_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_.