Life — July 12, 1929 — page 42: what you’re looking at

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

aX Loe Get a Real Thrill HE hard-boiled cynic is in- clined to look upon certain things in the light of hokum-- until they strike home. The green fields, mother love, baby shoes and broken hearts are signals for hysteri- cal guffaws from the self-appointed intelligentsia, until one of their num- ber suffers a disappointment in love or is called upon to buy a pair of crutches for a poor old mother who broke her leg while bringing in the coal. Then they shed balloon tears and take double encores on their un- bridled display of sentimental baloney. I am not quite that bad myself. But I do admit that I have often been caused an acute pain in the Adam's apple by murderers who sit in their cells and mumble something to the general effect that your mother is your best friend after all. Maybe I suffered this discomfort because I have never been a murderer who sat in a cell. Nevertheless, I am a father and a shamelessly proud one at that. My oldest son, who will be cleven next month, came dashing into the room with a smile on his face as bright as a movie palace on the night of a super- LIFE’S tions from Lire’s readers. By Rube Goldberg special world premiére. “Why all the joy, Tommy?” I asked in a tone that showed I was immediately touched by the electric spark of his boyish de- light. “Why, daddy, don’t you know,” he answered, “my camp outfit has arrived. Come into my room and look at it.” He literally dragged me inside and there I beheld the most complete as- sortment of camp equipment I had ever seen outside a store. He had special shirts, stockings, shoes, a ten- nis racket, baseball bat, kodak, flannel pajamas and, so it seemed, thousands of other things. “And, daddy, what do you think,” he went on breath- lessly, “mother is going to put my in- itials on everything. And see the swell camp emblem I am going to have on my sweater.” I gave him a hug that cracked my fountain pen and four Havana cigars. I was proud of him. But I confess I got my real thrill out of the sat- isfaction of contributing so much real happiness to the summer of my young enthusiastic boy. All cynical thought of dull repetitious existence disap- peared from my jaded brain and the world was full of sparkling sunshi ic and singing birds. There is a certain point where t brain gives way to the heart. I a glad to say I am not too steeped worldliness to be without this mari- ing on my sentimental barometer. thought, if sending one boy to camp can be the cause of such great de- light, the happiness generated by an organization that sends twelve hundred children to camp every year must be boundless. The echoes of this robust gladness will be loud enough to drown all ideas of hokum and deaden the raucous noises caused by ranting statesmen mouthing their vacuous rav ings about prohibition, farm relief and law enforcement. Let me say that every little con tribution to Lire’s Fresh Air Fund is another note in the song that rings through many young and_ happy hearts. Mr. Goldberg writes us that he was so moved in reading over his own ap peal that he immediately sat down and wrote out his personal check for $100 to the order of Lire’s Fresh Air Fund. Boy, bring me my check book. FRESH AIR FUND Lire’s Fresh Air Farms are supported entirely by voluntary contribu- $25.00 will provide a sixteen-day vacation for one child from the city streets—the only vacation he or she will have. Contr: ibutions of any amount are welcomed. provide for one child, send in what you can afford. If you cannot Your contribution will be added to by others and some child will be the beneficiary, Make out checks to Lire’s FRESH AIR FUND, 598 Madison Avenue, N. Y. C. comicbooks.com