Oh, never mind why our conversation turned lightly to Gadzookie, the nephew, cousin, or son of Godzilla in cartoons of my younger days. (And no, we will not be considering what this means to the world that Godzilla must, therefore. have had siblings, uncles, or a wife. Other people have already discussed these things. OUR question was how the little fellow got his name.
Well, neighbor, “Gadzooks!”, it turns out, is a bygone bit of profanity in which someone was swearing “God’s hooks!”, a reference to the nails used in the Crucifixion. It is thus akin to the equally picturesque “Zounds!” which was a means of expressing surprise with a reference to “God’s wounds!” (Logically, thus, it should be pronounced to rhyme with wounds, and not with sounds, which is the way anyone with sense says the word.)
The whole question of profanity has been largely ignored over the last few decades, as we in the English-speaking world have become more addicted to obscenity. THAT deals with words referring to body processes, which are far more popular than those which were taken as a mockery, or at least a failure to revere, religious references.
Yes, when Tweety Pie’s Granny (or Dwanny) exclaimed “Heavens to Betsy!”, she was, technically, swearing, and would once have had her mouth washed out, the same as those British gentlemen in the movies who would cry “Gad!” or “By Jove!” (God, and a reference to Jupiter, one of the few popular references to stray from Christianity in its sacrilegious naughtiness.)
Even by the 1940s, such expressions were becoming quaint, with “Gol durn it” being something your old Uncle Zeke in the country said in place of “God damn it”. People DO still use some related phrases, though it, like any cussing, is a matter of habit. Those of us who do not use the phrases can only stand back and wonder at why some folks cry “Gosh damn it” and others shout “God darn it!”
Even Walt Disney made fun of such antique cussing, though it was not TOO obvious, since his movies were going out to the broad spectrum of viewers. But in 1940, there WAS some pushback when Pinocchio gave us Jiminy Cricket, whose name was a popular shout of surprise or exasperation used in place of “Jesus Christ!” The wonderfully subversive folk song The Blue-Tail Fly used a similar euphemism in the chorus “Jimmy Crack Corn, and I don’t care.” Yes, your grandfather, when he cries of “Criminentlies!” or “Jiminy Christmas!”, is also dealing in such veiled profanity.
It worked the other way as well: one did not refer lightly to the infernal regions and their work, so we indulged in many a “Dash It All” or “Dang It” id Mom or Aunt Booney were listening. “Hot Diggety” was used for “Hot Damn” the same way. (I have not investigated whether a hot damn is stronger than a mere damn; wouldn’t ANY damned thing get pretty hot?) And you know, I am sure, why some folks exclaim “Heckfire!” It is because the bad guys remained censorable long after even radio and TV censors started allowing the word “God” to be used. This is why those of us who played with pocket calculators once upon a time, like to type in 7734.0 and then flip the screen over. And some were reprimanded for it, even as their parents listened to songs about “Jumping Jack Flash” on the radio.
Which is going a long way to explain why those chaps in “A Christmas Carol” noted that Old Scratch had got his own at last: the Devil, whose name was not mentioned in polite conversation, had claimed a miserable soul.
Thank you for not guessing that’s where we were going with this. To the Dickens.
I realize that my serialized publication of my unpublished coffee table boo on performances of Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol has a way to go, but as the season for actually watching these movies approaches, I thought I would add a few notes on which versions you should seek out.
By the way, one of the main reasons this book never got much of a nibble from any of the publishers who had their chance was expressed in a memo I got by mistake with one of my rejection slips. In so many words, the publisher’s reader asked why anyone would publish a book no one would read, and would only be BOUGHT during that three day period every year between the realization that Christmas was coming and the hundredth time they heard “The Little Drummer Boy”. I still disagree, but I must admit they had a point. Even those versions of A Christmas Carol which are given a four star rating in “Best Movies” guides never wind up on anyone’s list of Best Movies. A Christmas Carol is to be viewed at Christmas, with the family, apparently while eating popcorn and possibly playing Trivial Pursuit. Holiday movies never get their due.
But it was not the four star versions I wanted to talk about. I wanted to warn you about the half-star Christmas Carols. This will not be a comprehensive list. After all, I wrote my book in 1999, and have felt no responsibility to see every single version produced since then. And even then, I excluded all versions NOT set in nineteenth century London. So, continuing that theme, I cannot get into the All Dogs Christmas Carol (an extension of the All Dogs Go To Heaven series) or any of the pornographic versions (one of which, by the way, DOES include a surprising amount of the original text, even though set in the twentieth century and, um, interested in other things than Christmas merriment.)
Only one version which approaches this list made it into my original book. BOTH versions made starring Ron Haddrick as Ebenezer Scrooge were quickie made-for-TV animated cartoons, and show it. The one discussed in my text s the more interesting of the two, being downright weird, with its sudden inclusion of a musical number in a version which has no other songs. It has a large percentage of the original dialogue, and its occasional interpolations of new material are sometimes thoughtful, even when wedged in without much warning. (The Ghost, warning Scrooge that always rubbing his lucky coin will wear it away and destroy its value despite his love of money, is interesting, but it would be better if we had noticed this coin being rubbed at any point before this.)
I feel perfectly awful about mentioning Vincent Price in the context of bad movies, but we might as well admit that this constantly-working star was in a LOT of pictures where he was the most (or only) interesting part of the show. One of these is certainly “A Christmas Carol”, produced way on the cheap for television in 1949. Taylor Holmes plays Ebenezer Scrooge with gusto and a rich aroma of ham. To make the story fit into a half hour time slot, the key scenes are linked by scenes of Vincent Price in a library, reading us text to connect the scenes, except for the scene with young Scrooge’s fiancee, which is simply summarized by the Ghost so Scrooge can refuse to watch it. The script also decides to give Vincent that last “God bless us, every one.” He does all his lines with his usual polish and air, and he seems quite out of place with the rest of the show.(There IS one other point of interest, which I have just read about: one of the Cratchit children in this version is a VERY young Jill St. John.)
I disrecollect exactly why the animated version produced by Saban (the Japanese animation firm which gave us VR Troopers, among other classics) but this 1991 version is my absolute favorite among bad Carols. The Ghosts are suddenly all little fairy creatures with magic wands, and this version can NOT make up its mind whether it is a parody or not. From the moment Scrooge informs Bob Cratchit that he is going to buy a jet ski with the money an investor has asked be applied to health food restaurants we know where we are. (When Bob complains, he is told that it is, after all, 1843, and no one will be eating bran muffins for a century.) Scrooge’s tears as he realizes he has contributed to Tiny Tim’s upcoming demise are genuine, as the narrator informs us that “It was now that Ebenezer Scrooge realized he was the villain in this story.”. And, as I think I have mentioned, it is the only version which explains what happened to cause that death. (Tim is being trained as a jockey, being so tiny, but his parents can’t afford a horse with FOUR legs, thanks to Scrooge’s cheapness, so one day, as the fairy…Ghost explains, the horse will tip over on Tim and–this is the actual dialogue–SQUISH.)
But if you want to absolutely waste half an hour with the all-time worst version of A Christmas Carol which it has been my misfortune to watch, you’ll need to hook up your old VCR and find a copy of…but there, we’re out of time again And why should I offer the lawyers more business, even at Christmas?
“Lead on!” said Scrooge. “Lead on! The night is waning fast, and it is precious time to me, I know. Lead on, Spirit!”
The Spirit moved away as it had come towards him. Scrooge followed in the shadow of its dress, which bore him up, he thought, and carried him along.
They scarcely seemed to enter the city, for the city rather seemed to spring up about them, and encompass them of its own act. But there they were, in the heart of it, on ‘Change, amongst the merchants, who hurried up and down, and chinked the money in their pockets, and conversed in groups, and looked at their watches, and trifled thoughtfully with their great gold seals, and so forth, as Scrooge had seen them often.
The Spirit stopped beside one little knot of business men. Observing that the hand was pointed to them, Scrooge advanced to listen to their talk.
“No,” said a great fat man with a monstrous chin, “:I don’t know much=h about it either way. I only know he’s dead.”
“When did he die?” inquired another.
“Last night, I believe.”
“why, what was the matter with him?” asked a third, taking a vast quantity of snuff out of a very large snuff-box. “I thought he’d never die.”
“God knows,” said the first, with a yawn.
“What has he done with his money?” asked a red-faced gentleman with a pendulous excrescence on the end of his nose, that shook like the gills of a turkey-cock.
“I haven’t heard,” said the man with the large chin, yawning again. “Left it to his Company, perhaps. He hasn’t ;left it to me. That’s all I know.”
\ This pleasantry was received with a general laugh.
“It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral,” said the same speaker, “for upon my life I don’t know of anybody to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?”
“I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided,” observed the gentleman with the excrescence on his nose. :But I must be fed, if I make one.”
Another laugh.
“Well, I am the most disinterested among you, after all,” said the first speaker, “for I never wear black gloves, and I never eat lunch. But I’ll offer to go, is anybody else will. When I come to think about it, I’m not at all sure that I wasn’t his particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met. Bye, bye!”
Speakers and listeners strolled away, and mixed with other groups. Scrooge knew the men, and looked towards the Spirit for an explanation.
The Phantom glided on into a street. Its finger pointed to two persons meeting. Scrooge listened again, thinking that the explanation might lie here.
He knew these men, also, perfectly. They were men of business: very wealthy, and of great importance. He had made a point always of standing well in their esteem: in a business point of view, that is; strictly in business point of view.
“How are you?” said one.
“How are you?” returned the other.
“Well!” said the first. “Old Scratch has got his own at last, hey?”
“So I am told,” returned the second. “Cold, isn’t it?”
“Seasonable for Christmas time. You’re not a skater, I suppose.”
“No. No. Something else to think of. Good Morning!”
Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.
Scrooge was at first inclined to be surprised that the Spirit should attach importance to conversation apparently so trivial, but feeling assured that they must have some hidden purpose, he set himself to consider what it was likely to be. They could scarcely be supposed to have any bearing on the death of Jacob, his old partner, for that was Past, and this Ghost’s province was the Future. Nor could he think of any one immediately connected with himself, to whom he could apply them. But nothing doubting that to whomsoever they applied that had some latent moral for his own improvement, he resolved to treasure up every word he heard, and everything he saw; and especially to observe the shadow of himself when it appeared. For he had an expectation that the conduct of his future self would give him some clue he missed, and would render the solution of these riddles easy.
He looked about in that very place for his own image; but another man stood in his accustomed corner, and though the clock pointed to his usual time of day for being there, he saw no likeness of himself among the multitudes that poured in through the Porch. It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolution carried out in this.
Quiet and dark, beside him stood the Phantom, with its outstretched hand. When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the head, and the situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly. It made him shudder, and feel very cold.
There is obvious temptation to the filmmakers to combine the two overheard conversations, the second one being just as trivial as Scrooge thought it. Dickens is making a mild distinction, however: the first speakers would appear to be businessmen at Scrooge’s ;level, while the second conversation is between men who have made so much money that the old Scrooge was always at paints to stay on their good side. (The Basil Rathbone recorded version, put on 78 rpm discs in 1942, makes all the men Cockneys.)
Several versions, though, do skip the men and their chat entirely: March, McDuck, and Matthau have no time for them.
Hicks appears in these scenes as a face inside the dark shadow of his own head. He watches as three well-dressed men hold the first conversation up to the gag about “He hasn’t left it to ME.” The finger then points another direction, and a man says “So Old Nick has hot his own,” and the other conversation follows. Scrooge looks around and complains, “I do not see myself in my accustomed place. Where am I? Why am I not here?”
Owen says “Lead on. I shall follow, gladly.” They move to the Exchange through a great deal of snow. The first conversation goes much as written, save that one man, when asked what was the matter with the deceased replies, “Who knows? Who cares?” When the Spirit moves toward the second conversation, Scrooge exclaims, “I know them! I know them both! Business associates!” When this conversation ends with “No time for it. Business on my mind”, Scrooge looks confused.
Sim I says “Lead on, then.” The camera at last pulls back to show the Spirit: a deeply dark, hooded figure. It moves off and Scrooge follows, not eagerly. There is smoke, and we go first to the Cratchits’. The ragpicker scene follows that, and only after that do we arrive upon ‘Change. The men who discussed the ant and the grasshopper with Scrooge at the beginning of this picture hold the first conversation, with a few flourishes. When one man notes, “I thought he’d never die”, another replies, “So did he, I dare say.” The conversation ends with one man noting , “I don’t mind going if there’s a luncheon provided, but I must be fed, or else I stay at home.” Scrooge muses, “I know those men. They’re men of business: very wealthy, very important. Whose funeral are they talking about? Strange. My usual place is over there: under the clock. I ought to be there at this time of day, but I’m not.” His fear is evident. “I’m not!”
Rathbone also puts this scene after the visit to the Cratchits’./ The Ghost points through the fog, and we watch as two men wheel a coffin past us. We move on to a streetlight beneath which two well-dressed neb, one rather rotund, converse. “When did the old wretch die?” “Last night, I’m told.” “What was the matter with him?” “Heaven knows.” They discuss the weather being seasonal, and not being a skater. The thinner man then takes himself off while the round man takes snuff. Scrooge eases up to ask this man, “Who was that you were talking about so callously?” The man cannot, of course hear him, and the Ghost points on.
Magoo is led down a street; when he sees the three men, he greets them by name, obviously expecting a friendly response. The first conversation is performed through the line about a lunch being provided. Scrooge complains, “Spirit, what connection can these people have with my future? Of whom were they talking? Jacob Marley’s death was in the past, and…where am I? I am always here at this time of day: always!”
Haddrick says, “Lead on. Lead on, Spirit.” He is taken to a dark street, where he observes fairly young men holding that first conversation through “What was the matter with him?” Another suggests, “Maybe he tried to eat some of his money.” “Why would he do that?” “To get closer to it!”
After “Lead on. Lead on, Spirit,” Sim II witnesses a quick conversation. These men are getting on in years; one of them has the nose Dickens describes. “Well, Old Scratch has got his own, I hear.” “Why, what was the matter with him?” “What did he die of?” “God knows.” “I don’t mind going if a lunch is provided, but I must be fed.” They laugh.
“Very well,” says Scott, “Lead on. The night is waning fast, and time is precious to me.” He seems to force himself to follow the Ghost. Night has fallen on the Exchange; the square is lit with torches. Scrooge enters. The first conversation follows, much as written, though the man who says “Left it to his Company, perhaps” adds “Who else did he have?” After the rack about lunch being provided (“I must be fed for the time I’ll waste.”) Scrooge demands, “Have these men no respect for the dead?” The scene blacks out, leaving him in a spotlight; he can, however, still hear the echoing voices of the men. “I suppose I must go. We did considerable business together.” “Well, I must go and find the price of corn.” Scrooge is less uneasy than irritated. “Why was I privy to that conversation? What purpose could it have for me?”
Caine is unnerved by the Ghost’s silence after the jovial Christmas present. “Oh, yes. Yes. The night is waning fast. Lead on, Spirit.” They move through a sort of wormhole effect into a rainy London day where four jovial pigs we saw earlier in the city crowd now stand chatting under umbrellas. “No, I don’t know much about it either way. I only know he’s DEAD.” “When?” “Last night, I believe.” “Wonder what he died of; I thought he’d never GO.” “Well, I don’t know or care why he’s gone; I’d just like to know what he’s done with his money.” “Wouldn’t we all?” “Well, he didn’t gib it to me.” “No no no.” “It’s likely to be a very cheap funeral; I don’t know a single soul who’d go to it.” “I wouldn’t mind going.” Everyone grunts surprise at this speaker, who adds, “If a lunch is provided!” They all laugh and decide to go now to lunch themselves. “I know some of those gentlemen,” Scrooge observes. “Spriit, of what poor wretch do they speak?”
Curry says, “Lead on.” The Spirit raises its arm and Scrooge finds himself in “The Business Exchange! I come here often. But where am I today?” Some men nearby are chatting. “No, I don’t know much about it either way. I only know he died last night.” “Well, the devil has got his own at lat, hey?” They laugh. “What’s he done with his money?” “Well, e hasn’t left it to me. That’s all I know.” Scrooge steps over to ask them “Which of our colleagues has died?” “It’ll probably be a cheap funeral, because nobody’ll go to it.” “I don’t mind going, if a lunch is provided.” “Well, good day.” Scrooge is honestly puzzled. “I don’t understand the meaning of this. Who has died?”
Stewart’s version begins just as written; Scrooge seems to try to smile. He is obviously relieved to find himself in the Exchange. “I know these men.” He is confident, sure of his ground. “Here profit is worshipped. Profit is everything.” A more varied group than usual chats. “Find out the truth about Old Scratch?” and the conversation from there goes much as Dickens had it, with minor abridgements. This is the only version to include the man who never wears black gloves and never eats lunch. To the proposal that they make up a party, another man replies, “Let’s just say…we’ll think about it”, disappointing the man who suggested it. Scrooge glances at the Spirit in some confusion, but is simply led on.
Finney substitutes a major musical production with similar intent, addressing directly the question of who has died, and explaining why Scrooge doesn’t catch on. Scrooge speaks to the Ghost about the night waning fast, and there is a flash of fire. Ton Jenkins, the hot soup man, is found polishing the brass plate which reads “Scrooge and Marley”. It is daylight, and a large crowd has assembled, apparently just to watch him do this. Tom turns and addresses them, announcing that they have all of course assembled to express their common gratitude to Ebenezer Scrooge. Scrooge is much impressed by this Future; he recognizes the whole crowd as people who owed him money. “They love me and I never knew it!” Tom calls for three cheers. Scrooge, anxious to thank everyone, mounts his front steps to address the group. Thus he has his back to the door when it opens so his coffin can be carried from the counting house. He misinterprets the reaction of the crowd, the rest of Tom’s speech, and the musical number “Thank You Very Much.” He comes to believe that the impromptu funeral procession is a parade in his honor and capers along with it, completely failing to notice the men dancing atop the coffin. Ony the sudden reappearance of the Spirit shuts off his glee. He freezes at the sight, and the procession rollicks on without him.
Sigmund Spaeth, best known for what people regard as a misguided attempt to teach children instrumental classics by setting lyrics to them, wrote a LOT about music. One of his wisest observations was about how audiences react to performance of a medley. It is true, as he states, that whenever a new song starts in the medley, the audience applauds. They are not, he said, applauding the song, or the performer. They’re applauding themselves for recognizing the song.
There is a similar phenomenon in comedy, in which we see only the lead-up to the payoff, and get our joy not only out of the plight of the character headed for disaster (it’s usually disaster) but also from our anticipation of what comes next. (I’m not sure, but I think about HALF the postcard depictions of people in canoes show the canoe about to go over a waterfall. Canoes apparently do not come with instruction manuals.)
This works especially well in a static medium, like the cartoon. In a movie, we MIGHT feel cheated if we don’t get to see the payoff.
In fact, if enough work is spent drawing the setup, the joke gets a little better. Here we can glory in the man whose maneuver with his mustache automatically makes us want to see him come to grief. But the impact we imagine is much more satisfying than anything the cartoonist could have drawn.
We enjoy the suspense, as Alfred Hitchcock pointed out, of knowing what the hero does not: that danger lies in wait.
As when we recognize that song coming in the medley, we are uplifted by our own sense of superiority to the clueless protagonist.
Another ploy used in comedy is to cut from the set-up of the catastrophe directly to the aftermath, leaving the event in our imagination as we look at the consequences. Once again, we are allowed to feel a glow of intelligence because we know what happened without actually being shown the event itself.
Some cartoonists provided postcards with just the aftermath shot, taking advantage of just this human tendency.
It may just be the postcards in MY inventory, but it does seem to me that an awfully lot of this kind of comedy involves the sitting section of the human body.
Perhaps this added a layer of sympathy to the gag. Or maybe, as some comedians have pointed out, that’s just the funniest end of the body.
But (and I use the word with some trepidation) perhaps this involves another issue. The cartoonist COULD not show the actual calamity, or knew that this would never go through the mails, anyhow. (It would also be less funny, but that’s the opinion of a twentieth century brain.)
If you want to apply your own intellect to a joke, I will leave you with this one, and you can decide for yourself whether this depicts something which is ABOUT to happen, or which HAS happened. Which is funnier, really? Or have you already shuddered and moved on to listen to a YouTube medley of golden oldies from the 2010s?)
A man named Charles Williams, Jr. had the honor of having the first phone number in the United States. (It was 1, of course. Mr. Williams produced telephone equipment for Alexander Graham Bell, so he played guinea pig. (He also, by the way, had the second phone number—2–for his shop.) You can read the whole history around the Interwebs: how numbers were promoted over just asking the operator for the name of your party during a measles epidemic, which would make it easier for trainees if operators went home sick.
Direct dialing began in the 1920s, but calling the operator, at “Central”, lingered as ifferent parts of the country caught up with the latest in phones. (I missed it in my college dorm by only seven years…yeah, yeah, right after the Spanish-American War. Looked up that joke on your phone, did you?) For a while, calling “Central” was so well-known that it appeared in any number of pop songs: “Hello Central, Give Me Heaven” or “Hello, Central, Give Me No Man’s Land”.
Speaking of pop songs, if you recall “Pennsylvania 6-5000”, that represents a brief detour in many telephoned countries. As more and more phones were sold, numbers got longer and longer: three digits became four and then five. When they reached seven digits, executives rebelled. No one, they claimed, should be expected to remember a seven-digit number, so a word was substituted, and the caller was expected to use just the first two letters of the word.
This is why your landline phones still have numbers next to the digits, creating trivia and mystery clues, since Q and X did not appear on the dial. (They do now, again creating problems for people watching old movies.) Other countries used other systems, by the way: in England, logic took charge over math when the Zero was assigned the letter O.
This eventually became cumbersome and, anyhow numbers went on getting longer. Area codes in the 1950s, with the biggest cities getting the numbers people considered easiest to dial. People seemed to find ways to remember these numbers without trouble. (Although, lemme tell you about calling 911, which started in the 1960s, suffered a slight pause for reconsideration because this was originally pronounced “Nine-Eleven”, and people were wasting their time looking for an eleven on the dial. Everyone started saying “Nine-one-one” instead, and children were taught this in school, often with a special pushbutton classroom aid which, as far as I can tell, is numbered backward, so I always see these kids proudly punching what will be, on a real phone, 7-3-3.)
Now, of course, no one HAS to remember phone numbers. You simply type them into your phone once and then you just look up the name. The phonebook, thus, is dwindling away (how do little kids sit up to the table at Thanksgiving now?) and phone numbers ae losing the hyphens and parentheses I remember so well. We do still use a 1-3-3-4 arrangement of our numbers.
Other countries do a different division of their numbers, by the way: They also vary in whether they prefer hyphens or spaces or periods between the…my, we’re taking a long time to get to the question of why phone calls were associated with donkeys. I couldn’t find out anything st all about that: the Interwebs have their limits, somehow. Maybe we just had more donkeys around the house in those days, or maybe the joke sold best in western areas, where there were more donkeys than telephones.
Nor can I do much more than illustrate how one simple photograph could bounce from postcard to postcard, with slightly different jokes. Other cards in my inventory play a similar trick: an identical picture above several different jokes, and nearly every one involves a donkey. A lot are from Frank S. Thayer, of Denver, who, as you can see from just these examples, must have sold pictures of his donkey to every tourist who passed through Colorado.
That’s probably the answer. Maybe when the boys in Thayer’s shop were short a card for the next season’s assortment, they would simply burro a picture.
The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached. When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knees; got in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.
It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
He felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.
“I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” said scrooge.
The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.
“You are about to show me the shadows of the thing that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,” Scrooge pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”
The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.
Although well used to ghostly company by this time, Scrooge feared the silent shape so much that his legs trembled beneath him, and he found that he could hardly stand when he prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as observing his condition, and giving him time to recover.
But Scrooge was all the worse for this. It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud, there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.
“Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed, “I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?”
It gave him no reply. The hand was pointed straight before them.
Dickens here wants to embody the mystery, the fearsomeness, the sheer undependability of the future: note how hard it is to get a straight answer from the Time To Come. By now, Scrooge is practically converted, already thinking of changes to his ways. Even so, the future makes him very uneasy, though he has not yet picked up on the hint that this Spectre may moonlight as a Grim Reaper. Screenwriters do very little messing around with the dialogue as Dickens has written it, as Scrooge’s plight could hardly be painted with quicker, starker strokes.
That hand is central to many screen interpretations. Its shadow moves across the face of Hicks as he twitches in his sleep. He starts, terrified, and sits up as if forced to do so, watching the shadow of a pointing finger as if in a trance. Scrooge declares that he fears this Spirit more than any other, assumes it is going to show him the shadows of the things that will be, and allows as how he is prepared to bear it company. He is one of the few Scrooges who does NOT beg the Spirit to speak to him.
Owen is laughing in his sleep. The scenes of merriment shown to him by the first Spirits pass through his mind; his smile is bright. Suddenly, though, he is standing, still laughing and still with his eyes shut, in a windblown crag. A clock strikes three. Alarmed, he opens his eyes and watches the fog blow around d him. A hooded figure of great stature steps from behind a rock,. “You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” The Ghost points. “You are about to show me things that have not happened but will happen in the future: is that so, Spirit?” The Ghost nods. “Ghost of the Future, I…I know you are here to do me good, and as I hope to be another man from what I was, I am ready to accompany you. Won’t you speak?” There is no response.
Sim I sees the spirit before we do; we can see no more than that corpselike hand. Scrooge covers his eyes. “I am in the presence of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come?” He looks to the Spirit and nods, as if imitating the Spirit’s reply. He speaks the next two speeches, and then adds his complaint that he is too old now to change. “Wouldn’t it be better if I just went home to bed?” He shakes his head, again obviously duplicating the Spirit’s response.
March omits this scene.
Rathbone reappears in his room, the window and curtains closing behind him. The clock which was striking midnight a moment ago now strikes three. A robed figure with huge white gloves and a high peaked hood is suddenly with him. Scrooge speaks most of the written dialogue, noting “The night is nearly over, and it is precious time to me, I know.” The Ghost raises its sleeve and in the shadow of that we move quickly to the Cratchit home.
Magoo has been abandoned on a featureless plain. A shapeless red ooze resolves itself into a floating red cloak with red bony fingers. The Ghost replies only with nods to Scrooge’s first two speeches, but at the third nods and turns away.
Haddrick is told by the Ghost of Christmas Present, “You don’t seem to respond to kindness and generosity. So there are other ways.” Scrooge is naturally apprehensive about this, and asks questions, which are to be answered, he is told, by the next Ghost. “I pity you in his merciless hands, Ebenezer Scrooge.” “No, don’t leave me, kindly light! Don’t leave me! Oh no! Please! No!” Scrooge cowers to the floor; when he looks up, a translucent hooded form hovers before him. At his second speech, the Ghost nods; after the third, it points.
A tall hooded figure appears before Sim II; Scrooge kneels. At his first speech, a bony hand, way too long and thick a hand to be human, points. After the second, iot points again. “is that so, Spirit?” There is a nod. “Ghost of the Future! I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen, but as I know that your purpose is to do me good, lead on. Lead on, Spirit.” The hand moves into darkness.
Finney faces a hood in shadow. Scrooge drops to his knees and tries to peer into the hood as he delivers the speeches much as written.
Matthau finds himself weeping in his own armchair. B.A.H. Humbug asks, “What next?” A dark, hooded figure appears in front of the view of the clock tower, and simply points.
McDuck is surrounded by billows of fog, but we see in a moment this is really smoke from the stogie of a new Ghost. Scrooge is still standing in the footprints of the last Spirit, fretting about Tiny Tim. He finds himself looking up at a very well-fed Giant, which shows two eyes shining from under a hood. Realizing suddenly that he is leaning on a gravestone, Scrooge pulls back. “Are you the Ghost of Christmas Future?” Nod. “What will happen to Tiny Tim?” Point.
Scott finds a cloaked, hooded figure. “Are you the Spirit which Jacob Marley foretold would visit me?” The speeches follow as written, and the phantom slides toward him.
Fog billows at Caine as if on the attack; he runs from it to no avail. There is thunder. Towering over him is an abnormally shaped figure in a robe. “Am I in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?” The whole upper torso inclines a little forward. “Spirit! I fear you more than any Spectre I have yet met!” Rizzo and Dickens agree, and excuse themselves, promising to return after this spooky bit is over. “I am prepared to follow and to learn, with a thankful heart. Will you not speak to me?” One hand comes to his shoulder; the other points.
Curry hears thunder; he is afraid, swallowing hard. “Speak to me, Spirit!” he calls to the Ghost of Christmas Present. He finds instead he is addressing a faceless spectre, tattered but noble. “Am I correct that you are the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?” Nod. “Will you not speak to me? Is it you who will show me shadows of things that have not yet happened?” Nod. “Ghost of the Future, I fear you most of all. But if your goal is to do me good, then I hope to be a better person than before. Lead on.”
Stewart sees a very tall figure; two eyes are tiny lights far back in its hood. “You are the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.” Head, neck, and shoulders incline toward him. “You are about to show me the shadows of things which have not happened, but will happen in the time to come.” He speaks now in a hollow whisper. “I fear you more than any of the Spirits I have seen. Will you not speak?” The Ghost simply turns its hood away.
FUSS FUSS FUSS #16: The Look of Things To Come
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is a cipher: unspeaking (usually), faceless (for the most part), and devoid of expressions of its opinion (by and large). This Ghost has less to do than any of the rest: pointing and moving solemnly are nearly the whole of its act. Fark and ominous, generally with huge hands (Sim II’s Yet To Come has hands larger than Scrooge’s whole head, including nightcap), it is really less judgmental than any previous Ghost.
A lot of filmmakers will substitute atmospheric conditions for any emotion on the part of the Ghost. The Future is usually dark, its scenes taking place at night. Rainy nights are favored, allowing for thunder and lightning, particularly in the graveyard. Is there is fog in London at Christmas, it is to be found in these visions, and hardly ever in the others. McDuck’s future is awash with fog, while Matthau and March also have to push through it. Owen has high winds with his fog. Scott, Caine, Magoo, and Haddrick are surrounded merely by darkness.
On the other hand, Finney and Curry face normal weather, even cold crisp sunshiny winter mornings. The visions of the Ghost of Christmas On The Way will bring their own gloom, without reinforcement from the climate.
Last time, we observed the existence of Thanksgiving postcards, and noted that most people do not send such greetings nowadays, partly because there’s so much going on at the end of the year (one reason the Farmer’s Almanac keeps promoting a “rational” relocation of Thanksgiving to the first Monday in October) and partly because the price has gone up. You CAN buy a Thanksgiving greeting card, but the cost plus postage will run you around seven or eight dollars now, whereas in 1908 the price of card and postage would have been about two cents. MUCH easier to just email someone a turkey cartoon and get back to your regular holiday shopping. (And why DON’T stores sell Black Friday cards?)
One or two people felt I was rushing the season. Well, let’s REALLY look ahead, then, and consider the existence of cards intended for people to send to wish each other a Happy Leap Year.
The Leap Year postcard is a fairly limited proposition (so to speak). It was wildly popular in 1908, and then again, though apparently not quite so voluminously, in 1912. A few companies bothered with them after that, but it isn’t all that profitable to produce a line of cards which are useful only every fourth year. And the raucously funny tradition started to slip away.
See, for a couple of generations, there was a jovial tradition that during Leap Year, it was socially acceptable for a woman to propose marriage to a bachelor. The tradition began when…well, the fact is that nobody really knows. This doesn’t mean there are not explanations and historical tales, as collected by Stanley Buttinski in the book we mentioned in one of last week’s columns.
One tale claims that the lady who would one day be known as St. Brigid had a long discussion with the man who would be named St. Patrick (getting his own holiday and postcards one day), demanding, in the way Irish women had, some equal rights. She wanted Irish women to have a right to ask Irish men to marry them, as Irish men are considered to be really slow about getting around to such things.
St. Patrick, who had traveled far in Ireland and met a lot of Irish women, felt they were pretty powerful already, but finally allowed as how this would be permissible: on February 29. One day out of every four was all he felt Irish men could afford to lose the advantage. Some subsequent authority decreed that this would be true ONLY in Ireland.
This story does not apparently appear in any of the earliest lives of either of these saints, and the tradition DOES exist in other countries as well. Scotland lays claim to it due to an old tradition that Queen Margaret decreed in 1288 (a Leap Year) that any man who turned down a woman’s proposal would be fined by the government. Your non-romantic historians point out that Queen Margaret was only five years old in 1288 (she died three years later, without having proposed to many possible consorts). In Finland, however there is a tradition that any man who turns down a woman’s proposal in Leap Year must buy her the material to make a new dress. Other countries insist on reparations in the form of cash or twelve pairs of new gloves (one for each month of Leap Year, you see.)
Other stories trace the tradition of “Bachelor’s Day” or “Ladies’ Privilege” to some seventeenth century comedy, which is deemed responsible as well for an idea that said proposal is only valid if the lady is wearing breeches, or a scarlet petticoat.
But the most conservative historians still claim the whole thing sprang up as a joke some time after the Civil war, which puts it in pretty much the right era to be snatched up by postcard manufacturers. These are the same sort of people who claim there never was a Stanley Buttinski, as noted last week.
I ran into a number of bewildered bloggers who claim that it is only with the advent of social media that women feel comfortable proposing to men (honest? YOU guys invented it?) and others who confuse the whole thing with Sadie Hawkins Day, when, on college campuses around the United States, women could ask men to go to a dance. This day was NOT February 29, as a few of these bloggers state, but an unspecified date in late October or mid-November, which brings us back around to THIS month. (It derives from Al Capp’s Li’l Abner, and like any good comic strip artist, Al Capp left the date vague, so he could slip it into the strip without interrupting whatever story he happened to be telling in fall. Shortly before his death, and the end of the comic strip, he stated that November 26 was the correct date. He was too late; for years before that Sade Hawkins Day had been settled on as November 13.)
What the POSTCARDS say about the tradition leans toward the “whole year” version of the story, rather than just February 29, and they ignore the question of who started the tradition. Getting in on it, as Minnie Pearl said in one of her jokes, was more important than any other considerations.
I did not get around to my annual column on the non-Halloween cards one could repurpose to LOOK like Halloween cards, since real vintage Halloween cards are so pricey and I have none in my inventory anyhow. I was very busy reading this new witchcraft bestseller: 101 Transformation Books To Read Before You Croak.
Anyhow, I have far more Thanksgiving postcards. There are plenty of postcards for holidays we USED to celebrate with cards. I am always startled by the number of postcards meant to be sent on George Washington’s birthday, for example. So far, I have not found a single card yet for Franklin Pierce’s birthday.
Yes, you CAN still send greeting cards for Thanksgiving; I worked for an institution which sent out Thanksgiving cards to its constituents, in part because this beat all the competition who sent out Christmas cards. But the card companies’ hearts aren’t in it. They have LOTS of customers for Halloween and Christmas cards, and there just isn’t time to get the holiday racks in the stores changed that quickly. (Anyway, this is the excuse they gave me when I proposed my million dollar idea of producing St. Andrew’s Day cards so the Scots in America could share saint’s day honors with the Irish. But the patron saint of Scotland had the bad taste to choose November 30 for his day, and they said they just couldn’t fit it into their schedules. This may explain the Franklin Pierce thing: his birthday is November 23. And my suggestion for an Advent Calendar of New Year’s Resolutions…where were we?)
It’s not as if Thanksgiving cards are hard to design. As you can see, turkeys were a very popular choice: easy to draw and instantly recognizable. (Speaking of which, what ARE those flowers there on the left?)
The version you actually saw at the table could be more difficult to make quite as cheerful as turkey on the hoof.
The Pilgrims and their ship got SOME attention, but this was more likely to be covered in sets of postcards showing Scenes from American History. The Puritans were NOT known for being holiday types, and during the Golden Age of Postcards, cartoonists had a way of ridiculing anyone they considered too prim by drawing a Pilgrim outfit on them.
This, by the way, is NOT a Thanksgiving postcard, but a line of fantasies showing loving couples through history. It does, though, go nicely with the EATING part of the holiday. That’s a luxury we don’t have now in greeting card racks. Back when there was a vast variety of non-holiday postcards, there were plenty to choose from which, like the non-Halloween cards I’ve observed in October, could be repurposed for the traditions of Thanksgiving. There’s the joy of reuniting with family, for example.
Traditions which became associated with Thanksgiving long after the invention of the holiday are still fair game.
Even snacking through later quarters of the game, as the stomach became ready for more, could be represented.
What? You say that reminds you of another tradition of the turkey-based day?
Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close to home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door, and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.
It was a long night, if it were only a night; but Scrooge had his doubts of this, because the Christmas Holidays appeared to be condensed into the space of time they passed together. Ot was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children’s Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was whiter.
:Are spirits’ lives so short?” asked scrooge.
“My life upon this globe, is very brief,” replied the Ghost. “It ends to-night.”
“To-night!” cried scrooge.
“To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near.”
The chimes were ringing the three-quarters past eleven at that moment.
“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”
“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was the Spirit’s sorrowful reply. “Look here.”
From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children: wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.
“Oh, Man! Look here. Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Ghost.
They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish, but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked; and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.
Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.
“Spirit! Are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.
“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And bide the end!”
“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.
“Are there no prisons?” asked the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”
The bell struck twelve.
Scrooge looked around him for the Ghost, and saw it not. As the last stroke ceased to vibrate, he remembered the prediction of old Jacob Marley, and lifting up his eyes, beheld a solemn Phantom, draped and hooded, coming like a mist along the ground, towards him.
Most of this is condensed or skipped in a brief farewell from the Ghost. Many Scrooges, including Lionel Barrymore in the radio version, are genuinely grieved to see Christmas present pass. The Significant Children are frequently slighted, either because screenwriters feel they will distract from the ghastly phantom to come, or because they agree with Dickens (who slashed much of this from his public readings) because the audiences just won’t go for it.
Hicks, Owen, March, Magoo, Haddrick, Matthau, and McDuck omit this section. Their Ghosts merely leave them.
Rathbone, thoughtful, turns to ask “Where will you take me now?” The Spirit replies that it is time for him to leave. They exchange the remarks about a Spirit’s life being short, and the Ghost notes that his life will end at midnight; when a clock strikes, he looks up. “Mark what you have seen,” he commands, and vanishes. Scrooge folds his hands, as if in prayer, and, looking up, also vanishes.
Finney looks around and finds himself in front of his house. “Yes, Scrooge,” says the Ghost, “I have brought you home.” “You’re not going!” Scrooge cries, earnestly upset. “My life on this little planet is very brief. I must leave you now.” “But we still have so much to talk about, haven’t we?” The Ghost replies that there is never time enough to do or say all that we would wish. The thing is to try to do as much as you can in the tie that you have. Time is short, and suddenly you’re not there any more. Scrooge wakes under his blanket, struggling toward the light. “Was I dreaming again? I must have been!” He goes into the net room, hunting for the giant or any of the giant’s props. He finds only the bare room and dust. “I must be mad. There are no ghosts. There are no ghosts.” Turning, he pulls up at the sight of something in his bedroom.
A greyer Spirit conducts Caine to a churchyard; the Spirit moves with difficulty and his whiskers are frost-white. But after explaining that his life on Earth is very brief, he laughs, enjoying the experience of aging as much as the rest. He believes his life will end on the stroke of midnight. “Now? But Spirit, I have learned so much from you!” Dickens tell us that nothing Scrooge could do or say would halt the terrible bells. “Oh, Spirit: do not leave me!” “I think I must, in fact.” The Spirit begins to sparkle. “You have meant so much to me! You have changed me!” “And now I leave you with the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.” “You mean…the future? Must I?” “Go forth, and know him better, man!” Laughing at that last joke, the Ghost vanishes, leaving a brief outline of sparkles.
Curry cannot see the Ghost, who has pulled into a shadow. She emerges from it whitehaired and wrinkled; her voice rasps. She explains that her stay on this Earth is very brief. The clock strikes three times. “Are spirits’ lives so short?” “Farewell, Ebenezer Scrooge.” She vanishes, and as Scrooge reaches for her, the house disappears as well, leaving him in darkness.
Sim I takes us to a poorhouse instead of a prison; here we see Alice (this version’s Belle, remember) working as a volunteer. Scrooge calls to her; the Spirit reproves him for having cut himself off from his fellow beings when he lost the love of this gentle creature. They move to a street. “Where are you taking me now?” “My time with you Ebenezer, is nearly done. Will you profit by what I have shown you of the good in most men’s hearts?” “I don’t know. How can I promise?” “If it’s too hard a lesson for you to learn, then learn this lesson.” He opens his robe; two children, nearly naked, look up listlessly. “Are they yours?” The Ghost replies with a brief version of the textual explanation. Scrooge buries his face in his hands at the first re[petition of “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?” Finding himself suddenly alone except for echoing repetitions of these questions, he runs, covering his ears. He stops in terror at the sight of an uplifted hand.
Sim II now has the Ghost completely white-haired, still a giant. “My life upon this globe is very brief; it ends tonight, at midnight.” “Forgive me, but I…I…I see something strange.” The Ghost points to him, and, thoroughly scowling now, says “Look here! Look! Look! Look here!” He reveals two hollow-eyed spectres with talons, long teeth, long toes: the boy is the more demonic of the two, while the girl is more a large-eyed starving waif. We are given an abbreviated explanation of what they are. Scrooge asks if they have no refuge, and winces when the Spirit quotes him. The clock strikes and the Spirit vanishes.
Scott is shown people living under a bridge. A small family, huddling around a fire, is trying to make a meal of eggs. The man is bitter about their situation; he says he would work if he could find work, an obvious reference to Scrooge’s earlier declaration about making idle people merry. “Why ae these people here?” Scrooge demands: “Men and women in rags, children eating scraps: there are institutions.” “Have you visited any of them, these institutions you speak of?” “No, but I’m taxed for them. Isn’t that enough?” “Is it?” The husband, well-spoken and apparently healthy, has become desperate enough to go to the poorhouse, where men and women are housed separately. His wife won’t hear of the family breaking up this way. “We’re together.” Scrooge grows stone-faced, refusing to sympathize. “What has this to do with me?” “Are they not of the human race?” the Spirit demands, voice booming now, “Look here, beneath my robe!” Scraggly children with haunted eyes look out. “What are they?” “They are your children. They are the children of all who walk the earth unseeing.” He goes on with the speech of explanation, emphasizing Doom. “Have they no refuge,” Scrooge inquires, “No resource?” The Ghost smiles. “Are there no workhouses? Are there no prisons?” Scrooge tries, without much success, to smile back. “Cover them. I do not wish to see them.” “I thought as much.” The Ghost closes his robes. “They are hidden. But they live. Oh, thy live.” He announces that the time has come for him to leave Scrooge. “Leave me? Leave me here?” The Ghost smiles. “Oh, yes.” “You can’t do that. Take me home to my bed.” The Ghost laughs, “It’s too late.” “It’s cold, the place is strange…please don’t leave me.” There is another laugh, a shining light, and the Spirit is gone. “Spirit!” Scrooge cries, angry. “Come back! I wish to talk!” Receiving no answer, he walks along the river, admitting that he may have made mistakes here and there, spoken too quickly about things to which he had given little thought, but they could have come to some working arrangement. “Spirit, have pity on me. Don’t leave me.” There is still no answer. He sits. “What have I done to be abandoned like this? Why? Why?” The mist over the river bubbles and thickens. Light approaches from the far end of the bridge, revealing a figure. Scrooge looks up and sees it.
Stewart is taken to a prison, where the Ghost, throwing him a look of defiance, tosses his watery blessing over a prisoner, who takes up a tin whistle and starts to play “The First Noel”. One prisoner and then another start to sing along. This does not create a warm, cozy holiday, but does bring a moment of music to the dark, cold, cheerless place. The Ghost, haggard now, walks slowly away through what looks like a Victorian parking garage, empty and silent. He announces that his time on this Earth is limited. Scrooge inquires about what he sees under the Spirit’s robes. “Is it a foot or a claw?” The Ghost is weary in response, but reveals what appear to be starving vampire children. The Ghost has to hold them back when they see Scrooge, and explains them, pausing now and again to gasp for breath, of which he is desperately short. At the sound of a bell, Ghost and children are gone. Scrooge, terrified, jogs away through empty streets.
It has been a little while since we considered the art of postcard poetry. New examples come to hand all the time at Blogsy’s Postcard Bin, and I want to be sure you don’t miss any of the amazing discoveries which…I’ve told you about making faces like that.
The art of verse for postcards is not unlike that of writing verse for greeting cards. For every poet who puts heart and soul into the job, there are ten postcard artists who are thinking, “Come on: come up with some words that rhyme so we can get this month’s rent paid.” (Paying the rent can be just as strong an impulse to write good verse as bad verse. It’s just that so many people who would write better verse keep getting the reminder “Don’t do it good; do it Tuesday.”)
Given that postcards AND greeting cards are designed to be mailed to someone somewhere else, it is exceedingly fortunate that “here” rhymes with “dear”. But some poets DO push on to more complex work.
To those who complain a card just 2 ½ inches by 5 ½ inches doesn’t allow for a good picture and a good verse, we must point out that SOME artists are able to produce work of great urgency and drama in that space (even if the sender of the postcard may edit the text.)
And you can always squeeze your words INSIDE the picture.
Satire and sarcasm seem to inspire good work along these lines. These works of art may be descendants of the Vinegar Valentine tradition of the nineteenth century, when unpleasant pictures and mocking verse made for some of the best-selling greeting cards.
There was space, apparently, to attack the latest fads to threaten the sedate procession of days.
Or toss some pin-up art into the bargain.
This artist not only got the complaint and the illustration on a mere postcard, but some fancy lettering as well.
Sometimes an artist would spot a modern trend which would provide a theme for a series of postcards. As the automobile became more widespread, so too did the motorized play on words.
Which could be used as often as you could come up with new rhymey words for camouflage. (Remember the Jim Henson rule of comedy: A joke not worth telling once may be worth telling seventeen times.) This artist seemed to like drawing cars and houses best anyhow.
Of course, there’s always someone who overdoes it. This artist got so busy throwing Halloween decorations into the verse that we need to look at it two or three times to find out that it rhymes. Still and all, the picture was more likely to sell the postcard than the poetry. (This card sold within a few hours of my listing. Yeah, it was the pumpkins.)
Blogsy Babbles 