Life — April 23, 1925 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

ELL,” said Skippy, “I ® s'pose ya seen them bee hive pitchers in the V2} movies—didn’t cha?” “Ya mean where they show the hive so big it looks like chicken wire?” asked Sooky. “Ych! The mikascopic pitchers.” “Well, 0’ course I don't know who put them out, but I seen them.” “Fancy them little suckers knowin’ enough to build a bee hive!" and Skippy eyed his friend. “Smart! That's what they are—wouldn’t ya say?" “Y-yes,” drawled Sooky. is, at tha Guess they “Course it's smart, 'n’ when they show the queen bee goin’ on a nuptchal flight—that’s very smart.” “Oh, I don’t know, I scen a elephant pull down a tree oncet.” “Elephants ain't make hone smart, they can’t ephants ain't supposed to sit in bee hives!” Sooky returned, hotly. “Ya can't get around it that way,” persisted Skippy. “No, sirrr! Nobody's stoppin’ a elephant from droppin’ honey in a milk bottle, or let him pick out a fruit jar—I don't care! It to show he ain't bright.” “And you think bees is bright! off'n me laugh meself to death! If ya ask me I think bees is very dumb, goin’ aroun’ eatin’ roses just because they ain't smart know that bananas is fruit, ’n’ bananas three for five. Now take a elephant-- he’s bright enough to eat peanuts, that's more'n a bee is!” just goes Lay before I enough to “HOW ABOUT FLEPHANTS? - LIFE Skippy “Ya know why, don’t cha?” Fear- ing the other’s reply, Skippy hurriedly answered: “Because a bee ain't got time; when he ain't out makin’ honey, he's tryin’ to catch up on a lot o° stingin’.” “Needer has a elephant got time to go floatin’ ‘round a lotta silly flowers, no, sir, he’s gotta think o’ makin’ a lotta ivory pool balls—guess ya never thought o’ that, did ya?” “Or umbrella Skippy. . , I thought 0° that too.” added Sooky. “But let me wise up ya derby— if bees was so smart they'd believe in Santa Claus.” “How d'ya know they don’t?” Skippy. “Because they don’t put no chimneys on bee hives—that’s why !” “Talk that way 'n’ I c’n come back say why ain't buttercups red?” “Well, why ain't they?” ‘or the same reason that pansies don't wear suspenders!” “Well, I guess there’s somethin’ in that,” agreed Sooky. “Still, I hate bees, the disgustful little things, All they ¢'n do is say ‘bezzz."" “Did I hear you make a crack about bees not puttin’ chimneys on bee hiv asked Skippy, fixing his friend with glowering eyes. “Yes, I passed a remark to that effec “Very well, then,” and Skippy moved closer in order to shout, “how about elephants—do they put chimneys on their houses?” handles,” suggested asked DO THEY PUT CHIMNEYS ON THEIR HOUSES?” “Did you ever see a elephant house?” Sooky inquired. “N-no,” haltingly. “That not so’s you could mention it. “See! Ya don't know!” Sooky | spoke coldly. “Just doin’ all ya can to belittle the elephant!” “Ah! this balloon soup ain't gettin’ us nowhere!” said Skippy, somewhat downhearted. Then hopefully: “How'd ya like to see me roll some cobblestones in Krausmeyer’s store?” “You're always treatin’, but this one’s goin’ to be on me,” and Sooky yawned. “Let's dig up a cop 'n’ I'll blow ya to a chase.” to say, ~~ a S Perey Crosby. Rural Plaint Ww! N I was young I loved the spring ; I do not love it any more, Nor do I love the birds that sing Outside my gioomy cottage door. Nor do I love the things that grow From bulbs and seeds; and in my soul I know that I shall never know The tulip from the oriole. My heart is tortured ail the d: And restlessness imbues my feet, As down the mudded lanes they stray, With longing for a city street. And when the lilacs flood the air, There grows a dim, forgotten want Within my heart, and I despair For long-lost scents of Houbigant. For you the blooming apple tree, For me the spring foulard cravats; For you the hawthorn hedge, for me The flowering of summer hats. Give me the scent of push-cart fruits, The cries of peddlers, boys at play, The windows full of bathing suits, And you may have your new-mown hay. And you may have your dewy fields, Your woodbird’s call, your thrush’s moan; A wilder, sweeter music yields The wailing of my saxophone, And when the rural night grows drear, I shall be dancing, high, aloof, Nearer the stars than you, my dear, At midnight on some singing roof! Roger Burlingame. comicbooks.com