Life, 1924-12-04 · page 39 of 72
Life — December 4, 1924 — page 39: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a absurdist satirical short story rather than a political cartoon. Benchley (a well-known American humorist) deliberately creates nonsensical narrative to mock sentimentality and patriotic rhetoric. The "plot" is deliberately incoherent: a boy named Miguel encounters a confused lumberjack who gives him a tiny torpedo as a gift, then a Chief Petty Officer appears on a magic rug offering roast beef. The C.P.O. interrupts to lecture Miguel about the American founding, invoking Philadelphia and liberty—exactly 150 years prior (suggesting publication around 1926). **The satire**: Benchley mocks how adults interrupt children's simple desires with pompous historical lectures and excessive sentiment. The absurd details (the "Feast of the Seven Mittens," the disconnected characters, the meaningless interruptions) undermine the gravity of both patriotic appeals and sentimental gift-giving. It's humor through deliberate illogic—poking fun at overwrought American mythology and earnest sentimentality.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
HE hot sun beat down on the [Piss Little Miguel O'Rourke felt terrible. Those huijos! That old caballerizo! He should never have mched them. They were not meant or little boys five years old. But on the night before the Feast of the Seven Mittens one must do something, even if it is only to kill one’s uncle and throw his legs away. August was the month of the Feast of the Seven Mittens, and August is the month of love the world over. Suddenly Miguel was awakened by a rough shout, and looking behind him ) he saw a lumberjack who had evi- dently lost his way. The poor thing was so frightened that he was darting back and forth, not knowing whether he was afoot, horseback, or good red herring. Lumberjacks usually live in Maine, you know, and here it was nearly half-past eight. “Where are you going, Doctor Mel- cher?” asked Miguel. Miguel always called strangers “Doctor Melcher” be- cause it was Doctor Melcher who had once given him that nasty medicine. The rough old lumberjack looked | down at the little boy. “Wa-a-ll, pard- | ner,” he said, “I ain't much on sentiment, “WA-A-LL, PARDN! ON SENTIMENT. Holiday! Holiday! By Robert Benchley as you ought to know by this time, but it just kinder seemed to me that I ought to bring something to Little Wheel- Dust, the golden-haired daughter of my old side-kick who was left with me for dead that night eleven years ago in the old shack in Calgary.” So say- ing, the old miner pulled out of his pocket a tiny torpedo with “I Love You” painted on it. “It's for Little Wheel-Dust,” he said simply, and fainted. Now this was a trying situation for a young lad of Miguel O'Rourke's age, whatever it was. To be left with a torpedo would be bad enough, but to have an old lumberjack lying in the hot sun of the Plaza was unthinkable. And on St. Valentine's Day, too! LT Miguel sat sorrowfully by the tiny pile of faded flowers which had once been men like him- self. “Thanksgiving,” he murmured. “I wish I had some cozy home to go to on this day of all days. I wish I had some turkey.” Hardly had he spoken when with a great s a rug appeared before him on which was seated a little old man in the uniform of a Chief Petty Officer. “I have just heard your wish, Little Orson,” he said. “Little Miguel,” corrected Miguel. “Little Miguel,” said the C. P. O. “My mother’s name was Orson,” he ex- plained, “Ruth Orson; and every Eastertide I find myself calling people “Orson.” “That's quite all right,” said Miguel; “my mother’s name was Ruth Orson, too, so I know how it is.” And he smiled a crooked little smile. “TL have just heard your wish, Orson,” continued the little old man, “your wish that you might have a Thanksgiving turkey, and so I hopped on my rug right away to come and tell you that we haven't got a turkey left in the house. How about a little roast-beef? It's very nite to-day.” “I would love some roast-beef,” said 37 Miguel, “if you will sce to it that all the pits are taken out first. I choked on a pit once.” “Before we go, said the C. P. O., “I want you to make sure that you are dressed warmly enough. Remember what day it is, and in all your merry- making don't forget that you are alive and happy to-day because one hundred and fifty years ago now your great- great-grandfather and his brave associ- ates met in Philadelphia and drew up that document which was to establish liberty in America and insure you and me against tyranny from an English king. I think that the least we can do before opening up the bottle is to bow our heads and think vi hard for three minutes on the bravery and devotion of Amerigo Vespucci.’ And, as they stood with tears streaming down their little faces, sud- denly a clash and clang of chimes rang out on the frosty air and the glorious cadence of “Integer Vita" filled their very being with its grandeur. “A Merry Christmas,” said the little old man. “And a Merry Christmas to you, too,” said Little Miguel. Clash—clang! Clash—clang! “MY MOTHER'S NAME WAS ORSON, 700,” RUTH comicbooks.com