Part 3

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

_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

_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.