The Wasp, 1918 · page 133 of 330
The Wasp — 1918 — page 133: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This page contains **no political cartoon or satire**. It's a literary excerpt—apparently from a serialized story or novel published in *The Wasp* magazine. The text presents a romantic letter from a character named James Burnham to Miss Elizabeth Nash, expressing passionate but self-aware devotion. The narrative that follows reveals the satire's actual target: **the writer himself**. After composing this emotionally florid letter, Burnham laughs and admits he temporarily fooled himself into believing his own romantic prose—"That is what it is to be a poet...You can make yourself believe anything—for a little while!" **The satire mocks**: overwrought romantic sentimentality and the gap between flowery literary expression and sincere feeling. The joke is that even the writer recognizes his letter as performative artifice rather than genuine emotion. The page concludes with a scene shift to five men gathering at dawn by the sea, suggesting the narrative continues elsewhere in the magazine.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
a4 : THE WASP _ in my fon tells me that only a good man can ever claim your love. oe _I make no claim to virtue ; but in return for your sweet pity I give you my torn heart’s homage. If I live ~ beyond the morrow, I shall ever keep sacred and bright the memories of these days during which I have walked at one and the same time in heaven and in a fool's paradise. I shail never cease to thank God. that I was permitted to be of slight service to you once; and death itself shall not wrest from me the dear cadences of your _ voice and the tender caresses of your pure eyes. That God may shield and prosper you, and keep your dear heart tender toward the homeless and friendless, is the prayer of your joys and humble servant, JAMES BURNHAM. It was not a long letter ; but he had given an hour to the writing of it. He read it over with a smile, sealed it, and inscribed it to Miss Eliza-— beth Nash. For a second or two he felt almost as if the thing he had written was the truth. ‘“‘ That is what it is to be a poet,” he said. “You can make yourself believe anything—for a little while! ” | Then he laughed, undressed, and retired. Before the sun was above the eastern sea five men gathered on the sand beside the cold spring, at the roots of the whitewood trees, by the gentle | beat and seethe of the soft-footed surf. The east ~— was aflame with clearest gold and rose; above icomicbooks!com| |