Life — August 30, 1923 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

LIFE The Landing of the Bootleg Fathers weet AT THE END OF A PERFECT DAY “GOSH, MA, BUT THESE OPERA SINGERS ARE GREAT FOR LULLING A TIRED FARMER TO SLEEP.” Summer Types The Beach Type H is tall and angular, and the color of maple syrup. He is seldom seen in any garb other than his bathing suit, which is so thoroughly bleached that it has com- pletely lost its original shade. His eyebrows are the color of pale straw, and he takes an almost fiendish delight in tossing a medicine ball. The beach is never without him. It is his hobby and home. He asserts that there is nothing in the world so bracing as a morning dip. As yet, no one has actually espied him in the water. The Bridge Playing Type His favorite epigram, when not engaged in play, is, “Who'll we get for a fourth?” There never seems to be any doubt about a second or a third. A fourth is the sole consideration. To him life is a series of Grand Slams and Sets—a game in which he is never quite sure whether his partner is going to trump his ace or not. He is always ready for a rubber, and has actually been known to play “double dummy” against himself throughout an entire house party. He delights in explaining the proper method of manceuvring certain hands, and has invented several rules of his own for discarding. His high-water mark in winnings for over a week-end is $2.85. . The Fishing Type He is always just about to set off on an expedition, but, somehow or other, the wind isn't in precisely the right r, or it’s too cold, or too warm. There's always tch to it. He knows just what kind of tackle to use, the right boatman to hire, the proper bait, and all that sort of thing, but he’s never sure where he ought to go. “Now three years ago—just about this time,” he tells you, “the bass were biting so fast in the North Pond you wouldn't have had to bait your hook.” But, somehow, it seems to be different this year. The fact is, it’s always different. Cc. G. S. some LL, Yabbsley made that same old banquet speech again last night!” “Yep. That's his permanent address.” THE 'HE motor trucks drew nigh, On a rock and rye-bound coast; That they were coming to the rye, Was every driver’s boast. And the thick Scotch mist hung dark, The fire-water o'er, When the liquor pirates moored their bark Near the dry New Jersey shore. Not as the steamer comes, Dry as the well-known bone, But with ca: of St. Pierre’s own rum, And whisky from Athlone. Not as the flying come, For what had they to fear, With bootlegacies of gin and port, And tuns of pre-war beer? There were men whose hair was white Amidst that pirate band. What did they out so late at night, On sea instead of land? They were moaning at the bar, If you must know the truth, For absinthe makes the heart more fond, And ditto does vermouth. What profited this show And all this secret stuff? Only two hundred per cent. or so, And that is fair enough. Ay, call it holy ground, Where they landed from the sea; They stopped the drought for miles around, For you and also me. NEW YORK SUBWAY RIDER TURN SA COUNTRY comicbooks.com