Part 2

Day before arrival of Hon. Miss Dressmake this Mrs Smith derange back parlor with delicious variety of cloth to resemble drygoods emporium. Spools, tapes & other patterns are confused everywheres. You would expect Panama Canals could be built from such a preparations.

“Are dressmake-ladies expensive artists to employ?” I ask it.

“Deliciously so,” she pop back. “They cost $1.50 per daily, not to mention wear and tear on food and sew-machine. I expect this lady to make me 2 ball-dance gowns, 1 wrapping-kimono, 1 stylish walk-suit, 2 costumes for afternoon tea ceremony and ½ doz. pajamas for Hon. Jno Smith. She will be employed nearly 4 days.”

“How can you possibly make any profit from her?” I ventriloquate. No reply as yet.

Pretty soonly Hon. Annie B. Goblin (Miss), slightly spinster lady of detached age, arrive up to do this dressmake employment. Her complexion was concealed behind freckles. She might of been beautiful, had she not been homely.

This Miss Goblin lady understood international sewing to any extent. She could combine Irish lace, China silk and Persian embroidery on the same dress without the least race-riot. Few politicians can keep so many nationalities together calmly.

She were a very talented sewing-bee who never quit buzzing with conversations. She was one of them ladies what makes newspapers useless.

Last Thursday A. M. Hon. Mrs Smith give her $4.80 worth of Baptist silk and command her to create a dress to resemble Princess Patricia, so much as possible.

“At that price I can make you look like a Queen slightly marked down,” communicate Hon. Annie B. Goblin, making whizz with sew-wheel, at same time telling delicious society news with her pincushion voice.

“Mrs Horse W. Harvey hope to be a widow soon,” she report between stitches. “She has took up voice culture which must kill her husband with rapidity. She owe me $8.64 for two years and her Jewish lynx set is merely her husband’s fur overcoat warmed over.”

“I have long enjoyed that delicious suspicion,” deploy Mrs Jno W. Smith, who do not care for gossip, but merely stay near to oversea that job.

“Mrs van Swallow Tagg has a mortgage on her house which leaks,” continue on this sewing-wasp. “I am sorry for her peevish temper which is a disease. Her husband is a good man, but dishonest.”

“She wears her hats unbearably,” reproach Mrs Jno W.

“Mrs Cyrus Q. Bogle’s prominent Aunt Angelica drinks patent medicine for her rheumatism.”

“How shocked I am!” explode Hon. Mrs. “Tell me some more.”

“Her nephew Joshua who goes to Yale to study footballing--excuse, please, would you prefer to have this yoke hooked or cut bias?”

“Cut bias, please,” exclam Mrs Smith with tense voice. “What did you say about Mrs Bogle’s Nephew Joshua who go to Yale?”

“He arrive home from Yale smelling distinctually of cigarettes. He cannot last long.”

“Them Bogles contain very common stock,” repose Mrs Jno. “I seldom could admire Mrs Bogle’s character since she came to church in that flowered dimity with panniers of heliotrope velour cut umpire style at the neck with a demi-train of Belgian brocade.”

“I respect your grief,” relapse Hon. Annie B.

“Although she are one of my dearest friends,” explan Mrs Smith, “I am obliged to add stinginess to her other disagreeable virtues. In despite of the fact that her husband owns one complete livery stable, she still continues to behave like the Middle Classes. Her silk dresses are only nearly.”

Jing-jing!! This from front door bell. Too bad I had to answer, because I was fascinated to hear that brutish remark of Hon. Bogles. Howeverly, I was dutiful as usual; so I elope to door-knob. There stood one lady wearing fashionable complexion. She poke forth following print on call-card:

Mrs Cyrus Q. Bogle At Home When She Is.

“Are Mrs Smith residing here this afternoon?” require Mrs Bogle.

“Yes, if convenient,” I say to.

“Are she too busy to appear?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Will she not appear to me, her dear-friend?”

“No, Mrs Madam. Sorry. Too busy.”

“Busy what with?” This from her.

“She are employing a dressmake lady to gossip about you.”

“Me!!” she exclam without sugar.

Silence.

“What stitches did this dressmake person take in my character?” she corrode.

“She say your Aunt Angelica drink medicine.”

“Truthfully, she does.”

“She report your nephew Joshua eat cigarette-smudge.”

“I might deny that uselessly.”

“She describe your husband’s doggish habits.”

“I also realise them.”

“She explain how your dress contains flounced dimity with spaniels of heliotrope cut umpire-fashion at neck with--”

“No more!” holla Mrs. Bogle dropping fire from her eyebrows. “Such reports are false as they are truthless. I permit neighbours to abuse my family, but when they distort my gowns I draw the string!”

She done so by making door-bang and departing offward amidst furies.

“Togo, who has came and went all at once?” require Hon. Mrs from upstairs.

“Mrs Cy Q. Bogle, please.”

“Mrs Bogle--how strange. I was just discussing her.”

“I told her you was.” This from me.

“WHAT!!!!” This from her.

I repeat. Loud silence. Sew-machine stop, gossip stop, dressmake stop.

“Annie,” I hear Mrs Jno W. Smith say, “Bring me glass of water to faint with. Also discharge Togo sooner than possible.”

This sound so unwelcome to me that I refuse my situation by going away. So I elope to trolley with suit-case, feeling quite the reverse.

Hoping you are the same Yours truly _Hashimura Togo_.

IV THE HUSBAND’S PLACE IN THE HOME

_To Editor Woman’s Page, who give Ladies such delicious advice how to preserve raspberries, beauty and other species of vegetables._

Hon. Mr:

At home of Mrs. Washington Fillups where I was employed as recently as 3 days of yore I obtain many chances to observe some ladies when they call.

One day Mrs. Oliver Hix approach & make ring-ring to front door which I oped to permit her in. I notice she was displayed very stylishly with calling-card appearance. Her goldy hair contained one (1) velvet hat of extreme blackness and her dress was all surrounded with fringes like a piano-cover or like that Indian costume of Hon. Buffalo Bill.

“Are Mrs. Fillups to home?” she inquire pridefully poking forth her name with card.

“She are,” I report. “Yet I must go to see if she will acknowledge it.”

Hon. Mrs. Fillups were up in sewing-room mending sox with considerable darn. When I told her who was there she report, “Her again?” Then she dust off her nose, reorganise her hairpins and trot downward to where Mrs. Hix was.

Kiss-kiss heard. Joy shreeks. Conversations in soprano duet.

It was my duty to massage off the mahogany furniture in dining-room annexed to parlour, so how could I avoid overhearing what they said? I did not attempt to do so, however much I tried. It was my duty to polish that furniture in dining-room, so there I was. If ladies cannot keep their conversation hushed, Servants cannot make their ears behave. This is human-natural.

After dis-cussing topicks like baby, coal-bills & other luxuries, they commenced gossiping about some articles of furniture I could not understand. Their voices was so interrupted I could not catch-all, but this is what I heard:

Mrs. Hix say: “I permit mine to set in parlour when company comes. This is most ostentatious place.”

From this I thought she was talking about a piano.

“I move _mine_ into library every night after dinner,” revoke Mrs. Fillups. “He are too smoky for parlour.”

From that I supposed she was talking about a stove.

“I have had mine for ten continuous years,” say Mrs. Hix saddishly, “and from experience I am sure they are all alike. No use to be neat and tidy when they are there. They will not stay put like other furniture. Set them in one place and you will find they have moved somewhere else. Dust seems to collect wherever they stand.

“I have never seen one that could make a baby comfortable. Neither are they able to hold a newspaper without dropping it carelessly here & there,” report Mrs. Hix with saddish grone of dispair.

“And yet strange thing,” interject Mrs. Fillup. “How useless home would seem if it did not contain one!”

Mrs. Fillup & Mrs. Hix now make whisper with hissy voices. I could not hear, although both my ears stood endwise with excitement. I wish folks would not be so secretive when they have secrets!

Pretty soonly Hon. Hix Lady make up-riseing and depart off. More kiss-kiss ceremony. She go. Then she step back and say more. She go again, but come back for an encore. More conversations containing secretive talk. Ladies is always thus--they tell all the important news in the postscript.

Pretty soonly she was gone entirely. I step forth to Mrs. Fillups.

“Hon. Boss Lady,” I say with boldness peculiar to Samurai, “do you not hire me to be as intellectual as possible abut household duties?”

“I do exactly,” she otter. “Why do you ask to know?”

“Do you not require that I should know all peculiarities about your furniture?” I ask it.

“Absolutely everything,” she outcry.

“All well then,” I renig. “There is something I wish to know what. In recent conversation which I overheard accidently while standing at key-hole, I hear you speak about one article of furniture which I am not familiar of. By the way you describe it, it sets in parlour like piano until it begins smoking like a stove; then you move it to library where it holds baby like a cradle and supports newspapers like a table! When you set it anywheres it moves nervusly from room to room, dropping dust like a elephant. It is a failure at everything around the house, yet you say so that no home is complete without one. What kind of a conundrum are you talking about, please?”

“My husband,” report Mrs. Fillups as she elope away.

This husband belonging to Mrs. Fillups are quite a large gentleman. I are not sure if husbands comes in regular sizes, but I should think Hon. Fillups was about size 46. It are deliciously difficult to housekeep him.

Mrs. Fillups spend all day-long cleaning up after his departure and preparing for his next visitation. Her favourite pet name for him is “Don’t.”

When he encroach home by evening train she meets him on door-mat with cheerful smiling. Yet she has got her watch eye open for his uncivilised ways.

“Don’t track snow on rug, dearie, Don’t wear rubbers in house, DON’T leave them on front steps like a tenement.” Hon. Fillups are one of those husbands which begins to obey orders after the damage is done.

“Darling, don’t leave it on sofa,” she report when he remove off hat & coat. “Don’t lay cigars on mahogany table & DON’T whistle in house.”

When he make wash-hand ceremony she say, “Don’t dry your thumbs on clean towels!”

“What are clean towels for?” he ask saddishly.

“I hang them in bathroom to show company how extravagant we are with our laundry,” rejoint Mrs. Fillups. “In this era of hard times towels are not made merely to be used.”

Dinner is served. At Hon. Table where they set there she resume conversation. “Don’t tip soup plate in eating it,” she report cow-cattishly. “Don’t stand up while carving mutton. Don’t eat salad with oyster fork!”

When dinner is completely finished Hon. Fillups promenade in direction of parlour. His teeeth now contains one enlarged tobacco pipe of sunburned appearance.

“DON’T!!” holla Hon. Mrs. with ghost-voice. “The parlour must be saved from that pipe. I have prepared the library for your comfort where you can set among the books you love and read the newspapers. There you can do what you like and feel homeful.”

Hon. Fillups go to library. There he find one tight-back wicker chair setting hopefully beside table. On that chair are laid out one smoke jacket containing velvet collar of charming red. Befront of his chair are two (2) complete slippers of carpet toes. On table are 12 refined cigars of freckled complexion. On table next by this are works of Hon. Robt. Browning bound in one-half calf and containing blue ribbons to mark Mr. Fillups favourite poems, which he has never read.

Hon. Husband make walk-in to this library where he take _Evening Telegram_ from his pocket and unfold it on table. Then he go to opposite corner of room, remove off his coat, pick out one large velvet-coloured chair, light Hon. Pipe and commence reading News with expression of intense relief.

“Why don’t you put on smoke-jacket what I arrange for your comfort?” requires Mrs. Fillups with injury voice.

“Too hot, dearness,” he report from news.

“But it matches the room so nicely,” she dib. “When will you learn to be a decoration? Also I give you 12 fashionable cigars for Xmas and you continue making puff-puff with that horid old pipe.”

“I would never be so cruel as to burn up your gifts,” he repartee. “Besides this pipe, though strong, is more gentle in its strength than many cigars of twice its weakness.”

“I fix you nice wicker chair by lamp-shade, yet you continue to spill ash on fine velvet furniture. Why is?”

“Velvet, though expensive, has a way of feeling soft to tired business men,” he explain, looking ashamed.

“Also I have fixed works of Hon. Robt Browning for your benefit. Why do you continue to snub this great poet?”

“I mean him no personal injury,” say Hon. Fillup. “Unfortunately I can find better murders in newspapers, and they are easier to read.”

So he continue through the evening, setting in his cuff-sleeves, smudging his pipe and looking very misfit.

Last Wednesday morning when he was departing off for his office he say with hopes:

“I shall bring college friend Charlie Stringer home for dinner, if convenient.”

“Don’t!” she say continuously.

“For why?” he ask out.

“Because,” she snagger, “Wednesday are Irish stew night, and we are scarce on this economical vegetable. Sifficient for three are less than enough.”

“Oh, then!” he report. “Charlie and me shall dine together at the Runabout Club where hasty food can be obtained abundantly day and night.”

“Don’t!” besearch Mrs. Fillups. Too late for reply.

That evening by late P. M. that dinner plate for Mr. Fillups set lonesome. Mrs. Fillups remain by table weeping into bill-of-fare.

“Why do you weep?” I require at lengthly.

“He will not return home for meals when I do everything for his comfort!” she sub.

“Mrs. Madam, excuse my chivalry, but I must speak a lecture,” I say forth. “If you would be less careful of his comfort, maybe he would be more comfortable. Many husbands quit home because it is too beautiful. I realise that they do not know what is best for them. They are cross-eyed in their intelligence. Yet are it not better to permit them to be miserable in their own way, if this makes them happy? You must remember: Husbands should not be furniture for the home--Home should be furniture for the Husband. I speak this because I saw it.”

“Elsewhere is best place for such a wise servant!” snib Mrs. Fillups leaping to her feets. So I project myself away feeling quite absorbed like a sponge.

Hoping you are the same, Yours truly, _Hashimura Togo_.

V HOW SHOULD I DO PAPER-BAG COOKING?

_To Editor Woman’s Page, which makes photographs of food and other amusements._

Dear Sir:

I am a Japanese Schoolboy employed as a servant girl, but I am not doing so this week, thank you. I am such a continual office-seeker around Employment Bureaus that Hon. Boss say, “Back again!” whenever he sees me arriving.

I shall tell you what happened last.

Mrs. S. W. Swingle, gentlemanly lady of red-haired beauty, say tackfully, “I will employ you at great risk. Please arrive to my home to-night.”

There I went. This S. W. Swingle lady reside with her husband and children respectively at Railroad View, N. J. Her Mr. Swingle, to which she is married, is a timetable as well as a husband. His soul is full of trains. He arrive home at 6.43 and require dinner at 6.59. He go to bed at 11.04 and demand breakfast at 7.22 so he can catch 8.12 train.

When I got on this job I dishcovered that my tranquillity was going to be very scarce. I must greet milkman at dawn-light and continue my domestic science all day until exhausted.

Mrs. S. W. Swingle, with sweethearted expression, say that busy folks is most happy. If this is truthful I should prefer to be slightly miserable on Sunday and Thursday afternoons.

Yet I remain stationary in employment until Monday when sorrow arrive wrapped up in a Paper Bag. I shall tell you how was.

At hour of 2.44 Mrs. S. W. Swingle arrive to kitchen with cutting expression peculiar to scissors.

“Togo, why for do you prepare such bad food?” she decry with angry rage. “There is no uplift in your biscuits. Your beef is boiled until it lose all originality. Mr. S. W. Swingle, who is far from strong, say your coffee is the same. And so forth. You must learn to discontinue this. If we cannot fare better you must farewell.”

My soul feel punctured by this conversation. It seem very brutal for me to go loose again when jobs is so infrequent to obtain.

While thusly I was thinking I find on tip-shelf of pantry one slight brown book. It was wrote by a Kitchen Professor and bore this remarkable title:

“PAPER-BAG COOKING.”

This paper-bag food was invented by a French professor, I read. How economical those French can be! I thought. I had oftenly heard how French chef could make stylish meals out of mere remnants. They are famus for deceiving pork till it taste like chicken and giving boiled codfish the same expression as turtle soup. To such genius paper bags is easy problem.

I read this book reverentially. It say for Introduction:

“Paper bags when cooked properly contain new flavours you never would imagine was there. It is considerable nourishing, as none of its juice escapes. You can learn to cook one by reading Instructions and becoming utterly fearless.”

My heart make happy laugh. I shall cook some of these paper bags for that dear Swingle family so they will forgive me for my previous food. So I read this book and learn how do-so. I am incomplete in the American language, but this is how I understand him to say:

_“How to Cook Paper Bags_

“Select one paper bag which is fresh and tender. Medium-size kind are most delicate, as large-size kind are apt to be tough, especially in the fall. Butter this bag inside and salt tastefully. Use meat or whatever pork chops are in icebox to stuff bag with. Add one vegetable until satisfied. The bag is now ready to roast.

“Next take one oven. Heat it to hotness of about 300 thermometers. Poke Hon. Bag inside this and see what happens. Occasionally make peek into oven to observe how bag behaves. If Hon. Bag catch afire, put out. Do not be discouridged. When he is sufficiently cooked, remove out and chop with shears. Serve hot. You will be surprised to taste it.”

I follow this literary directions with faithfulness peculiar to Samurai. First I got one small, young paper bag which formerly contained string beans. I supposed from what I read in that Book that paper bags should be stuffed like turkeys to make nicest roast. So I fill him with following food which I obtain from icebox:

1 lbs complete beafstake knifed into small pieces ½ bottel tomatoes catch up Representative beets, onions, carots and potatus Plentiful water moistened to taste

That Swingle kitchen contain one gas-stove of 40 horse-power capacity and includes one oven which is easily het up to angry rage. I light this oven. Great heat arrive. Then I place Hon. Paper Bag carefully in one drip-pan, pour over it some slight water, so it wouldn’t burn, and poke inside oven. Then I set down thoughtful and await the future.

Mrs. S. W. Swingle arrive to kitchen with question-mark expression in her blue eye.

“What we shall have for dinner, Togo?” she ask out nervely.

“Ah, Mrs. Madam! If I should tell you, you would cease to be surprised. Yet it is something exalted I shall offer you. So different from those monotonous foods previously experienced!” All this I spoke.

That lady retreat away expectfully.

I watch this cookery by alarm clock to see it shall not be too long. Hon. Book say “When bag are stuffed with meat, cook 25 minute. When stuffed with vegetables, cook 20 minute.” I figure this arithmatic with lead-pencil. That bag was stuffed with both meat and vegetables, therefore 20+25=45. That bag must cook 45 complete minutes to be sifficiently delicious.

At end of 14 minutes I take slight peek to oven. O sakes! You would not know Hon. Bag for himself, he was so swole. He contain more uplift than one quart yeast. He was so baloonical in shape that I fear he might float upward containing meat and vegetables. Therefore I prick him slightly with fork.

POPP!!

Grand explode arrive. I am shot by out-rush of stewed steam which jump out amidst delicious flavour. Hon. Bag flop back completely exhausted. No more puff up for him. He droop amidst them meat and vegetables like a wet sail in a shipwreck. I close oven door deceptively. Hon. Book say nothing about this angry behaviour of food. Maybe that will improve its nourishing qualities.

After it had been some time in baking condition I was enabled to enjoy the perfume of this aroma. Each food when it cook make some odor of smell. Apple pie smell like joyful hunger of schooldays. Roast beef smell like powerful appetite of athelete. But paper bag smell like fire among newspapers. I notice this.

While this food was roasting I look out of window and observe Hon. Robert Jackson, near neighbour, approach and make knock to door.

“Mrs. Madam,” he report when that Swingle lady come to door, “I announce your house is afire.”

“How you know?” requesh she with pale voice.

“Because I smelt burned wall-paper distinctually!”

Loud screem by Mrs. S. W. Swingle. They rosh to cellar. Nothing was burning there--not even the furnace. They trot to roof. Nothing was smoking there--not even the chimbley.

“It must be Uncle Oliver burning autumn leaves,” explan Hon. Jackson. How could he know it was my cooking he smelt?

When nextly I peek into oven I observe Hon. Bag afire around edges. Otherwise he was cooking nicely. I put him out with slight splosh of water. He look quite contented swimming around in midst of juices containing vegetables. 17 more minutes remain to cook him.

Night approach. I notice by alarm clock that time have now relapsed for Hon. Paper Bag to be completely cooked. So I take him out on platter. He look somewhat quaint. Paper bags is like spinach; they seem most beautiful when raw. It was alarmed for to see how Hon. Bag had shrunk away. He seemed insufficient for healthful family of four persons. Next time I must cook two. Howeverly, it was necessary to make most of what was, so I rolled Hon. Bag out longwise like a omelet. Then I surround him with meat and vegetables in diagram of beautiful art.

“Togo!” holla Mrs. S. W. Swingle exploding into kitchen suddenly like a gun, “Togo, what you been cooking to make my home smell like a fire-insurance?” She cough in soprano.

“I have baked you a paper bag,” I report with words containing smiles. I point to plate where it was.

“Paper _what_?” she howell.

“Bag,” I repartee.

She walk to platter and poke Hon. Bag irreverently with fork. She make scorn with her nose. Then she open kitchen door and urge me to it with enraged broomstick.

“I give you your choice,” she say horesly. “Either you can go at once or depart immediately.”

“I shall not wait that long!” I collapse with cruel expression peculiar to eagles. “If you discharge me, I shall obtain mean revenge. I shall quit.”

Thusly speaking I promenade forth into unemployment. I am still there.

Hoping you are the same, Yours truly, _Hashimura Togo_.

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.