“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_.