Part 6

“Too bad weather are so full of dishagreeable qualities!” grubble Aunt Hannah with golden teeth.

“It were not thusly when I was a boy,” report Uncle Seth with grone. “Please pass the celery.”

He make smack-taste of this foods, then flop it back with snubbed expression.

“I have tasted no respectable celery since 1841!” he holla baffably.

All enjoy depression by this report.

Next course was oysters, served with considerable rawness. Cousin Fred’rck make jab to these shelled fish.

“Don’t!” holla Aunt Eliz, making horror with her nose.

“Why should not?” require Cousin Fred’rck while he swallow up.

“You are so young and yet dead already!” ollicute Aunt Eliz. “Toe-main poison are sure to resume from this.”

“Food contained less poison when I was a childhood,” negotiate Uncle Seth.

“Bygone days has went!” extract Aunt Eliz with si & grone.

I go to kitchen for bring in delicious mulligantawny soup what I bought. While I were pouring this hot beveridge in plates, I notice slight smell of burn. It was Hon. Turkey in oven, becoming too feverish. So I took him out and put him by window where he be more comfortable.

I fetch soup in plates to all those thanksgivers.

“Canned!” they yellup together with voice of sad chorus girls, while thrusting away plates.

“Nothing is real any more!” narrate Uncle Seth with dyspepsia. “Even turkies is deceptive. When boyhood days elapsed, I can remember how we was accustomed, on Thanksgive morning, to salute Hon. Turkey by chopping him in kneck with ax. We knew he was good to eat, because we seen how fresh he acted. But no more. Today, turkies lives like Eskimos—spending their old age on ice before meeting civilized persons. No respectable bird-dog would eat them.”

I enjoy considerable alarm for this thanksgiving speech. Then, courageous like a Samurai, I retreat to kitchen for fetch forth Hon. Turkey. Hope thrilled my wrists and elbows as I entered kitchen for escort that sublime turkey—but O!!! I stand gast. I look to window where I left that sacred bird. Such things could not! And it was. Empty pan stood there, seeming entirely vacuum. Hon. Turkey had flewed away!!

I rosh by window and look earnestly to back yard. Yes!! With thankful expression of tail, there stood Hon. Fido abducting Hon. Turkey across alley by wing.

“Come backwards!” I yellup. Hon. Fido show no impression from my talk. I lep through window 7½ feet to outside. Quickly reassuring my legs, I retreat after that slyly doggish annimle, but he scromble up fence with hooked claws resembling cats. Too late for me! Turkey had escaped from my Bulgarian catch-up.

Mr. Editor, heroes is most brave when reporting failures. I do this considerably. So I drag together my soul and encroach toward dining-room, where I could hear those 8 thanksgivers complaining about everything. I walk in there carrying empty pan. Uncle Seth were just saying,

“Turkey are not what he used to be in 1868!”

“It are painful to look one in face!” report Aunt Eliz, while all agree.

“Banzai!” I holla, poking forth vacant dish. “Your digestion shall avoid this agony.”

“What is?” all exclam while leapting to their feetware.

“You should all be very thanksgiving,” I snuggest. “You have been rescued from considerable preserved poison by one patriotic dog what sacrifice himself by eloping with Hon. Turkey before he could be ate.”

“Kill the dishonest mammal!” all gollup with thankless expression.

“Why you should want I kill dog for stealing turkey you do not require?” I ask with Teddy Roosevelt voice. “He should be gave medal of Pilgrim 4 Fathers for eating a bird you would not dare to bite.”

“Then you mean we shall have no turkey?” snagger all.

“You shall be spared that calamity,” I say off.

“How lonesome Thanksgive dinner seem without him!” mone Uncle Seth.

“How can we fill his vacant platter?” sobb Hon. Mrs. “I should be thankful for Hon. Turkey, however tough!”

Just while she say this—crashy!! Loud sound of approaching dog heard from kitchen window, and Hon. Fido with waggish tail trott into dining-room, carrying that enormalous bird in his careful teeth. He lay that absent fowel reverently a.m. feets.

“Hon. Fido do not care for this enlarged chicken, so he bring him back,” I report.

“Dinner are now spoilt!” decry Hon. Mrs.

“How could you speak it?” I research. “When turkey go, you say, ‘Dinner ruined!’ When he come back, you say, ‘Dinner spoilt!’ I am impossible to understand about American customs.

“You have Thanksgive dinner so you can set around making bewails. So foolish to do! Why you no choose this date for to kick out Misfortune?”

“I shall do so!” abrupt Hon. Goober, arising upwards. “First Misfortune to kick will be in your direction.”

Next he rejected me through window by force of Swedish jiu-jitsu. Hon. Fido arrive by next kick, and Hon. Turkey flew afterward, striking me on hair so earnestly he left me quite brainless.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly, HASHIMURA TOGO.

XIV

Togo Seeks Tea and Finds Tango

_To Editor Good Housekeeping Magazine who must realize the extreme difficulty of keeping home dull,_

Dear Sir:—I have leaped so continuously from jobs to jobs since you last heard from me that I am becoming a very talented bounder. The nearly last place to which I was attached rejected me away because of my extreme industry in sweeping carpets while company was there to sneeze. Boss Lady at that place was kind but brutal, so she give me following letter of recomment to quit with:

TO WHO THIS MAY SUPPLY:—

This introduces our Mr. Togo (retired). If you want to see what a housemaid he is, try him. He is capable of anything. Please treat him like I did.

MARY L. MONTFUSSER.

Next place where I took this note were home of Hon. Mrs. & Mr. Wm. Vanderbitt Jones, residing in very swollen location located near Aspic Falls, N. J. That neighborhood was so formula that it make me feel quite English while approaching up to it. I was included into rear entrance amid buttlers, where Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones, crystalized lady of expensive beauty, arrive there and require, “You unstand how serve tea?”

“Tea are favorite drunk of Japan,” I exaggerate pridefully. “It are served there with ceremony——”

“It are served here with tango,” she snib stylishly. “Did you ever learn how?”

“Never yet,” I nudge, “yet I can quickly learn to include that amid cream & sugar.”

“How irritated!” she snib while making her fingers touch her fashionable hairs. “Howeverly, since it is too late already, you must remain staying.”

A English buttler without any H in his words took me to long room and show me how pile up furniture and remove off all explosive glassware from table.

“Why you make so much removal?” I ask to know.

“When tea-drink begin they commence dance,” he acknowledge.

“Tea never make persons dance in Japan,” I snagger.

“It are only commencing to have that effect in America,” he explain. “But in 1914 it are fashionable to have it go to feet when swallowed.”

I were chewing this education with my brain when confused varieties of Smart Setters arrive up with enlarged limousine hacks and make ha-ha handshake including Vernon Castle expression.

I notice great absence of that stiff-souled dignity peculiar to Japanese Ambassadors when thirsty for Oolong. Everybody acted like a divorce and some ladies appeared considerable Geisha.

Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones stand by rugs, with flirting expression and say, “Howdy, Freddy,” whenever Newport clothing arrive up. Musical orchestra from behind palm-bushes commence play “O You Gabble Gabble Glide” and nobody could prevent misbehavior of feet. Considerable gentlemen then obtain seizure of considerable ladies and commence circulating with stride away expression of knees.

“If this is tea where is it?” I require from my soul. No answer as yet.

My eyes equaled Sherlock’s in search of that beveridge which should be there. I could not detect. No appearance of steepage, cup-saucer, sammyvar, or other tools for making that hot sip. Yet somewheres I could hear dice-box sound peculiar to small icebergs clattering together. O yes! I saw. Coyly concealing behind palm-bushes I observe considerable buttler shaking up tea in silver jigglers to include ice.

Pretty soonly lady & gentleman arrive up full of fatigues from so much slouchy-slouchy dance-step.

“We will take slight tea,” they dement from Hon. Buttler.

“What variety, please?” he require servantly.

“Martini,” snuggest those couple. Hon. Buttler pour. More pairs of persons emerge up. More shakes with ice. More gobbles. More dances.

Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones, formerly very clam-eye and Buckingham in her appearance of silk clothing, abruptly seize one smallish dance-gentleman and become more Geisha than all others collapsed together.

“It are tango who put the tease into tea,” renounce one gentleman-boy twirkling by with lady-girl.

“You are very Bernard Shaw today, Edgerley,” she report back with eyes. “Of formerly it used to be deliciously difficult to compel men & husbands to come to tea. Now you cannot keep them away with weapons. Why is that swift change?”

“When the tea goes out the tango’s in,” he define, attempting to wear wit under his moustache.

It was very hard science to describe this tango-waltz when I saw it, Mr. Editor. It are similar to a minuet danced by eels. Angry elbows seem to be slipping around everywheres while each ladies and gentlemen seem to be walking sidewise without intending to go there. Such chuckly movements of ducking away from music amid bounces! Such clutch and jolt containing great poetry! I could not unstand how persons could do this American jiu-jitsu without injurious breakage of their personality. And yet no ambulance was called.

While I stood thusly composing thoughts, Hon. Buttler walk to me with side-face moustache similar to Hon. Chauncey Depew when not joking.

“While you are doing nothing you should not stand idly around,” he dib.

“You wish me dance also?” I snuggest.

“I wish you to go to royal reception door downside and permit entrance to all calling guests.” This he say with voice so expensive I feel entirely bankrup.

So I go downside to reception door where I set long-time for lonesome company by the knob. Occasionately that music play so flirtatious that my feet misbehave. Pretty soonly came ring-ring to door. I admit. In come lengthwise gentleman with Woodrow Wilson expression and black-front necktie peculiar to clergy.

“What name, if any?” I ask to know. I made my voice show insults peculiar to fashion.

“I am Rev. Mr. Scornaway, of St. Lucre parish,” he deliver. “I have came to tea as usual on Wedsday.”

“This is no place for a clergy,” I dictate warnfully. “You can save your reputation by taking it away with you.”

“What do you mean by your meaning?” he snagger. “Do not Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones’s cards say Tea on Wedsday?”

“This are not the kind of Wedsday you think it is,” I abrupt.

“Poor benightied heathen!” he narrate. “Have I not been arriving here for tea for the last twenty (20) years since date when Hon. Cyrus J. Jones was President of National Distrust Co.? Have I not been here to talk church-work with elderly ladies while setting down amidst famus statesmen and talk on topics? Have I not met most greatest dignity in America within this house?”

“You will not meet them now,” I clabber, “or if so they will be doing something else.”

“Pleasantly permit me to pass inside,” he snarrel clergetically.

“O not to do!” I holla with Samurai knockles preventing his forthstepping. “If I relate what horror that tea is now doing you will not dare to go inside with your profession.”

“Tell me the entire!” he commit bravely.

“They are making tango!” I whasper with ears full of frights.

Hon. Rev. Mr. express great sternness in his jaws like a reformer fighting Indians.

“Let me get at them!” he growell.

“O joyful!” I acknowledge. “Then you are determined to stop it?”

“No!!” he gargle. “I am determined to dance it!!!”

I collapse backwards to setty chair and permit him to advance to middle of music. For 13 1-8 minutes I remained stationary attempting to fan away my faint. Then considerable bashido filled my forehead and I leapt to my footwear. Upstairs to dance-hall parlor I go. There, surrounded by sidesteps, hand-clasps, whirligig promenades, eye-gaze, romp, Vienna tunes and acrobats I observed Hon. Rev. Mr. circulating in clutch with Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones. Determinely I advance to middle of and stand befront them.

“Hon. Mrs. Madam, if conveniently—” I commence to be interrupted.

“What is?” she require, continuing to circulate.

I am obliged to make delicious dance-motions so I can keep up, yet I pursue near her.

“If convenient I quit,” is reprove for me. I must now double three loops and whirl my arms bias to remain next.

“Why you don’t quit without application to me?” she ask it while 2-stepping.

“I wish tell you my feelings before departure,” I reject while gliding my feet onwards and twining my chest in stroggle to follow her closely. “I shall not be a servant in such a fidgetty home. I shock! What is becaming of America? Instead of sipping tea, as formerly, they dance it. Instead of enjoying sociability with brain they do it with feet. They act midnight at five o’clock. Preachers come to preach and stay to prance. Therefore, I remove myself to some other jobs.”

“Jeems!” Hon. Mrs. holla to Hon. Buttler, yet still continue fantango whirling, “here are Japanese schoolboy who should be discharged to music. Tango him down back steps.”

Nextly I knew I were embraced by that tense Englishman without any H in his voice. While music burst up into runaway tune, Hon. Buttler show me tango so rapidly I did not know my ears from my knuckles. O such musical scuttle-step, back-walk, elbow-jounce, and twist-vine movement towards outside side of house! And there I suddenly arrived followed by orchestra-sound including kick.

So I 1-step away with bursted gracefulness peculiar to lame duck.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly, HASHIMURA TOGO.

XV

Are Turkey-Waltzing a Dance or a Convulsion?

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint, who must have many subscribers because he know that where there is Life there is Blood and where there is Blood there is Circulation (free joke)_

Dear Mr.:—The Japanese Patriotic and Educational Suicide Club, of which I are correspondent Secretary last night give a waltzing cotillion and lemonade (25c for extra ladies who drunk it) at Rising Sun Banzai Association Hall. Considerable fashion of yellow complexion was there with Sadikichi’s Brass Orchestra to play it whenever we danced it. Excitements.

Considerable Japanese schoolgirls was fetched there by that nationality and I was deliciously shocked to see how American they looked. They wore crippled skirts of considerable thinness and their shoulder blades seemed absolutely destitute. I fetch Miss Ruby Fujimuto, Japanese lady of aggrevated beauty, with me for escort. When she removed off her opera-house cloak, I look at her with my expression all braided up.

“Ladies should be praised for their economy,” I corrode while observing the cloth that was not there.

She curbed up with bridle expression.

“You no like the way my neck is cut?” she snagger, showing peevness by her soprano.

“Your neck is not cut,” I narrate. “I know because I can see it all.”

She seem less engaged to me than formerly and eloped away to make dance-step with J. Haro, Japanese photographer.

Hon. Sadakichi’s Brass Orchestra make music resembling roof gardens.

At that moment of time I could observe how everybody was dancing. They seemed to be jouncing in couples, making crowd-up walk with occasional slouchy-slouchy motion while their eyes said “How-do!” with Romeo expression peculiar to Shakespeare.

“It are nice for youngly persons to be affectionate,” I commute. “But when will dancing begin?”

“They are now Turkey-waltzing,” depose Arthur Kickahajama, missionary boy, with Tuxedo eyebrows.

My cousin Nogi, who arrive there with Miss Alice Sago (divorced) approach to me and wish I should Turkey-waltz with her because he was lame from when she kicked him. I told him I was a Methodist heathen, therefore my feet was too religious to dance.

“Turk-waltzing are denatured dancing,” arrange Miss Sago with alimony smiles. “Come, Mr. Togo, I show you how do it!” So I went and stroggled.

Mr. Editor, while I made gymnastix with that charmed lady, I wished send you several editorials. What are this Turkey-Waltz, I ask to know? Were it invented by Turks at Adrianople while wrastling with the Vulgarian army? Did Turkish soldiers think up that peculiarostous step while rolling barrels of powder at Greece? Why should persons blame Turks with this style of trotting if they never did it? Mohammedans has got sifficient bad habits of their own without accusing them of some more!

This Miss Sago shove me here & elsewhere with neglectful expression peculiar to roustabouts. When music play “All Persons Are Doing Something” she attemp to dissociate my spine by wig-wagging my elbows.

“Make your ankles more diagonal!” she declare with sweety schoolteacher face. I wish to ask her marry me, but wondered what might happen if I did. I make slight jiu jitsu to her wrist, but she got more stronger grippe while I jounce alternately like tables in earthquakes.

“My feet are filled with clumsies,” I narrate baffably.

“That are very valuable in Turk-trotting,” she say for sweetly smiling.

“So is?” I holla. “I always sipposed folks must be graceful to make dance step.”

“They ust to, but no more,” she expose. “All fashionable 400s today when dancing considers it great elegance to appear like drunken sailors wrestling with bears.”

I should have responded to her educational catalogue, but she was showing me new jag-step where I could elevate my knees to music while being choked.

“I will nextly show you how do the Jellyfish Crawl,” she pronounce with Tipsichore expression.

“If I learned any more dances I should become a Geisha, which are less proper,” I renig shyly while eloping away from her armful with talented dodges.

When I was hiding behind palum trees where she could not see me I watched considerable turkey-trottery, bunny-huggery, etc., with eyes full of science. Dignified home-made Japanese was making roof-garden loops with their legs in such a way their wife & children would feel siprised. Arthur Kickahajama, missionary boy, were doing sidewise catch-and-let-go dance with Miss Mamie Furaoki. After that actions I could not see how he ever could look a Y. M. C. A. in the face again. First they glid together with expression of happy crabs, then they made a twillup, two cross-legs & 3 bounces. This was followed by clutches.

“They are dancing Tango,” pronounce Sydney Katsu, Jr., who was floorwalking like a committee.

“What slum teaches persons dance like that?” I abject doggishly.

“Sometimes Bowery, sometimes Fifth Avenue,” he report for tone of high-social.

“Do Fifth Avenue permit the Bowery to teach them depravity?” I require.

“Ah no!” ollicute Sydney. “Fifth Avenue are teaching the Bowery. Vices are like other kinds of furniture. Rich folks uses them first and only pass them on to poor folks when they are second hand. Thusly the slums are seldom safe.”

“After Tango is finished what new dance will explode in the Smarty Set?” are next question for me.

“Not sure,” Sydney say so with Harry Leer eyebrows. “Last week I hear how some high-style Newporters had gone to Africa for try dancing with some cannibles what knew some deliciously low down steps. But after the first dance they had to quit because they was ashamed.”

“Who was ashamed—the Newporters?”

“No, the cannibles,” notate Sydney Katsu, Jr., looking like he was prepared to be raided by police.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly, HASHIMURA TOGO.

XVI

When Will Lady-Fashions Get Ashamed of Themselves?

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint or whoever prints it_

Dear Sir:—Of lately I have been studying American style of fashions for ladies, so I shall know your civilization from both ends. It are a very hard science to chase and in doing so I annexed my acquaintance to Miss Alice Furaoki, to who I shall become engaged when divorced. This sweet-hearted Japanese schoolgirl dress so similar to American actresses you cannot tell her from white lady, except when you look at her.

Last Satday eve p.m., when I was accomplishing her down street for see emotion-picture show, price 10c, I felt very Vanderbiltish to walk so near to Newport dressmaking. My eye hooked itself to her clothing and remained there till—O sudden!—I observe what was. I blushed entirely yellow.

“Excuse, please, Hon. Miss Sweetheart,” I gollup. “Your dressmake has axidentally forgot to sew up the ankle of your skirt so I observe something deranged.”

“What derangement do you observe?” she require with Vassar eyebrows.

“Not sure,” I stotter. “It seems to resemble the biceps of your hosiery.”

“That biceps is situated where it usually is,” she otter clamly like an ice box.

“Should it be ashamed?” I ask shockly.

“It are style,” she decry, “and style are never ashamed. Togo, why should you stand there gasping like Queen Victoria seeing Paris? This garments I are wearing are called a gashed skirt and is now very favorite at Newport, and Jewport, on Fifth & Sixth Avenues. Queen Mary of London wore one (very slightly) while giving Ice Cream Social to Knights of the Garter. In Paris it were even more so, as usual. Two French countesses from Minneapolis appeared tired out in this costume at Long Chumps race-course and everybody was so asphyxiated by charm they forgot to lose their money.”

“Horses must feel very slow when racing against such style,” I report nervely. “I am alarmed to think to where fashions will jump to nextly.”

“More will soonly explode from Vienna where a gentleman-dressmake have invented a dress all of glass,” she narrate with smiling eyebrows. “It will be worn in beautiful green shades.”

“Green shades are necessary to pull down sometimes when you are living in glass clothing,” I say so for Elbert Hubbard smartness.

Miss Furaoki make no intellectual reply, so we arrive inside emotion-picture show to see that noiseless opera. I think I shall marry her sooner than ever.

Mr. Editor, Hon. Anthony Comestop and other celebrated purities is continuously complaining because female ladies is becoming too much seen in public places. Women is becoming too brave and their skirts too shrinking. Hon. Comestop, who are not so strong as he were before he took up modesty as a business, fainted 2½ times when he seen photos of Lady Bluff-Gorgon’s latest style-simpony entitled “Spring Twilight” and he have ordered entire U. S. Army to encamp at Custom House to stop it when she send over Fall-style walking-suit called “September Morn.”

Considerable ministers, judges and boss policemen has been talking like angry uncles to ladies because of the increasing decrease of their clothing. I read in news-print last week how Hon. Judge Killjoy of Salem, Mass., wish to burn all witches under 27 years of age for bewitching gentlemen by the clothes they don’t wear. Last week he order Hon. Police to grabb all ladies wearing dangerous skirts, but Hon. Police were too lazy to arrest entire female population, so he brought Village Belle into court, because she looked most so.

Hon. Judge observe that lady’s clingstone appearance and put on eye-spectacles, because must see careful.

“Mrs. Madam,” he report legally like Hon. Taft, “I are not astonished that there are such delicious quantities of Cubist artists in this generation. They are the only artists which can paint modern ladydress so it conceals them sifficiently.”

“Do you not like what I got on?” she require.

“I do not object to such smallish matters,” he negligee. “It is for the absent that I mourn.”

“I are dressed in style,” she dib feminitely.