VI HON DISH RAG VS. THE HON. CHINA
VI HON. DISH RAG VS. THE HON. CHINA
To Editor Woman’s Page who can serve Truth to homes in cups & saucers.
Hon. Dear Sir:
As nearly ago as last Wedsday I was connected to home of Mrs Jas Jones, Peru, Ind., where I am now not. My departure I shall relate.
Though refined in her appearances, this Hon. Mrs Jones is known by the dishes she keeps.
This Jones home are a continuous China closet entirely filled with it. Bloated blue bowls set in shelves amidst cups which look like History had drunk out of them. Stingy-size coffee cup to be taken after dinner are there to any extent. In presidential cabinets of mahogonish appearance she got considerable cut-up glasswear which make flashes resembling diamonds in show-case.
“Togo,” she say so, “because you are intellectual Japanese, I are sure you can take care of my dishes.”
“Japan are elegant chaperone for China,” I absorb with chivalry.
“All my cubboards is filled with dear associates,” she acknowledge. “Yonderly plates is real Japanese curios what Aunt Martha bought while travelling abroad in Chicago. Yonderly cups was handed down to me by Mr Ancestor.”
“2 of them was handed down pretty hard,” I say so, because handles was knock off.
“Crack and bump are considered antique,” she dib, while showing me 65 soup platters containing photo of Massacheussets to show how they was once property of Henry Clay.
All them dishes look at me with prides, like I should be ashamed of my cheapness.
“Togo,” deploy Hon. Mrs Jas Jones, as soonly as I was surprised as much as I could, “dishes like mine must not be washed brutally. They must be dishpanned like invalids.”
“I shall be trained nurse to them so much as possible,” I collapse. “Should I need toilet soap to wash such fineness?”
“Intellect are more important than soaps,” she explan. “Only once did I have a servant lady with sifficient intellect to wash my dishes, but she would not remain. She are now in Colorado running for Congress.”
“How shall I do it to make scientific dish-wash?” I ask to know.
She tell me this following recipe:
1st—Take one dishpan of good family, mix him with 3½ qrts. water of angry hotness until Hon. Dishpan seem quite tender.
2nd—Take one Soap of medium ripeness and mix him until he sud. Egg beater can be used if willing.
3rd—Dish-wash are now ready for it. Best Dishes to wash are them what has been smudged by foods.
4th—Drop Hon. Dish into delicious warmth of water. He will drown, but you must not pity him until he arrive entirely clean by soap.
5th—Hon. Dish will now expect warm shower bath.
6th—Wipe him until fatigued.
7th—Hon. Dish are now ready to eat another meal.
“Most delicate tool to be used in dish-wash,” Mrs Jones tell with voice, “are Hon. Dishrag. He must never be neglect. He must be kep in healthful condition of athlete by continual care. He must be always clean like white gloves, so Hon. Mikerobes will not walk on him. Otherwise he will be full of feverish diseases which he will give my Dishes to pass on to us.
“To keep dishrag clean are more important duty of home life than bakery or piano lesson. You unstand this?”
“Distinctually!” I report. “But tell me this reply. What should I do if Hon. Dishrag should axidentally throw himself down on floor where dust is?”
“Oh!!” This from her. “Never—no, never at all must Dishrag be permitted to behave like that by dropping to Floor. No!! Several 1000s of person is murdered each annual year by Dishrags what has thusly flopped and caught mikerobe. O Togo, you promus me one Thing?”
“I promus.”
“Promus you never permit Dishrag to flop to Floor whatever earthquake happen?”
I promus reverendly by lifting my knuckles. So she permit me to wash her dishes.
Things happens when they shouldn’t. This is what make newspapers and other novels so pleasant to read. And so it was with me.
For 2 week times I work for this Mrs Jas Jones without any crisis arriving. She were so deliciously stingy of her Mrs Washington pitcher, cups & glasswear that she use 10c. store dishes of flat-iron thickness for daily use when her Husband & other folks she did not respect was home. So I needs not think of scientific dish-wash during them happy days. Yet I worry about Hon. Dishrag continuously, because I was afraid he might strike some germs. How could I keep him clean while washing plates with him?
So I wash plates with my rude hands and hung Hon. Dishrag to clean peg where he would not get soil. Hon. Mrs seem entirely pleasant when she see the trained-nurse appearance of that Hon. Rag. I feel sure I should last there until old age.
But one afternoon was different, Mr Editor, because Mr & Mrs Budhammer, grandfather, dog, 2 Aunts and assorted children arrive up for lunching. Add to this Mr & Mrs Jas Jones and you have considerable dish-wash for poor Togo. And what did Hon. Mrs Jones do? She arrange on table all her important dishwear for fashionable appearance. Andrew Jackson butter-platter was there; Wm Shakespeare pattern plates with golden dots; Mr Ancestor’s glasswear in cut-up shapes of aggrevated beauty—every scarce China you could imagine was set there for folks to eat so I could wash it.
Them guests was very hospitable to Mr & Mrs Jas Jones. They say them plates was so beautiful they make the food taste better than it was. They make happy conversations while Aunt Elizabeth tell about her husband who died from Rheumatism on the brains. Everybody speak of subject he like most. Hon. Mrs Jones tell mean things she could say to neighbours and Mr Budhammer describe how happy he was before marriage. Thus do social interchange make joyful friendship!
After slight coffee was drunk all rose up and eloped forthly to verandah where all could smoke amidst fancy work and tell gossip anecdotes.
But I was not invited to this. It was now my important time for dish-wash when I should show all the science of my soul with that valuable China & other cups.
I take all fashionable Ancestor dishes from table and pile to kitchen. I was deliciously skilful like a bricklayer as I stacked cup on plate etc., until I got one nice crockery mountain 6¼ feet high with Mrs Martha Washington pitcher standing top-tip of 16 glasses looking beautiful like History monument. It are remarkable how many dishes can pile on each other without falling off.
I cooked some hot water by boiling it. Then I obtain Hon. Dishpan & satisfy him full of hot water, adding soap until it seem comfortable. Nextly I remove Hon. Dishrag from window where he enjoy sunshine by looking into garden. With reverent fingers, so I should not mix mikerobes with him, I flop him to Dishpan. Then I splunge my hands into that sud and stir continuously.
Mr Editor, did you ever stand with your fingers in warm dishwater thinking Thoughts. Such kind hotness surrounds your wrists that you feel poetical and disengaged. I am not suprised that so many servant ladies is such sweet singers while dish-washing. Their souls cannot remain hardened while their fingers is soaking in such pleasant soap sud.
Suddenly, while thusly I stood, great confusion came to my brain. I remember what Hon. Mrs told me about keeping Hon. Dishrag away from dirt. Then I look to that pile of Dishes. Some of them, though rare & expensive, was all disarranged by colours of food and blackberry pie. No! I could not enrage my sweet Boss Lady by touching sacred rag to that!
So I lift Hon. Dishrag from soap-water, ring him out with loving care and begin shake him so no rude germs would remain from contact with sud. I make 2 complete shakes and was starting Shake No 3—when O! Hon. Dishrag escape from my finger and start flopping to floor! Terrors! This must not happen!! How raged Hon. Mrs would be if this respected rag should catch some dust against her stric orders!
With immediate quickness I make extreme grab sidewards, snatching rapidly like cats catching grasshopper. I got him—between thumbs and elbows I caught that escaping Rag, but in thusly behaving—whop! My physique collapsed against entire dish-pile and following climax happened:
SMASHES!!!!
With noise peculiar to a crockery store falling off an Alp all that expensive China & glasswear elapse to floor and mix itself into broken hash like a battlefields after cannon shoots it. You could not tell cups from plates in that crackery of crockery.
“O murder from ignorant Japanese!” holla Hon. Mrs Jas Jones & Company making inrush to kitchen. “Alive sakes, you have dropped my entire home!”
And yet I smiled.
“Why you laugh like hickory Indian when all I have is broke?” she otter.
“Mrs Madam,” I corrode brave like frozen Napoleon, “I acknowledge the brokerage which I made amidst Hon. Dishes. Yet you needs not worry. I have saved your Dishrag.”
Human nature are very doggish, Mr. Editor. Though I prove to that Lady how heroic I was she kill all my answers with her replies while Hon. Mr Jones toss me forth from that jobs. With rabid hat I bid farewell without saying so. I are just another hero walking in homeless direction because of shipwreck.
Hoping you are the same
Yours truly
Hashimura Togo.
VII A DAY AT HOME
VII A DAY AT HOME
To Editor Woman’s Page who is honest man, therefore at home when he is.
Dearest Sir:
My next escape was from employment of Mrs. Clarence Calicutt, Siberia, N. Y. This lady was very highly esteamed. She practise theosophy on her mind and make society acquaintance with frequent ladies. She had the most deceptive behaviour of any personality I ever employed to boss me. Her voice was half in half. One end of it was sweet, but the other end contained considerable quinine. The bitterish end was all I ever saw. For instancely, in curl-paper hour of early morning she would arise upward from breakfast and say, “Togo, why you so dub this day? Are you foolish or merely brainless?” Hashly she spoke it.
Jing-jing from telephone.
“Hello—are that you, Clara? How charmed you are! Yes, honey, I should seem very much obliged!” Sweetly she used her voice.
“Why you speak lemons to me and honey to telephone?” I asked to know.
“Because,” she report, “there are two ways of talking—one way for servants, other way for telephone.”
“Sometimes I wish you would talk to me like a telephone,” I require, saddishly.
One raindrop morning this Mrs. Calicutt approach to me and report. “Togo, I am at home to-morrow afternoon.”
“Will you be more at home then than you are now?” I ask it.
“I are not at home now,” she dib, snubbly.
“How confused!” I magnify. “You mean tell me you are not at home when I see you there standing?”
“Truthfully I speak it.” This from her.
“Then maybe you could be elsewhere when you are at home?” I collapse.
“Quite conveniently,” she otter. “I know some several ladies who frequently go ottomobile riding on days when they are at home.”
“America are full of customs,” I report, enjoying headache in my understanding.
“I am at home on second and fifth Wednesdays of September, June, and January,” she speak onwards. “I choose them difficult dates so folks can amuse themselves calculating when they will see me next. It are not fashionable for a lady to be seen too frequently at her residence.”
“It would require train despatchers and astronomers to calculate when to call with cards,” I report. She make no visible reply to that.
“To-morrow is my Wednesday,” she describe, pridefully.
“Will you keep this date all to yourself?” I ask to know.
“Not by no means I won’t!” she snudge. “I have invite considerable guests for slight tea-drunk. I asked them for 4. P. M. So I shall expect them about 6:30.”
“How much people you expect, if any?” I require.
“Folks who comes to afternoon tea-drunk are like mice what comes to traps. You never can tell how many you will catch. Sometimes refreshment-bait are entirely wasted without a nibble. Sometime they come in such quantities they carries off the trap. Sometime, when you ask folks to tea, they behave shyly like rabbits. Sometimes they make forward stampede like mules, all attempting to rush at once.”
“Then you cannot give me any statistic to estimate how many persons will arrive up to your Wednesday to-morrow?”
“I asked 80 persons. Perhapsly 8 or 200 will arrive. Who knows what?”
“Do all them persons expect to eat from your food?” I asked, for cold eyebrows.
“Folks does not come to teas to eat entirely, but to eat somewhat,” she reproof. “Mutton chops, oyster, and soup would seem too heavyweight for such festival. Yet they would act disappointed and peevly if they could not have some lightweight refreshment.”
“Ham plus eggs would do for them, perhapsly?” I snuggest.
“Nothing would seem more toothless for such occasion,” she growell. “Slight nibble of cakes, slight squench of chocolate will be too sufficient with conversation. Therefore, I ask you to attend to refreshments for to-morrow. Please prepare following lightweight foods for them:
5 doz. devilish ham samditches.
5 doz. nutty samditches confused with cheeze.
5 doz. letus samditches containing salad.
12 qts. chocolate drunk.
A large chorus of cakes, McAroons, candies & other meatsweets in confusion.”
I done what she said, Mr. Editor. You cannot imagine with all your printer’s ink how I enslaved myself preparing them samditches for her festival. All morning of Wednesday I stood gashing bread with knives till I manufactured so much of that lay-between food that it stood in bulk. Piles of devilish ham samditches stood around near heaps of nutty cheeze samditches, resembling sky scrapers looking at Washington Monuments with jealous expression.
All that A. M. Hon. Mrs. Calicutt rosh everywhere doing something to furniture & draping smilax buds from pictures to resemble greenery. At lunching hour she appear very disjointed and say, “Aunts of Columbus Society holds annual social this P. M. at Methodist Church. Maybe I shall not be able to catch many folks from this.” Sadness stood in her voice.
Hon. Clarence Calicutt, husband to her, retire homeward by 3:11 train and report, “What could be more nuisansical for business man than pink tea?”
At 4:10 P. M. all was prepare. Cousin Florence arrive for pore tea. Mrs. Clarence Calicutt set in central middle of room making her clothes look very social. Hon. Clarence Calicutt wear frockaway coat and require, “Can I smoke?” whenever spoken to. Cousin Florence crouch behind tea-earn with expectful expression peculiar to sailors before battle. But nothing arrived yet.
At 4:59 come jing-jing to door bell. Mrs. Calicutt arrange her smile, Cousin Florence set upright, & Hon. Clarence go to window where he attempt to look neglectful.
I elope to door with desirable expression peculiar to butlers. With noble position of heels and elbows I ope door. What see? There stood one (1) Armenian peddle-man offering $2 tablecloths for $3.57. I enclose Hon. Door befront of his face.
“This are most excited afternoon of my career,” depress Hon. Calicutt, smoking cigars out of window so as not to fumigate curtains.
Mrs. Calicutt make several petrified replies.
At hour of 5:68 P. M. Rev. Mr. Horse W. Dill come in. He never could afford to miss repasts anywheres because of his shrinking salary.
“All world seem to be at Aunts of Columbus reception this afternoon,” he say for diplomacy.
“I notice it,” dib Hon. Mrs. “I just remain home merely by accident to-day & so glad you come.”
I offer him 86 samditches. He ate 13 and 1 qrt. chocolate. He depart at 7:46 filled with delicious refreshment. After that Hon. Clarence, Mrs. Clarence, and Cousin Florence draw near together & gaze morbidly at them samditches piled in towers.
For week latter, evening dinner at home of Calicutt contained following programme:
SOUP
Didn’t have none.
ENTREE
Chocolate. Samditches containing cheeze.
ROAST
Devilish ham samditches. Nutty samditches.
SALAD
Letus samditches.
DESERT
McAroons, cakes, more chocolate, & whatever else.
Hon. Mrs. Calicutt and Cousin Florence ate this table of contents without complaining voice. Ladies is often thusly—they do not desire real food when they can be economical. But me & Mr. Calicutt begin to feel very illegal when we look at them samditches which must be ate. Frequently Mr. Calicutt telephone home that his board of directors had appendicitis, therefore he must stay in town for dine. I forgive him this deception.
Three weeks pass off. Then come fifth Wednesday when Mrs. Calicutt must again be at home for friends.
“Togo,” she pronounce that morning, “I have invite 120 complete persons and expect to enjoy quite a stampede this P. M. Please multiply your former programme of samditches by twice.”
“I shall do so,” I deploy.
Yet my soul determined to do elsewise. Why must I again clutter that household with sky-scraping piles of samditches which nobody came to eat except Rev. Mr. Dill who had merely appetite for 13? No! If Hon. Mrs. Calicutt was too foolish in her brain to keep from that extravagance, then I should save her from it. I should merely make 13 samditches and 1 qrt. chocolate, sifficient for Hon. Dill. Yet I should make my Boss Lady think I was preparing great quantities. This deceptiveness require great heroism.
“Togo,” say her, coming to kitchen in early P. M., “Are bread & devilish ham and letus and marionaise dressing and chocolate all ready to be executed in vast quantities?”
“They are faithfully prepared,” I pronounce with talented dishonesty.
“120 guests often feel very edible, so do it plenty,” she acknowledge, eloping away.
At 3 o’clock I manufacture 13 samditches and 1 qrt. chocolate. That was all we could afford to give Mr. Dill.
“Where are refreshments, please?” requesh Mrs. Calicutt when 4 P. M. was there.
“I keep them cooly concealed in dark place where staleness will not arrive to them,” I report, looking sly like roosters. She too busy preparing smilax buds to know how much money I saved her by not manufacturing food for guests who wouldn’t come.
At 4:63 P. M. I notice something which make my eyes alarmed. With tense puffing honk-music and wheel-rumble, 47 ottomobiles, buggies, motorcycles, & go-carts arrive up to house all together like sheep. They hitch up by front gate. Why was they came? O look see!! 118 complete persons of every imaginable age & sect got out and make jing-jing to door bell.
One horble thought roshed to my ears. All them folks was coming expecting to eat Rev. Dills’ 13 samditches and 1 qrt. chocolate! I was blame for my economy. What must I do? My heart turned pale while hysteria filled my elbows. Already I could hear glad-you-came sound by Mrs. Calicutt while that hungry mobb make rosh through parlour room amidst disagreeable laughter.
Swish-swish! It was Mrs. Calicutt’s silk footsteps coming.
“Togo,” she whisper with stage-voice, introducing her head at kitchen, “where is immediate food for 120 persons?”
“Here, please,” I report with quaker knees, poking forth them 13 samditches on plate.
Shrieks by her. Deep breathing and 4 sobs. I withdraw myself away from there before she should make a scenery. I slid myself from back door softly like cats walking over ice-cycles.
I felt very sorry for Mrs. Calicutt losing me like that, but when I reached trolley-road where I got on, I felt less pity. After all, there was ½ fraction of corned beef and 1 qrt. milk in ice-box, so them 120 At Homers needs not go entirely destitute from food. Maybe they would enjoy that, if conversation was sifficiently fascinating. For what-say famus Japanese philosopher, Oysta-san? He say, “In good company crusts tastes rich, but in bore company ice-cream seems awful poor.”
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.
VIII PETS
VIII PETS
To Editor Woman’s Page who do so much to make home-life less homely.
Hon. Dear Sir:
Mrs. Benjoman Barnum of Pyramid Park, Penn, is the latest lady to turn me loose. Whether she are a relationship to Hon. P. T. Barnum (deceased) I am not aware enough to say, but she have got a very menagerie mind. Her home is a tame zoo full of animals. I am sure, if she had a bigger parlour, she would keep a elephant.
“Togo,” she report to me when she hired me off the Fineheimer Employment Bureau, “nothing make home so lively as several Pets.”
“I notice this,” is bright reply for me. “You are the most pettish lady I ever worked for.”
She did not seem to assimilate them words I said, yet they was truthful. Her home resembled Mr. Noah’s Houseboat in variety of 4-foot, 2-foot & 1-foot beasts it contained. By actual stastistics Mrs. Barnum possessed the following list of live Pets, which she support from sweethearted reasons of kindness:
1 Dog of waggish ways & barking vocabulary. His name was Julius Siezer, but Neighbours call him “Git Out!” because he dug mines in their flower beds. I forgot his nationality, but his complexion was Irish; 1 Cat entitled Florence who earned her food by purring for it. Her feet was deliciously full of thorns; 1 Parrot called Robt. Burns because his soul was in his talk; 1 cannary-bird name Dick. He didn’t seem to have no resemblance to his name; 2 Goldfish Twins, Harry & Carry who spent their days idly swimming in glass & saying nothing.
Mrs. Barnum formerly had one husband who went dead. I congratulate him.
When all those Pets is going at once, dog-bark, cat-mew, parrot-shriek and cannary-bird warbul, it sound like a brass band composed of dish-pans & steam whistles.
“I love my dum friends,” explan Mrs. Barnum to me with kind-eye expression.
“I love them most when they are most dum,” I repartee, suppressing my ears from those scrambled sounds. “If you could teach those goldy-fishes to sing, the harmonium would be complete.”
While I said thus that dog Siezer approach up and bit me on leg.
“He do this in fun,” say Mrs. Barnum.
“So glad to hear!” I negotiate. “Dogs never hurts so much when they bite humorously.”
“If you wish for to be employed in this home you must be keeper as well as housekeeper,” she tell off. “Promptly at noon o’clock each day the annimals must be fed. Each have his peculiaristic diet, which he crave for health. Siezer must have bone, Florence require cream, Robt. Burns expect apple, Dick ask for seed, while Harry & Carry demand fishfood. I should rather see anything than that my Pets go hungry.”
I assimulate her words and do what best I can. It require tack and courage to chaperone those Pets. They are all cannibles by appetite and would love to eat each other for their food qualities. When Hon. Seizer, the dog, are unloosed from his mesh he start forthly with waggish expression of tail and attemp to gobble Hon. Florence, the cat. This delusive mammal are too speedful for that dog, so she elope with hissy noise to mantel-piece where she set growelling with enlarged fur. When Hon. Siezer are absent attending other duties, Hon. Florence set hour by hour gazing upward at Hon. Dick, the cannary-bird, and wishing she had a baloon to obtain him with. When I approach this talented cat she make purr-song and slide around my ankles, requesting that I should give her Dick for lunch. I must refuse, out of politeness for Dick. Sometime Hon. Florence prefer fish. Then she walk up wallpaper like a fly and thusly arrive to shelf where Harry & Carry are swimming selfishly around in their toy ocean.
Hon. Robt. Burns, the parrot, are less particular. He like any sort of food, as long as it are alive. One day he observe me and say with tender squawk, “O darling, come, come to your own sailor boy!” I come. When I approach sifficiently close, Oh, nipp! Hon. Parrot remove off ¼ from my ear and set there looking satisfied. I sorrow to think he could talk so tender, yet act so tough!
Last Thursday A. M. Mrs. Barnum approach to me. She did not know it was my last day with her. Neither did I. Life is so surprised!
“Togo,” she instruct, “I am going over to Aunt Jane’s to set by a sick bedside.”
“Are Aunt Jane diseased?” I require.
“No. It are her cat what has influenza of the diagram,” she tell. “I shall be gone 1 hour time. Remember, while I are away my pets must be fed. Do not neglect this. I would rather anything than that they should go hungry.”
I give her my promissory word.
As soonly as she had went I begin task of furnishing bill-of-fare for her zoo. To Siezer I give bone, to Florence cream. They accept this without thanks. Then I donate one apple to Hon. Robt. Burns who sung, “Every morn I bring thee violets” and attemp to chew off thumb from me. Everything was affectionate as usual.
Nextly I go to shelf where Harry & Carry are bathing in glass. I took them to table where I irrigated them with fresh water. I was just feeding them slight lunch of delicious bait when——SCRASH!!!
From next room I heard Hon. Robt. Burns say distinctly, “If you love me, darling, tell me with your eyes!” So I knew he was doing some sort of murder.
I rosh in. Oh!! what sight I seen. That parrot-fowell had escaped away from his roost and lept upward to goldy cage where Hon. Dick was making opera with voice. With talented grabb that conversational chicken had shipwrecked Hon. Cage and deposited Hon. Dick-bird to floor. When I met Hon. Parrot he was hen-picking that talented songster. I attemp to arrest him for his brutality, but he attach my finger with his eagle mouth. I was removing him from this when, SCRUNSH!!!
Loud crashy of glass from next room. I rosh forwards. I was just in time to be too late. Hon. Florence had pushed glassy residence of Hon. Goldfishes to floor and was dieting on those gilt swimmers. She look thankful while she make gollup of Harry. She also ate Carry ½, but when I remove remainder from her she make reproachful growell and snagg me with thorny foot. I attempt to restore Hon. Carry who was fainted away, when—BOW WOWS!!!
Hon. Siezer approach to scene determined to obtain food supply from that cat. Hon. Florence rosh up curtains with angry sizz peculiar to sky-rockets when she seen that dogged approach. Hon. Dog smile up at Hon. Cat and Hon. Cat smile down at Hon. Dog.
While thusly they stood Hon. Dick awoke up from where he lay and limped forth on shabby wings. He give 3 and ½ sorry peeps and flitter to fireplace where he flew up flue.
Just at that instantaneous moment Hon. Robt. Burns arrive in with rawcuss yellup, and hooked his feet to chandelier where he hung suspended downside-up like a umberella. Dog & Cat continue to gaz up & down at each other like Romeo & Juliet.
“Should old acquaintance be forgot?” require Hon. Parrot, twirling his head 3 times in circular manner.
I had no time to reply to this inquisitiveness. It were nearly time for Mrs. Barnum to return homeward and I was full of timid fright for fear she might notice how badly her Pets was mixed among themselves. I did not feel sifficient to meet her angry rage.
So I handed my resignation to myself.
On hasty piece of paper I wrote:
Esteamed Mrs. Madam:—when nextly you see Togo he will be gone. So will your golden-fish & cannary-bird. But I will not be gone where they are, because your Pets do not crave me for food. I are not sensitive about this neglect. When you left me this morning you say so that you thought their appetites was failing. I could not dishcover that dangerous symptom. All they need was change of food. If ever you find them refusing eat in the future, do what I done—turn them loose on each other. If you wish to find Harry & Carry, search Miss Florence. If you can not dishcover Miss Florence when you get back, search Mr. Siezer. I am sorry to go, but glad I went.
I attach this information secretively to door-handle. From inside of house I could hear Hon. Siezer making coon-tree noises responded to by war-cry voice of Miss Florence. From top-tip of chandelier Hon. Robt. Burns was reporting peevly, “Fare-bye, for I must leave thee! One parting kiss—ar, ar, ar!!”
I sneek silently away on velvet feetsteps, feeling like one Spartan boy who done his duty by escaping from it.
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.
IX WASHING WINDOWS
IX WASHING WINDOWS
To Editor Woman’s Page whose mind is glass which shoots daylight into Subjects.
Dear Sir:—
Until quite recently of yore I remained in the suburbs of Pennsylvania at home of Mrs Nero Fits Gibb, where I stayed as long as I did.
It was because of windows that I was exploded off from that lovely situation of employment. Next job of work I shall hitch myself to some house which do not contain any of those glass encumbents.
I tell you this narrative.
That Hon. Mrs Fits Gibb reside in one large mahogany house containing sifficient windows to see everything through. Bay windows occur at moments when least expected; skylights peep from roof with expression peculiar to pair of spectacles. That house has got windows all over its face from its chin to its forehead, and every door are confused by glass stained brightly to resemble colours.
“Togo,” explan Hon. Mrs to me, “I are very fond of fresh daylight.”
“You have caged nearly all there is,” I corrode for politeness while gazing at 13 doz. windows surrounding.
“When doing nothing,” she explan, “it shall be your duty to wash them windows with careful soap. This will make them more light.”
“I am hired for light work,” I suggest. “What are most scientific way to bathe these glass eyes of your home?”
“Most artistic window-wash can be obtained with a ladder and a bucket,” she deploy. “Also rags must be used including soap and gymnastics. Take these materials to window requiring cleanliness and rub until exhausted. Continue this massage on next window and therefore on. Industry must be had. Do not abandon a pain of glass until he shine with brilliancy resembling genius.”
So I go do what she say. I got ladder, I obcured rags, I obtained sudds bucket according to orders Hon. Mrs Fits Gibb gave me. So farly so goodly.
Grasping ladder on my shoulder with military expression I walk around Hon. House to pick out one window what appear good natured & easy. More I looked less I could decide. That Hon. House continue to gaze at me sternly like one octopus with 1000 glass eyes. At lastly I find one pompus bay window what set over front door presenting swelled appearance peculiar to Presidents.
I look thoughtfully upwards and make philosophy by myself.
“Window-wash are like Success,” I commute. “It are most pleasant to begin at the top and work downward. Therefore I shall begin by soaping this important outlook.”
So I amount up ladder with Hon. Bucket inclosed in my knuckles and numberous rags embraced by my suspenders. Uply and more uply I march until I was there looking Hon. Window in the face. So I begin to wash him.
Mr Editor, the simplest things in life seems the most simplest when they are not. Do it not seem easy to your educational brain for a Japanese Schoolboy to carry sudds up ladder and apply him to window pain by rubs of rag? And yet such work are full of complex.
No sooner I begin attacking this job than I dishcover how Hon. Window Wash must be like a juggle in a circus. To obtain myself on that ladder I must clasp my toes with carefulness resembling stork, at same time I must balance Hon. Bucket by elbow, hold Hon. Rags in teeth and splatter Hon. Window with what fingers I had left. In the meanwhile, what was Hon. Soap doing? When he got wet his nature changed and he imagined he was a snake. He would not stay where he was, but amuse himself by slipping off from everywheres I put him. Every time he fall, I must dutifully ascend down that ladder, pick him from grass, carefully descend upwards again and attempt to hang him somewheres where he would not make an eel of himself. I never seen soap so full of slyness.
And yet I work onwards in spite of him. With delicious accuracy I threw sudds on Hon. Window till he seem to weep tears. Then I wipe him elaborously with rag. Yet more I wipe, less beautiful he appear. Greyness cover him with streaks. More rubbs. Stripes of smudge confuse that glass. More lather I put on. Yet Hon. Window continue to look dull & bilious. I massage him up and down with greased elbow until it was nearly sunset of p. m. O discouraged! If diamonds is so hard to polish, I are not surprised that nobody but policemen can afford such jewelery.
Pretty soonly I could hear voice of Hon. Mrs saluting me crossly from below down.
“Togo,” she report, “you have been 2 hours in labour of work. How many windows have you bathed completely?”
“Nearly one,” I corrode boastfully.
“If it take you 2 hours to wash nearly one window, how long would it take you to cleansify 211 glass pains in this house?” This arithmatic from her.
“422 hours,” I reject brightly. “If you will loaned me paper & pencill, I shall be happy to estimate how many weeks that makes.”
“Xmas will arrive before then,” she agnosticate with bang of door.
I could not understood her repartee. Maybe she intend to give me Xmas present.
When fatigue was too plenty for more exercise I stand on climax of that ladder holding sudds bucket in thoughtful position. Great thoughts can be obtained in such high altitudes, thusly perched with excelsior feeling of brain. Leaning against glass forehead of that bay window I could observe Nature acting as usual amidst houses where residences was. Walking amongst those houses I could observe bill collectors, insurance agents and neighbours—which show that Trouble come wherever folks resides. “Life are similar to such scenery,” I say for smart quotation.
While thusly I argued, some ottomobile wheels could be heard walking below in front of house. I look downly and observe very fashionable appearance of society—one bloated gas-machinery stopping up near feet of ladder while one complete lady enwrapped in Arctic mouse-skins fur sat there talking Waldorf language to a chauffer of military pattern. I could tell she was 400 by actual count.
“Hennery,” she say to Hon. Chauffer, “ring door and pronounce that Mrs. Diggle Clodd have arrived for slight calling visit on Mrs. Fits Gibb.”
“I do so!” This from Hon. Hennery.
While Hon. Hennery was making rings by door, I lean from ladder and observe the elegance of that financial lady as she flopped amidst coloured padding and showed the splandid millinary of her hat.
Great excitement by me. She were not beautiful as ladies go—and some ladies goes considerable. Her hair was red like a blushing brick and her face seem too wealthy to agree with anybody. Yet I was enraptured to be standing above so much money.
I perch on ladder to imitate birds. Pretty soonly Hon. Hennery, containing expensive boots, report back.
“Hon. Mrs. Gibbs are here where she is,” he acknowledge while opening ottomobile door so Hon. Lady could alight down richly. Queens act thusly when getting out of ships. I could observe the fluttering ostriches on top of her millinary head. How expensive to estimate!
When she was snuggling forth in direction of front door, I must lean very crooked backwards for see what was. I could not tell how it happen, but when leastly expected—O knock! Hon. Soap slyly slip forth from window-sill where he was setting and flop to hat of Mrs. Diggle Clodd!!! Great mixture of plumage ensued while feathers drop with confusion resembling 2 roosters fighting in a cyclone.
“Oh Hennery! Look upwards and see what!” she shreech.
Hennery do so, and while thusly he gazed my elbow disjoint himself and O swash!!! That suds bucket flop forwards & spill 2 complete gals soap-water on top of his elegance.
He show bitter expression peculiar to persons standing under Niagara.
“Who do it?” holla Hon. Hennery & Hon. Mrs.
“I no do it!” were lawyer reply for me. “Hon. Bucket must be guilty.”
“Are you not manager for that bucket?” require Hon. Hennery.
“How could I tell when he is going to shoot?” I narrate.
“Hennery!!” she gubble, “elope up ladder and pluck that impertinence down!”
Mr. Editor, I are a tame Japanese, yet when I observe gentleman in uniform descending up ladder with warfare expression, all the Port Arthur of my nationality come out.
“Hara kiri!” I acknowledge to Hon. Chauffer while shooting remnants of sudds-water straight at his profile. He look very bathhouse—yet he still continue to approach.
“When I obtain you—” he pronounce, making a grab to heel.
“When you get me I shall be elsewhere,” I defy. Thusly speaking I leap into the face of that bay window and arrive inside of bedroom with loudy crashes. Somebody below-stairs yell, “Burglar!”—but I knew I could not be a burglar and be so noisy. Hon. Hennery continue to approach up ladder. In anxious escape I jump over 11 chairs, 2½ beds with numerous etcetera.
In a soon moment I could observe wet headware of Hon. Hennery encroaching through window where he enter with rebound. I make talented dodge to hallway where I bang door & lock him, thus encircling Hon. Chauffer with his wrath.
Below downstairs I could hear Hon. Mrs Clodd talking mustard to Hon. Mrs Gibb. I could hear angry voices walking upstairs.
If I lost any time I must do so quickly. I trot backwards down hall. From window in rearward bedroom I seen one porch-escape from which I flew like aeroplanes. I make down shoot to ground while Hon. Mrs. holla from window.
“Togo,” she yall, “you are requested never to look into my house again!”
“Those residing in a houseful of windows should look out for themselves,” I nudge back walking away in sections.
Hoping you are the same, yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.
X PAPER-HANGING
X PAPER-HANGING
To Editor Home & Ladies Page who realise how wallpaper are like friendship: sometime he stick right, and sometime he don’t.
Dear Mr:
Mrs Bertha Mac Frenzie, a very medium lady residing in Boston, Conn., dis-employed me recently from happy home. I was very satisfactory help to her until following anecdote happen to me.
Mrs Mac Frenzie’s only extravagance are her stingyness. Careful in most everything, she become extra reckless when attempting to save 9c. Her thoughts are filled with skimmed milk & slaughterhouse steak. I am suprised Hon. U. S. Government do not hire her to saw off High Cost of Living before he start to grow any taller. I know because I seen it.
“Togo,” she require of me, “too much wealth is lavished in that soup you make. He is too thick.”
“If he become thinner he will faint away,” I warn out.
“Soup will stand considerable starvation and yet seem hearty,” she deploy. So I do so.
Last Wedsday she approach up to me with arms full of roll-up material.
“I have dishcovered now so I can save 9$!” she deploy with glee-club voice.
“Such saving may involve great expense,” I corrode brightly.
She neglect my chivalry.
“I am determined to paper bedroom of upstairs,” she rake off. “This shall be done by home-made labour. These wallpapers what I got only cost 10c. per roll, thusly saving 1$. Experienced paper hangmen require 4$ per day. It take 2 such to paste a room properly. I shall employ you for nothing to do this valuable task, thusly saving 8$. Therefore, I save 1$ + 8$ = 9$.”
“What clever stingyness you think up!” I oblate. No response from her.
She led me upwards to bedroom where that job must be.
“Have you any knowledge of paper-hanging?” she ask it.
“I never before attended such a lynching,” was answer I make.
“I show you how is,” she reciprocate. So she lay down following tools on floor where I could see:
12 bundles wallpaper of blue complexions tattooed with beauty resembling cauliflowers flirting with grapes.
1 complete bucket filled with undigested dough to make it stick by.
Confused rags to pat with.
1 ironing board to stick paper on top of.
1 ladder to lift paper on when hanging him.
1 shears for cut up paper by.
“Firstly,” correspond Hon. Mrs with shears, “you must take Hon. Paper thusly and manicure edges.”
She make cut-up with shears for show how.
“Nextly you must measure wall with very careful tailorship, so Hon. Paper will fit neatly like a coat.”
I observe her did it.
“Nextly make chop off to Hon. Paper at place where he fits. Then lay him on ironing-board and lather his back completely with dough from Hon. Bucket.”
By brush she do so.
“Next Hon. Paper are ready to be lynched. Raise him tenderly by both ears while climbing ladder and spread him on wall with smoothness resembling butter. If he refuse to lay still, pat him lovingly with rags.”
She teach me that science while I stand gast to observe her skilful thumbs.
“Can you do this jobs?” she require to know.
“Elaborately,” I confiscate.
And yet I were not aware that paperhanging are like poetry, marriage, and other games—deliciously easy to look at, but less easy to do.
So Hon. Mrs Mac Frenzie depart away for make society elsewheres and I was left alonesome with that paper. Firstly I look at him long time admiring the extreme art of his complexion. I could not realise how so many grapes and cauliflowers could get together without being confused. Admiration by me!
Then I start some industry. Firstly I cut sifficient chunk of this flowery decoration so he will fit wall. This were aggrevated task to do, because when I unroll him to make measure, he roll back with rat-trap expression and burst my thumbs. I can only make him behave by putting my feet on him while holding him down to ironing board. Pretty soonly, by extreme skill of swashing, I manage to plaster his back with dough like Mrs Mac Frenzie told me.
Mr Editor, to lubricate wallpaper with paste are difficult art like greasing snakes with cold cream. There are so much longness to him that he can do one thing with front end, while accomplishing otherwise with tail. So it was. Onwards & onwards I continue to paste Hon. Wall Paper while he uncoil to any extent. Pretty soonly front end of him were drooping to carpet, and yet I continue to brush his back.
At lastly he were entirely moist and ready to be lynched. With delicious politeness I pick him up by corners and start to descend up ladder with brave expression of fireman saving actresses. But when I was nearly upward I discover one sad event. Lower end of Hon. Paper refuse to be elevated. For what reason? For reason because he had pasted himself to carpet and clung there with stupidity resembling cats.
“I must domineer this wallpaper with my personality,” I say to self. So I lift both elbows strongly in attempting to jerk him from carpet. With expression of helpless peev peculiar to angle-worms he tore in two. ½ of his flowery egotism drop stickfully to carpet. Other ½ remain affectionately clinging to my lower legs where he remain, however much I beg him to desist off.
Wallpaper, Mr Editor, resemble some female Ladies, beautiful in their complexions, but very sidewise when least expected.
So on that ladder stood me & Hon. Wall Paper clinging together like Romeo & Juliet, but not mentioning love poems. The more I loosened, the more he tightened. By time I was able to disjoint him from my legs, he had fell affectionately on my chest where he make behaviour peculiar to postage stamps. Yet I did not enrage. Diplomacy frequently succeeds where boxing gloves are footless. So I decide to conquer Hon. Wall Paper by kindness. Gently, almost shyly I ripped him from my chest at same moment so arranging my wrists that I could detach him away from my legs. Oh joyful! Soonly he were divorced from me and swinging entirely free where I hold him aloftward by his ears. This were fine moment to paste him suddenly before he understood what I was doing.
So I make quick jump at wall with determined elbows. But Hon. Paper were more sudden than me. Before I could think he looped himself sidewise and became stuck on himself.
This make curious perdiclement. Try as I should to pry him apart, he become more and more absorbed in his personality. By this time his blue complexion were so confused by finger-prints that he look entirely Bertillon. It would require mathematics to tell which was right side of him and which wrong.
Then I decide to kill him at once and try another. So I clump him up in wad resembling laundry and cast him outward by window.
This were cruel thing to do, but there are some things which look best when you can’t see them.
Next piece paper I try were less backward. He stand very tame & quiet while I measure him. He sat still and wagg his tail while I paste him by brush. I love very much to think how polite he act. Pretty soonly he were ready to be hung, so I elope up ladder filled with happy thoughts to think how happy Mrs Mac Frenzie would get when she seen her wall so broke out with buds. With art expression peculiar to Michael Angelo I upraise Hon. Wall Paper aboveward. He lay still and quiet like eggs. Adjusting my thumbs I was entirely ready to paste him when—O pounce!
Oozing damp glue from his annointed back he suddenly fall on my head and surround me where I stood on that ladder.
It were like riding an airship while being buried in a tent full of mucilage. It were like sleeping between sheets of fly-paper.
I were in a very perdiculous position. Must I leap from ladder, thusly bursting neck so far from Japan? Or must I stood there and be gradually smothered up in mural decorations?
I could feel sticky substance drooping from my hair & eyebrows. I stood on my perch like a blind bird.
“What this?” I could see a voice beside me saying so. It were Mrs Mac Frenzie, I could told by the claws in her speech.
“Gug!” I response with all the language I could. I knew she was observing my wallpaper face.
“Come down at oncely!” she holla. I obey by tittering backwards from my perch and walking on air which had a hole in it thus permitting me to fall 12 feet to central room where most of the furniture was, including Hon. Paste Bucket which got confused in everything else including me.
When I pick myself uply from that rumpus, my head was intruding from wallpaper hood like a fanciful millinary.
Hon. Floor were covered by paste, paper, and relics of where I fell.
“You done nice job!” snarred Hon. Mrs who stood in midst.
“I shall do better next place,” I recover.
“You have papered everything in the room except the wall,” she dib sarcastly.
“I are going to paper that next,” are answer for me.
“There shall never not be no Next!” she squabble, while poking me forthly into frostbite of street.
There I stood in coldness without any other overcoat except wall paper I wore.
So I slushed saddishly to trolley remembering words of Hon. Mild Standish. “If you want a thing done wrong, do it yourself!”
Hoping you do so, Yours truly,
Hashimura Togo.
XI HON. GLADYS OBTAIN MATRIMONY
XI HON. GLADYS OBTAIN MATRIMONY
To Editor Woman’s Page, who do so much to make family life less lonesome.
Dear Mr Sir:—
Home of Hon. Samule Scott, East Orange, N. J., is one of the nicest homes from which I ever was discharged from. When I first went there to work that family contained following list of persons:
Mrs Scott
Mr ”
Miss ” (retired).
This Miss Scott were young lady of 20 years complete beauty. O such smiling hair & blond eyes! How well her complexion matched her costume! Before her marriage her name was Gladys, but I are not sure what she is called now, as each American girl must change her name when she get married. This is very confusing custom to Japanese boy. I was working for that Scott family when that Hon. Gladys obtained matrimony. I never seen an American wedding before. Now I realise why so many people in these U. S. object to being married more than once.
Hon. Scott, who has been a father to Gladys all her life, arrived up to me last Tuesday P. M. and say fidgetfully,
“Togo,” he say, “there will be a wedding in this house next Satday & I wish you would be as stylish as possible in passing food. You must appear fashionable in every way, because it are customary on such occasions to look more wealthy than you are.”
“Are you going to be married again, Hon. Sir?” I ask with chivalry.
“Not if I could avoid it!” he say peevly. “It is my daughter Gladys who I shall give away.”
“To who will you donate this charming lady?” I ask out.
“Hon. Charlie Sweetberry will be the blushing bridebroom,” he pronounce. “You remember Charlie who arrive here more & more frequently bearing flowers?”
“Distinctually,” I report. “He came with rose-bud tokens so frequently I thought that he was a florist.”
“We intend to make this wedding so joyful that we are all quite miserable preparing for it,” he describe. “The event will be shot off at high noon.”
“Are noon on a wedding day any higher than any other noon?” I require for information.
“If you paid the bills you would think so!” he explode glubly & walk in an offward direction.
Mr Editor, you would be surprised to see how much burden that wedding was to Hon. Express Co. who brought the packages! For several entire days bundles arrove in large quantities of freight. Street in front of that house was headquarters for delivery wagons. Messengers came continually bringing Merry Christmas parcels enwrapped in paper. Hon. Samule Scott, assisted by me & family, would spend long-time each day disenwrapping those parcels and gossiping about what came. Excitement. Out would drop some golden fork or swollen pitcher marked “Happy Returns.”
“Why should these be labelled ‘Happy Returns’?” I negotiate.
“Because,” pronounce Hon. Samule with depressed eyebrows, “they are all returns of wedding presents we sent other folks.”
I stand gast at this phenomenal.
Each day for 14 complete hours that hansom Scottish home stood full of dressmakers, vacuum cleaners, dentists, milliners, reporters and other necessities of life. Hon. Samule Scott walk around looking tense like a financial crisis. Mrs. Scott were always busy. When not engaged in any other housekeeping she set down and wept some tears.
“Why you wept, Hon. Lady?” I ask to know.
“I am preparing for the wedding,” she say back. “No wedding can look fashionable without a few weeps.”
Each morning Hon. Gladys Scott stand up with dressmaker and report with angry rage of girlish soprano, “You make me so nervus that screaming would seem pleasant!” Yet a few moments later she meet Hon. Chas Sweetberry in parlour & report with kitten words, “O Chas, I am so happy!”
My brain feel cross-eyed to hear this duplex conversation.
Friday night Hon. Tortoni, Italian caterman, back-up horse to front lawn and dump forth sifficient camp-chairs to furnish 1 complete picnic. Hon. Chas Sweetberry & 1 clergy man come later. They meet that Scott family, including Hon. Gladys, in parlour where they lock door and say a long ceremony, walking around & giving away several times.
When Hon. Sweetberry come outside to smoke cigaret, I say to him with banzai in my voice,
“Congratulations, Mr Sir!”
“For what?” he dib.
“For your marriage which just took place,” I encroach.
“That wasn’t marriage,” he snork. “We was just practising.”
I was confused.
* * * * *
Great date of wedding was finally there. All furniture in Hon. Parlour was fixed like pews, so all could take set-down. Mrs Scott wep some more when she seen the chairs in tiers. All that home was dressed with greenish smilax like a beautiful salad. Hon. Bridebroom arrive with silk-pipe hat over his headache. Five or six best men emerge at front door wearing Floridora clothing. Bridal-maidens came in quantities looking like they wondered who would be next. Humouristical college friends walk up carrying footware, rice & other groceries. Several hack-loads of relatives was wheeled to door.
Silence.
A clergy man encroach at side door with Rev Mr. expression.
All was prepare. Yet something was not. Hon. Samule Scott rosh up to me with quiet craze.
“Togo,” he whasper, “where are Chas, the bridebroom?”
“I seen him in aunty-room off library quarrelling with his necktie,” I report.
Surely yes! He was there in aunty-room trying to correct the nervus behaviour of his collar button.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” report Hon. Chas when dishcovered, “How my shoes hurt me!”
More silence.
All that audience now set in parlour expectfully. Humouristical college friends pass rice-package amidst eyewinks peculiar to comedians. Several relatives appear quite affectionate.
Music emerj from piano. Hon. Bridebroom with serene collar now pop forth and stand amid flowers at end of room. 2x2 now come Bridlemaidens expensively trimmed. Hon. Bride, artistically enwrapped in original Irish curtains, nextly step forth supporting her Father, who need this attention because of his quaker knees.
“You are what you say you are?” require Hon. Clergy to Bride & Broom who now stand close by.
They agree to this.
“Has somebody here an objection to this gentleman?” ask Hon. Preach to audience.
Everybody seem careless about replying. I was going to say how I thought he was too easily peeved about his neckties, but Hon. Preach neglected to wait.
When Hon. Preach explain to Bride how she must take that man for worse & more of it, she seem to feel no alarm. He warned her about several things which I could not hear. Still she was determined to be married. So Hon. Bridebroom, who seem too entranced to remember, borrow a ring from Best Man and Miss Scott became a Mrs.
Wildly onrush of friends now ensued. Kissing heard everwheres amidst sobs & other joy. Most elderly gentlemans was most dutiful about kissing Bride.
“No one shall be permitted this salute except relatives!” holla Hon. Bridebroom appearing slightly frantic.
“Then we must be included,” report 16 humouristic college friends. “We are fraternity brothers to you.” They approach with happy mob.
Nextly come wedding brekfast. This was the most latest brekfast I ever passed food for. Also it was so innapropriate for brekfast, because wine was served instid of eggs. And the only toast which they ate was drank amidst speeches. Everytime somebody poke forth harsh word about Hon. Bridebroom it seem laughing-signal for all.
“This young man,” report Uncle Henry to Hon. Bride while he rose upward, “This young man remind me dishagreeably of his Uncle Hiram which led a wild life and was sent to Congress in his old age. Be careful or he will do likewise.”
The blushing Bride seem very calm. It was the Bridebroom who done nearly all the blushing.
Pretty soonly the recent Mr & Mrs Sweetberry make quick-change to railroad clothing and elope together to hack outside. While they was walking down front steps those 16 humouristic college chums suddenly give Black Hand signal.
WHOSH!!
42 gallons selected rice make cyclone upon hat-plumage of that Mrs Bride who escape with screem to carriage.
BOMB!!
12 complete carpet slippers hit Mr Bridebroom with accurate target-practice just as he was lifting his legs into that cab. More feetware mingled with rice arrive in droves and hit Hon. Carriage with angry strokes. My Samurai soul stood endwise with alarm. I should prevent this cruelty.
“O stop!” I holla, roshing forwards. “Why should you attack them young folks and drive them forth with brutality after what they has went through? Toss one more rubber boot and I shall rebuke you with my rages.”
While thusly I spoke one 2nd handed ballroom slipper stroked my hair and I walk away feeling absent in my brain.
Hoping you are the same
Yours truly
Hashimura Togo.