Life, 1928-04-19 · page 12 of 43
Life — April 19, 1928 — page 12: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains three separate pieces: a poem titled "Chanson Macabre" (a spooky, Halloween-themed verse), a short story called "Where He Could Go" featuring dialogue between characters named Charon and others about a ferry, and an article titled "None of That Old Babbitt Stuff" discussing men's clubs and social organizations. The cartoon accompanying "Where He Could Go" shows two men in suits and hats near a large "F" (likely representing a ferry), illustrating the story's premise about modern transportation replacing classical mythology. The humor appears centered on early 20th-century social commentary about men's clubs, conformity, and leisure activities—references that would require period context to fully appreciate today.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
Chanson Macabre HEN the North wind howls and the werewolf growls And the dead raise Old Ned in their ditches, When the phantoms wake and their skulls they stake In a pinochle game witches, with the When the banshees scream by the blood-red stream And the ghosts rise in hosts, weirdly weeping, When the bats fly high ’gainst a ghastly sky And the Halloween goblins come creeping, When the dying moan and you're home alone, When the breeze in makes you nervous, the trees You're a boob indeed if you choose to read Any ballads (like this one) by Service! AL. LD. Where He Could Go HARON had just failed in a try- out for pilot of a modern ferry. “Old fellow,” they told him curtly, “back to the Styx.” Batipayer: We gave the umpire fifty bucks to let us win the game. Frieno: And still you lost? Prayer: Yeah—the umpire was crooked. Tue Birt or a Secret None of That Old Babbitt Stuff “7 OU a Rotarian, Joe?” “Me a Rotarian, Bill? Huh!” “Oh, you're a Kiwanian?” u're wetter an’ wetter.” S Bill: none of that ol’ Babbitt stuff for me. Not me, Bill.” “Well, where do you get your fried chicken once a week, Joe? Don’t you belong to any club?” “Me belong to one of those back-slappin’ gangs? Huh! Me sit around once a week with a crowd of wowsers? Say, Bill, lemme tell you something: any time you catch me joining one of those outfits, see? any time!” “Oh, they ain't bad. Give a fella a chance to get ac- quainted.” “Yeah! Any time.... Say, lissen, Bill: that stuff gives me a crick in the neck, see? You can have alla those clubs. Tell you what I do: every Tuesday about six of us regular fellas meet in some café—different one every week, sce? The fella whose birthday is nearest gets the check, and boy, maybe we don't razz him! He has to provide the smokes and trick hats, too, see? Well, we have one grand time. If we wanta sing, by golly, we sing. Everybody calls the other fella by his first name. No chair- man. No speeches, unless, of course, one of the fellas brings a guest who has something real im- portant we'd like to hear. Just a good time, Bill. We may fight for business the rest of the week, Bill, but that day we're just a good gang, see? No formality. But we never wind up without singing ‘Hail Co- lumbia’ or ‘Dixie,’ see? And as we break up we shake hands all around, and every fella gives his word as one of the gang that no matter how fast the competition gets during the week, he’s going to shoot square any time he butts up against another member. Bill, getting together with a gang like that once a week really means something. But these Rotarians an’ Kiwanians an’ Lions....None of that ol’ Babbitt stuff for me, Bill.” Chet Johnson. Spring Thoughts GEMPSON: I hear you are discon- “* tinuing your attentions to An nabel. Sampson: Oh, yes, continually. comicbooks.com