Life, 1922-12-07 · page 56 of 80
Life — December 7, 1922 — page 56: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical piece compares old and new technologies through personified objects. A 135-year-old grandfather clock, long ignored by its owners, finally expects appreciation when invited guests arrive specifically to "hear eleven o'clock strike." However, the owners instead gather around "a little black box with some wires attached to it"—a radio—to listen to an official broadcast "straight from Washington." The joke targets the rapid cultural shift toward radio in the early 20th century. The clock's proud, traditional chime is literally drowned out by the new medium; the owners frantically remove their headphones, blaming the clock's noise for ruining the broadcast. The satire mocks both generational obsolescence and society's wholesale abandonment of old customs for modern convenience. The clock's indignant vow "I shall positively never strike again" humorously expresses how technological disruption renders tradition not just unwanted but actively resented.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
In Amity Township Life-long Enemies Speak on Christmas Day “A Merry Christmas to ye—Deacon White!” “And the same to you, Mister Jones!” Grandfather’s Clock and the Radio © UH!” said the Grandfather's Clock, “I'll tell you how it was. In the first place, let me explain that I’ve stood in this room, year in and year out, sticking faithfully to my ticking, except when they for- got to wind me, and getting never so much as a word of appreciation from any of them. And I an heir- loom, too. “Well, you can comprehend from this, I judge, that I was surprised, to put it mildly, when I overheard my owner—he’s the great-great- grandson of my original owner— say to a visitor one evening: ‘Don’t go yet; stay around and hear-eleven o'clock strike.’ “Fair enough, I thought. I’m one hundred and thirty-five years old, and it was high time somebody took a little notice of me. Better late than never, I figured. I am proud to say that mine is a particularly clear and bell-like chime. And when I strike an hour,—well, I don’t wish to boast, but people have said that they could hear me .out in the middle of the next street. “Still, an inwited guest—invited especially to hear me strike—was an unusual honor, even for an heirloom. ““No more than is my due,’ I re- flected. But why eleven o'clock? Why not midnight, and an added stroke? Still, I was not disposed to be critical. The precise hour mat- tered not. “They say there is no fool like an old fool, and I am one hundred and thirty-five years old. I should have been prepared for it, I suppose. “IT was ticking along in my best style, resolving to strike eleven so that they’d be proud of me, when at just about five minutes before the hour, my owner and that precious guest of his turned their backs squarely on me and sat down at a table before a little black box with some wires attached to it. “Manners are not what they were when I was young,’ I ruminated. ‘However—’ “My owner favored me with not the slightest attention, remarking, as he fastened some round discs to his ears and a similar pair to his guest's: “ ‘We'll get it official, straight from Washington. They give it to us every night. Listen sharp, now.’ “And then there was silence, bro- ken only by my ticking. Then came the hour. “Well” I said to myself, ‘they're not listening, either of them, but he asked that fellow to stick around and hear eleven o'clock strike, so here goes, the best I know how.’ “I struck; and I flatter myself that in all my one hundred and thirty-five years, I never did it better. Clear, beautifully timed, with full, complete tones. “And what do you suppose hap- pened? It was, and is, incredible. I can’t understand it yet. My owner jumped out of his chair, yanked those little discs from his ears, and cried: “I might have known it! We could have heard it if it hadn't been for that old fire-bell of a grand- father’s clock, striking eleven. Why didn’t I think to stop it!’ “Can you, as they say these days, beat it? “I shall positively never strike again. “And very likely I shall quit going altogether !” A. H. F. comicbooks.com