Life, 1923-02-08 · page 5 of 36
Life — February 8, 1923 — page 5: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page presents a poem by W.D. celebrating winter's beauty in natural settings ("forest floor," "woodland's lore"), contrasted with urban hardship. The accompanying sketch illustrates this tension: a well-dressed man in a long coat stands observing a child with a toy taxi in snowy city streets. The caption reads: "Street Imp: Hey, Mr. Taxi-starter, gimme a hand here, woncha?" The satire targets wealth disparity during winter. While the poem romanticizes snowy forests, the cartoon depicts urban poverty—a street child playing with a toy taxi while asking a prosperous man for help. The "taxi-starter" (taxi driver or affluent person) represents those insulated from hardship, contrasting sharply with the vulnerable "street imp" surviving winter's cold in the city.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
1 eC Dust of Drifts HEN Winter falls on city walls, Touching the town with cold, When a chill sky gleams with hibernal beams, I long for the song of frozen streams In the northern woods of old. Dust of Drifts, where the air is sweet, where pine or dar calls; Where the moose-hide crunches the fluffy stuff that cakes to little balls e snowshoes trail from padded feet the heel-strap ver galls. As t When the leather groans o'er the slushy stones, Where the feet of millions go, When the dust drifts in through the city’s din, I wish for the swish of a moccasin, And a regular fall of snow! Dust of Drifts, where the powdered white buries the forest floor ; Where the wind in the tangled pine speaks soft of the Winter woodland’s lore, And the pad-pad-pad of the snowshoes’ steps echoes it o’er and o’er. When snow and sleet in the city meet, And thaw ere the dawn is red, When the night wind sings round ugly things, I pine for a line of forest kings, And a cabin’s hemlock bed. Dust of Drifts, where the steel traps wait, holding their vicious bite ; Where the groaning boughs are bended down ‘neath a glorious burden white; Where the snow cloud whirls by a blinded trail in the dusk of a Winter night. W.D. ‘4 Y iH Va SY, Street Imp: Hey, Mr. Taxi-starter, gimme a hand here, wontcha? comicbooks.com