmay Guitvas F you turn to the opening of Stevenson's story, 4 Lodging for the Night, and transpose the scene from Paris to London you will find the setting of the sketch I have in mind. In case you have forgotten that lovely picture, I ask you to think of high gabled roofs, smoking chimney pots, half-timbered houses that bulge into pleasant lines —in fact all the aspects of medie- val London. Over it as Stevenson tale the snow drifts down, filling the streets with silence. It is early morning on Christmas Day in the year 1528. Very few of the inhabitants are abroad be- cause it is early and also because it is a holiday and a cold one. Around the corner of a pretentious house came a little group of men clad in doublet and hose, muffled up around their necks against the nipping cold. Stopping underneath a casement window they suddenly burst into song. “God rest you merry, gentlemen! Let nothing you dismay,” was the carol that mounted on the frosty air. Before the waits had finished their song a por- tentous figure appeared bearing a stave. “Stop!” he cried in a booming voice. “In the name of the King, cease. I represent the Society for the Suppression of Un- necessary Noise. No more of your yowlings—Begone !” The singers slunk away, crest- fallen. But see, another little group ap- proached the same house, dragging a huge log upon which one of their in the’ number sat astride. From a neighbor- ing doorway stepped another muf- fled figure wearing the insignia of office. An imperious gesture of his hand, and the merry group eased up on the ropes, and came to a halt. “What is this?” demanded the in- truder, showing -his badge. “How is it you pull this once noble tree through the streets of London?” “"Tis only a yule-log,” explained he who sat astride. “‘Tis a time- honored custom.” “Aw, go jump in the Thames,” responded the other petulantly. “I’m a “Ym the Fuel Administrator.” the Fuel Administrator and as such I command you to drag this log to the Municipal Wood Yard. It’s confiscated.” Exeunt the merry-makers drag- ging log followed by the Fuel Administrator. To the left, in the porch of the church opposite, stood a gloomy in- dividual wearing a black cloak and looking for all the world like a bird of prey—waiting. Presently he stepped nimbly out of his hiding-place and laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of the young clerk who was passing. “What is that you are wearing in your cap, my fine young gallows- bird?” he demanded. “Oh, sir, that is but a sprig of holly — Christmas, you know, sir,” said the clerk, wincing under the gripping hand. “Well, I'd have you know that I am an officer of the Society Op- posed to Gauds, Vanities and Fal- lals for Personal Adorn- ment. Take that stuff off, and if I catch you again with any such trumpery foolishness I'll clout you right merrily over the dome.” So saying, he ad- ministered a swift kick to the clerk, who broke into a run and disappeared around the corner. No sooner had this little drama been enacted than a villainous, hawk-nosed person approached the service door of a large mansion and, picking up the knocker, beat a re- sounding tattoo. The door was flung open by a white- garbed cook. “I have come to inspect your kitchen and larder,” he said, forcing his way past the other. “Ah, what have we here? Game pasty — um — trussed fowl and, as I live and breathe, a boar’s head. Know you not, wretched cook, that I am the chief inspector of the Veg- comicbooks.com