San Francisco, March 14th.
To Editor New York Newspaper who is considerable careless about answer to letters of poor Japanese Schoolboy, excuse him for more of.
Dear Sir—Sometime when Hon. Rudyard Kipling write, he begin each paragraf with nice piece of poem. Therefore I must do it like him. Excuse following:
THE SONG OF OUCH
Hon. Mrs. Lusy Macdonald to whom I am now a greenhouse employed by her geraniums at 10c each to relieve them of what bugs they got is very nice-hearted. Her husband is a dead gentleman who took decease by asthma in joints. So she approached to me yesterday with customary tear-drop & 1 pair pants to say:
“These property of past Macdonald I am give to you because they wake bitter memories & are wore out around knees.” Slight sobs from her.
I observe them hon. pants which is very tall garments of dissipated appearance.
“O thank you so many, Hon. Mrs. Madam!” I report with salvo. “I shall took them home & rehearse wearing them.” I back off for respect and get away with them hon. pants.
At Patriots of Japan Boarding & Lodging, where I hope to move from before payment is necessary, I lock myself away with them garment, and try to make it fit. So sorry can’t do! When I clasp it with dignified safety-pin at waist each leg is too far beyond my foots—it give me reverent appearance of kneeling. I try to deceive them pants to look briefer by rolling them upwards. Also I coax them at stummick by fastening belt around shoulders. By this way I am entirely inside of that tailorship which is too plenty.
“‘Would they fit me perhaps?’ I ask for vanity”
Then suddenly Cousin Nogi make in-come to my room, because he is a relative and can do so without knocking. He look quite gast at me.
“You are clothed entirely,” he signify with smart expression.
“Would they fit me perhaps?” I ask for vanity.
“Maybe so they might,” dictate Nogi, “but they are too loose around neck.”
“What to do with such gifts from lady?” I inquire for reply.
“To wear it next to heart,” contuse Nogi with smiling. “If you wear it on publick streetfare crowd will collect to indicate that you are one very famous Japanese. Persons will proclaim: ‘There go them Hon. Pants!’ Maybe you will be escort by police wherever went. It is so easy to become famous.”
“No can do, please!” I prefer.
“No to?” stagger Nogi for disappoint.
“Ah, no!” I relapse. “I should not desire to become famous for pants. Hon. Modesty is a Japanese characteristick.”
“Hon. Modesty is a disease,” corrode that Nogi with scornful snip; so he tell following myth of antique Japan which is a very favourite stories of Grandmothers to illustrate the Hon. Modesty.
In some way-back period of B. C. there reside at Kioto one Emperor by name of Motomatsu who was awful modest about it. When spoke of as Famous he became a very ill person. He was shy about publick banzai. When he depart out from Hon. Palace for auto-ride all loyal subjecks was lined up by pave to decry: “Banzai! Banzai! Such nice Emperor Motomatsu!” They then kneel upon their faces to signify it. But Hon. Motomatsu enjoy angry rage for such publick demonstrictions and decry: “So conspickerous!” while he kick loyal subjecks on skull. Because he was shy.
Pretty soonly he make sneek out of Palace by back door to avoid them noyful mob of shoutings. But one Grocery Boy seen him and observe to inquire: “Why do Kings go out by back doors when should not?” “Hush it!” say Motomatsu. “I am doing it so as not to be too famous.” So when he make pass-on them Grocery Boy go to all populus of Japan and decry: “Hon. Emperor is departing by back door!” Then 1,000,000 of them loyal subjecks assemblance to trademan entrance of Palace & peek to see—and sure of! Hon. Emperor again is saw making sneek-in to Palace. “Permit us to hail!” say peasantry, but Hon. Emperor relapse with peev: “Go hail somewheres else!” And he throw brick-bat to them.
So them Hon. Emperor get worse modest all time. Pretty soonly he borrow rag-clothing from beggerly man and wander forth in them disguise. But Hon. Populus, when they seen him, decry: “O look-see what has arrive! Our dear Emperor are ragged out to be a beggerly man! Is he not conspickerous in such a clothing? Ah, yes!” And they surround him with a program of dances, including exhibitions of jiu jitsu, resolutions of respeck, geisha waltz, speek, fireworks & baloon-races. Pretty soonly Carnegie Commission approach with brass medal of reward. “For what?” say Hon. Emperor. “For extreme shyness in action,” say Hon. Commission. By this Hon. Motomatsu is very disgust, so he cut off them Commission at neck, then he chop 1,000 loyal subjecks with ax and go back Palace.
But when them loyal subjecks pick up their heads what was chopped they say: “Sure is! Mr. Emperor must be modest about publick appearance. Quite well! Then we will cease hailing him, if he is so disagree.”
Next day when Hon. Emperor go off for walk, what! Such vacancy of street! He is queer to feel. He go back Palace with lonesome smile. “Maybe I am dress too silently to be seen,” he-say. So he put on uniform of Field Marshall & walk outside again. Nothing to do. Even little sparrow-birds is absent with banzais. “O mania! Have I quit being famous?” subtract that Motomatsu, losing some flesh for griefs. So by soon-time he make début to street in drum-major uniform recruited by very large brass band. But Hon. Publick is home reminding their own business. This are too much worry for Hon. Emperor who go bed & is attended by appendicitis. Pretty soonly he enjoy death and got a tomb near Kioto. In front of it are following inscription:
“Motomatsu have got his bones here.
He were a Good Advertiser;
But he Worked it too Hard.”
Mr. Editor, Hon. Modesty were a disease very common among Great Mens in antique Japan. In these here day modern insanitary methods of brushing off microbes have got rid of such shy germs pretty good. Yet Great Mens is still in some tiny danger of being bit by it. At White Palace of Washington Dr. Rickey must be in constant attendance with microscope to watch for it. Each President Message must be very careful fumigated—and on some days this are pretty much of a job, thank you.
By each morning-time Hon. President must have corner of eye-glasses, mustache & tooths examined for fearful that some Wyoming constituent might maybe brought in bashful germs that will get into Hon. Policies & spoil everything.
This Surgeon-Gen. Rickey must be a very worried person. Suppose he go cod-fishing some Sunday off & become carelus about them hon. microbes? Ah, fatal! Next morning he go to White Cabinet & discover Hon. President enjoying high temperature of terrible blushes.
“Sec. Loeb,” he are saying, “please turn to Nineteenth Interstate Proclamation, page 1102B, and attack it with blue pencil.”
“Quite good, Mr. Sire,” say them Hon. Loeb. “What to do with them words?”
“Scratch out all pronouns spelled with an ‘I’ and supply ‘American People’ for it,” say Hon. President.
“Will do,” say Hon. Sec. with nervous glance.
“Next substitute considerable changes. Change ‘My Policies’ to ‘Mr. Bryan’s Policies,’ change ‘My Navy’ to ‘Admiral Brownson’s Navy,’ change——”
Dr. Rickey stand at corner of room with horrors springing at knees. “It are my carelus fault—some scarce disease have got in through window!” he whisper to guilty self.
“Next turn attention to library of books,” say that Presidential Invalid. “Change ‘My Works’ to ‘Works of Divine Providence.’ Every time ‘Grizzly Bear’ are mention change it to ‘Grey Squirrel,’ change ‘Must Not’ to ‘Please Don’t,’ change——”
“Stop it, Mr. Sire!” say them Physician with alarms; “if you continue it thus you will have ‘Malefactors’ changed to ‘Benefactors’!”
So White House Hospital Corps are ringed for and Hon. President took by forceful quarantine to Federal Hospital where one porous plaster are put on his Ego to draw it out. While enjoying relapse there he occupy cot formerly layed in by Hons. Albert Beverage, Ben Tillman & other Egos enjoying the same shy germ.
What would become of Hon. Literature, Mr. Editor, if them Literaries was nibbled by Hon. Modesty? What would become of Publishing Business if Hon. Mrs. Eleanor McGlynty, after wroting one book of title, “Three Months,” should spend that period of time blushing over what ensue in it? What would happen to Hon. Jack of London or Hon. Thomas of Boston if they forgot to tell Hon. World how remarkably much they are? Would Hon. World remember their praises if they didn’t? I ask to know.
What would ensue if Hon. Bernard Shaw should took the habit of shrinkage? Might he know how to stop before he had entirely shrunk away until he was very little more than size of Homer, Shakespeare & any other insignificate super-gentleman? I require no answer.
Mr. Editor, if I had died in old-fashion generation of water-power reputation I would have got on my tombstone:
Here Lies Togo,
He was a good man.
But as I live in age of gas-power greatness, I must have on my door-plate:
Here Lives Togo.
He is a great man.
If you don’t believe it,
Step in and he will
Tell you so.
With love to your printer,
Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.