Life — December 7, 1922 — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

= Sevil=s wh—~s MY) “Jasper, see if you can think of anyone we've forgotten to get a present for.” Better Never than Late 'HERE was only one way to avoid the coal shortage, and that was to move away from it. Eleanor and I realized as much when a personal canvass of sixteen —or was it seventeen?—coal yards had convinced us that the essential fuel was going to be sold by the gram this winter. “You might leave your name and address,” replied one dealer in an- thracite and sarcasm, according to the formula of the trade. “We may have some later on, but ten tons of coal—” “He sniffed discouragingly, and added, “You wouldn’t like a bushel of pearls, or a gallon of ru- bies, or maybe a few cubic yards of platinum ?” Assuredly we would have liked any or all of them, though our first concern was our coal bin. But, as I noted before, we realized the futility cf our desires, and when Eleanor came across that advertisement of a tour of the world, we decided to go. Anything to save us from a winter of shivering. Followed a fortnight of shopping, during which we parted with the “I'm darned if I will.” fortune that would otherwise have gone to miners and operators. We were ready, at last, with ex- actly forty-three minutes left -to catch the steamer. The taxi stood waiting in front of our home, while the driver and I made a half-dozen laps with assorted specimens of lug- gage. Then Eleanor and I climbed into the tonneau. Down the street came a lumber- ing, groaning truck, loaded with coal. “Close your eyes, dear,” I com- manded, wishing to spare my wife any unnecessary suffering. The truck stopped. The driver dismounted. “This where Mr. lives?” he asked. A dire foreboding gripped me. My name happens to be Drummond. I found strength, somehow, to ad- mit my identity. “Five ton of coal for you,” the driver informed me. “Five more coming later on. Where shall I put ite” Somehow or other, that tour of the world was a miserable failure. Both Eleanor and I hated every mo- ment of it. Drummond J.K.M. The New Silhouette HE so-called Grecian silhou- ette— One can but view it with regret, This mode that sports the trailing shawl Is fit for some, but not for all. God pity her who’s lank and lean— A veritable pole de bean, Draped in an unbecoming screen. This weird, cubistic mode is strange, Perchance, in time, a subtle change Will make it seem not to reveal Such kinship to a sack de meal; And we who scoff ourselves may meet In draperies all too complete, With crooked hems that sweep the street. Perhaps we should not so berate This mode before it gets its gait. It is not svelte—it is not gay— And yet we all may get that way, For Fashion is a mistress stern. Full brave are they who dare to spurn Her new decrees. We all may haste To look the way that home-brews taste. M. H. C. comicbooks.com