spark or blazes might walk into my home and burn all my sweet art and
dear menorandum to zero of ashes!”
“I shall smother all arson with great cruelty,” are fire-chief promise
I make.
So Hon. Mrs. Fogg donate to me one smallish volume of book entitled
“First Ade to Fires.” This literature, which is bound in 4th of July
color, tell me following information about fire when he gets loose:
“Chimbleys are most dangerous articles to have around a house because
they gets clogged with soot, thusly causing inflammation of the roof
which creates blazes and burns insurance. Total loss. Best way to put
out a mad chimbley is to sprinkle salt down him until he quits.
“In case of houseafire, human folks must be saved before all other
furniture, because they are most combustable. This can be did by
throwing wet blanket over them and dragging them forth. Valuable
heirlooms can be saved from burning house by taking them out.”
I read this instructions, Mr. Editor, and feel prepared for anything.
This Mrs. Fogg got one Irish cooklady name of Hilda Katz. Hon. Hilda
are beautiful, except her face and figure, which are not. She enjoy
very sorry romance, because of Hon. Wm., a hack-driver, who drove away
with another fiancée and remain there. Consequent of this, Hon. Hilda
weep & cook nearly all time.
“Togo,” she report to me, while making tears and pies, “never promise
to marry any gentleman in the livery-stable business.”
“I shall avoid this peril firmly,” I narrate.
“67 doz assorted love-letters this Wm. sent me. And what usefulness are
they now?” Weeps by her.
“They might make a sad novel, if printed among pictures,” I say so.
She peel onions with Romeo expression.
But I were too busy being a fire-detective to think of Wm. and his
escape from love. Nearly each hour by clock-time Hon. Mrs. would come
to me and talk underwriter language:
“You hear that smell of smoke?” she require.
“It smell like New Haven Railroad burning dividends six miles away,” I
say with syrup voice.
One day, my Cousin Nogi give me sweethearted gift of one valuable
cigar, price 5c. cash-money. I nourish this dear tobacco very carefully
in pocket and await till late night-hour when I could smoke him in my
room & think of my ancestors. So I lock door, open window and do so. In
midst of puffs I hear something.
Knock-knock! This noise by Hon. Door. I unlock lock and gaze outside to
where Hon. Mrs. Fogg was there with kimono & pale eyebrows.
“Some odor is burning in this house!” she gollup.
“What perfume of smell do it resemble?” I ask it.
“It resemble a fire among dry goods,” she gubble.
“Be calmly quiet,” I negotiate. “The smell you heard was merely only
slight gift-cigar I smoke in honor of my Cousin Nogi.”
“I would avoid such a cousin,” she snib with nose. “Blow out gas and go
to bed at oncely!”
I could hear her peevishness by her feet as they walked.
It were nice, balmish evening of summer weather when Mrs. and Mr.
Chas Hassock, neighborly persons of quiet fashion, was there to play
bridge-gamble amidst society clothing. Hon. Mr. Fogg, medium gentleman
with tame whiskers, were also there acting like a husbandman.
Bridge-card resume for several hours while those 4 persons sat there
calling each other “Trumps” and other American insults.
O suddenly!! what was that my nose smelled? Inflammatory smell of fire!!
With iced brain I recall what “First Ade to Fires” said about mad
chimbleys, so I rosh silently to outside house to see how ours were
behaving. O surely yes! Hon. Chimbley were shooting sparkles &
pin-wheels from his enraged bricks!
What I do then? With immediate quickness, I rosh to dining-room and
grab 2 salt-sellers in my courageous thumbs. Making my toes extremely
swift, I clomb ladder to roof & scramble along shingles with care
peculiar to Thos. Cats. Then, by heroic movements of wrists, I pepper
considerable salt straight into the face of that mad Chimbley. Yet he
still continue on making Vesuvius out of himself.
What nextly must I do? I think of that fire-volume which say, “_Human
folks must be saved before all other furniture_.”
So I scomper to bed-room, dragg forth one complete blanket & soush him
in wet water of bath-tub. With these blanket held in my firm knuckles,
I ascended downstairs to parlor where Hon. Mrs. Fogg set in her marcel
hair and considerable expensive face-powder calling Mrs. Hassock a
“Renig” in bridge-language.
With wetness of blanket, I stand behind Hon. Mrs. Fogg.
“What for?” she holla when she seen me. But before anything else could
collapse, I wound wettish blanket round her head.
“Gog!” she report with strangely voice. Yet, before she could narrate
more, I had drogged her forthly to fresh air.
“What is the meaning of this meanness?” require Hon. Fogg.
“Meaning of Fire!” I yellup. “Why do you stand there making speechless
talks, when your home is sparking?”
At this oratory of words, everybody begin making hook-and-ladder
movements. Hon. Fogg grabb bird-cage and pair of tongs. Hon. Mrs.
save 3 plush albums. Hon. Hassock attemp to remove sideboard, but it
were nailed to floor. Hon. Mrs. Hassock rosh down street breaking
fire-alarms out of telephone poles.
But I were more Sandow in my strength. With Samurai knuckles, I grasp
cabinet full of cut-up glasswear and roll him down front steps to lawn.
Loud crashes! Thusly was valuable dishes saved from fire.
With deer-foot heels, I eloped upstairs to bedroom and begin pouring
entire household out of window. Mattrass, pitchers, rugs, etc., fell
like Niagara falling. When I threw forth family water-color landscape
representing the face of Aunt Nerissa Hodges, it make boomerang fly-off
and struck on head of Hon. Fogg which went through. Too bad.
I were just in the heroism of poking brass bedstead through pane of
glass, when Mrs. and Mr. Fogg escorted by Mrs. and Mr. Hassock and Hon.
Hilda Katz, cook-lady, suddenly encroach into room and seeze me.
“Platoon of brainless mind!” they all hiss like circular snakes. “Who
inform you this house were blaze?”
“Did I not see Hon. Chimbley spitting rockets?” This from me.
“Sakes of shucks!” commute Hon. Hilda contemptibly. “That were not
house-afire. That were merely me burning negligent love-letters in
kitchen stove.”
Grones by all.
“So my house are not afire!” report Hon. Mrs. for disappoint.
“So sorry!” I regret. In distant midnight I could hear rural
hose-carriage approaching with gongs. “Maybe there was no fire, but
this were very useful practice. Also I was enabled to show you the iced
quality of my intelligence. If there had been some fire, I should put
it out!”
“You have put nearly everything else out,” sorrowfully Hon. Mrs.,
looking outside to moonlight where the entire interior of her home lay
scrambled on the lawn.
Hon. Fogg gargle with his teeth.
“Since you are so talented at putting things out,” he suggest, “perhaps
you can place yourself elsewheres with immediate rapidness.”
I oblige. When nextly observed, I were setting in R. R. Station
awaiting for morning train and feeling quite roasted.
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.
XII
Togo Makes Discoveries
_To Editor Good Housekeeper Magazine, whose mind thinks recipes._
Dear Mr. Editor:—When Hon. Chris Columbus dishcovered America, he do so
at his own risk. It are muchly the same with Gen. Housework—all persons
must be entirely careful about what they find out, because they can’t
always do something with it. I know because I try.
My last former address was home of Hon. Mrs. J. B. Cluck, Canton, O. I
am now employed there as an absentee. Mr. Editor, you and your magazine
are blame for the miserable anecdote what happen to me there. I tell
you, Mr. Editor Good Housekeeper, how was:
This Hon. Cluck lady suddenly approach up to me last Tues. a.m. & say
with voice,
“Togo,” she say so, “I am delightful reader of Good Housekeeper
Magazine.”
“You are one in several 1,000,000,” I snatch back, with expression of
rapid circulation.
“In this wonderfully home-made periodical,” she divulge, “I are
frequently suprised to read one department name of ‘Dishcoveries,’
what tell considerable knowledge to ladies what require to make
housework unexpected. This month ‘Dishcoveries’ give bright recipes on
following subjects:
“‘How to make pincushions from potatoes.
“‘How to keep moths out of moth-bags.
“‘How to make babies cry by music.’”
I assimulate her words with eyebrows.
“It seem insulting to sell so much wisdom for 15c,” I contuse.
“Recipes like this,” decry Hon. Mrs., “are good ways to know. Every
servant girl, whether male or female, should read those ‘Dishcoveries’
& attempt to do so also. New things can be thought of only by thinking
of something new. Therefore, remember I expect you to make some useful
‘Dish-covery’ each week you are in this home.”
With such language, she suddenly eloped away, leaving my hands in
thoughtful dishwater.
Mr. Editor, it are easier to be Shakespeare than Edison. Hon. Shak.
merely composed poetry, but Hon. Ed. has to compose inventions what
actually go when expected to.
When Hon. Mrs. Cluck require me to think up some Dishcovery, I were
completely flabbed to find what was. Nearly everything seemed to be
already thought of to make home easier—hot water, ice man, gas, etc.
Brooms was there to sweep with, foods to cook with, each thing for to
do so. When I look around that home, all full of everything, I feel
like North Pole after Hon. Doc Cook was there—nothing else left to
dishcover.
That week my brain grew sidewise from too much originality. Yet no
useful thought come up.
With frequent occasionality, Hon. Mrs. Cluck approach and dement,
“You find that Dishcovery yet, Togo?”
“Great explorers requires overtime to do so,” I relate.
No intellectual reply from her.
Wedsday pass, Thursday pass while Fryday & Satday proceed in similar
manner. At last it was Sunday.
This Sunday are devoted to stay-home amusement by Hon. Cluck, who are
a bald-haired gentleman of medium oldness. He spend this vacation by
setting in slippers and enjoying quarrels he is too busy to attend
to other days. When these is finished, he reads comical supplements
until fatigued by humor, when he spreads Hon. Happy Hooligan page over
his bald hair and commences to snore. This program are enjoyed to any
extent while Hon. Mrs. telephone her Mother to explain how sad her
marriage was.
“Jas!” holla Hon. Mrs. to Hon. Mr., last Sunday while he was leaping
from one nap to another, “Why should you save your snores for your
Wife?”
“You comfort me so I cannot keep wakeful,” he smooth back.
“Do you snore while being comforted by a—stenographer?” she gollup so
quickly.
He said nothing very well.
“Oh!!” This from her. “If I could dishcover some way for to keep you
from going to sleep every time you sat in that chair, I should be
submerged by much gratitude.”
I was standing in next room near keyhole trying not to listen when I
axidentally hear her make this dialogue.
Zizz!! Intellectual flash arrive to brain: I should make one Dishcovery
what would give Hon. Cluck happy-home wakefulness when setting in that
chair. Banzai! I stogger backwards with Edison feeling of thumbs.
Next a.m. while Hon. Mrs. were absentee at Dept Store squandering money
on hair-pins, I approach Hon. Chair where husband love to dream. With
artistic hammer & nails, I attach Hon. Chair to rope in next room which
were pulled by neat derangement of pulleys. He were a Mawruss Chair,
full of pads and very fat, and I was proud to see the expression of
calm comfort what he wear while setting there awaiting happy home-come
of Hon. Mr. Cluck.
When Hon. Mrs. Cluck arrive back for dinner that evening, food were
absent, for reason because I had been too busy with importance to think
up such triful.
“Why you no cook for eat it?” she require with hawk voice.
“I have cooked something more grand than merely stomach food,” I
snuggest. “While you was absentee, I have been preparing something
elegant for the brain to chew: I have made a Dishcovery!”
“O narrate it to me!” she collapse for vasty excitements.
“Not to do!” I holla. “Such thoughts must be delivered by express to
editor of Good Housekeeper Magazine.”
She glub slightly, but I was firm.
“If you have time to spare from your scientific study, please prepare
what hash there is in the house for food which is 2½ hours late.”
She say it.
At 6:47 hour, Hon. Cluck return back in usual mood of joyless
anticipation. He say several nouns expressing lateness of Japanese
cookery, then he remove off coat, collar, neckbow & shoe-ware,
expecting to put on house slippers and smoke-jacket and manufacture
comfort.
“If Togo shall be till breakfast preparing dinner, I shall go to my
Mawruss Chair and enjoy slight kitten nap,” Hon. Mister glump.
“If you had more regular profiles, you would be a sleeping beauty,”
contuse Hon. Mrs.
“If this home was run right, it would not be run down!” combust him.
“If you was not a fungus, you might be a genius,” detone her.
I were deliciously relieved to hear them talk that way, because I knew
they would get so interested in unpleasantness that Hon. Cluck would
forget to go sleep in Mawruss Chair until after dinner was ate. And
then I would have time to show my Dishcovery.
And so it was. While I prepare what hash I could find, Hon. Cluck spent
time pacing backwards and reverse with expression peculiar to Admirals
on July 4th. At lastly dinner set himself on table while Hon. Cluck
devoured big dinner amidst usual steam-roller grumbel about my unhappy
cooking.
“Can’t you recall some sweet language to make marriage pleasant?” renag
Mrs. Cluck.
“Marriage are only pleasant when he are asleep,” he peruse, looking
expectfully to Mawruss Chair.
When it come to pie time, I could already observe dormatory expression
of lodging-house crowling over fatty face of Hon. Boss. Yawns by him.
Stretches. At lastly, he arose upwards, lit cigar, rubbed his tired
business eyes & started for library.
“I think one slight, little nap in Mawruss Chair will prepare me,” he
say so to Wife.
“Prepare you for what?” she dib back at Hon. Husband.
“For go to bed,” he resnort. He make sluggardly walk toward Mawruss
Chair.
Now I knew it were time for activity, if my Dishcovery would be useful.
So I ran with silent speed of cats towards other room where end of
rope was. Through library door, I could see Hon. Chair setting there
with dimpled pads. I grabb rope detatched to pulleys what led to Hon.
Chair. Next thing I could see Hon. Cluck back up towards Chair, stretch
lovingly, and crouch his knees as if intending to set down. But he
wasn’t.
YANKS!!! With hero strength, I pull rope which cause Hon. Chair to
sidle backwards on castor. Consequence of this was large. Hon. Cluck,
suddenly dejected from his set down, fell on his collar button,
arriving to carpet so hippo-ponderously that entire home were jarred
loose.
“O darling Mr. Husband, are you gone?” require Mrs. Wife, lopping over
him with heroine expression peculiar to Julia Marlowe.
“Can’t you tell I am here by the noise?” he gubble. “What spirituous
medium has came here to pull away my chair with unseen hands?”
“I do it!” I explode with great quickness suddenly emerging forth from
curtains like primadonna making first entrance when band play with
great exuberance.
“_Why_ you done it?” Both Hon. Mister and Hon. Mrs. spoke together like
mad chorus girls.
“It was fault of you & Good Housekeeper Magazine!” I snuggest to her.
“Did you not tell me every servant girl should make Dishcovery of
something needed in the home?”
“Perhapsly I did,” Hon. Mrs. rosp back with question-mark.
“Did you not tell Hon. Husband something must be did to keep him from
sleeping in Mawruss Chair after big dinner every day?”
“I said thusly.”
“Well!” This from me. “I have cooked up an Invention what will keep
Hon. Sir from all snores. Reward me, please!”
For immediate payment, Hon. Cluck arouse up with voice peculiar to
zoology. He annexed me by the seat of my collar & left me outside where
I stood long time.
Mr. Editor, if you wish this Dishcovery for your page it will be yours
for the cheapness of dirt.
Hoping you are the same,
Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.
XIII
Togo’s Thanksgiving
_To Editor Good Housekeeper Magazine, who keep cheerful in spite of
Holidays._
Dear Sir:—While annual yearly date of Thangsgive approach up, I enjoy
pain in connection with my memory. Americans act so peculiar when
thankful that I am not insured what to do. For instancely, I tell you
what collapsed to me last Thanksgive Thursday:
I were employed for Gen. Cookery at domestic kitchen of Mrs. & Mr.
Romeo Goober, East O’Rora, Ill.
“Togo,” say Hon. Mrs., approaching up to me, “tomorrow shall be
Thanksgive Day.”
“What are origin of this joy?” I ask to know.
“Pilgrim 4 Fathers first invented it,” she report. “In historical time
of 1492, Hon. Miles Standish were setting on Plymouth Rock. ‘We have no
foods,’ decry Hon. Miles. ‘I have no appetite,’ snuggest Hon. Jno. W.
Alden, assistant Pilgrim. ‘We should be thankful for that!’ negotiate
Hon. Miles, so Thankful Thursday were manufactured from that date.”
“How you shall celebrate this patriotic festival?” I require.
“By eating it,” decrop Hon. Mrs. “The more we eat, the more patriotic
we become. On that Thursday date America are thankful about all sorts
of calamities, while families group themselves around turkey to express
gratitude and cramberry sauce.”
“My heart stands upright to think of such cheerfulness!” I resort. “I
shall rejoice tomorrow for to observe one American dinner where Kick &
Peev are not invited.”
“Tomorrow we expects to celebrate as usual,” she report for sweetly
smiling. There will be 8 to dinner, to include my fattish Uncle Seth
who equal 3 more. All my relatives is most sneerful particular about
foods. So now will you please elope immediately to market for buy one
turkey-chicken of 26 lbs. complete tenderness, 4 qrts. cramberries of
delicious sourness, 6 bunches celery-weed, and sufficient punkens to
construct 2½ pies?”
I go. At Gouge Bros. Market where was I observe sign, “FAT TURKEY 35c.”
To see this, I feel very humorous about that High Cost of Life.
“Such delicious cheapness of bird!” I negotiate to Hon. Butcher who was
there. “At such rates, how much would 2 turkies cost?”
“$22.80,” he report for immediate arithmatic.
“Do you not promise fat turkey for 35c?” I rake off.
[Illustration: _“Have he not been constantly on ice for 2 yrs? Nothing
could be fresher than that,” depose Hon. Butcher._]
“35c per lb.,” he snagger financially.
“I should like one (1) lb., please!” This from me.
“We do not sell broken sections. You must purchase complete bird, price
$9.80.” This from him.
“At such rates, folks can get rich by starving,” I snagger.
No response from him. He go to ice-box and fetch forth one enlarged
fowel without any clothing on.
“This are nice fresh turkey,” he satisfy.
“How you know he fresh?” I snuggest.
“Have he not been constantly on ice for 2 yrs.? Nothing could be more
fresher than that,” depose Hon. Butch. I buy.
He sell me expensive celery-bouquet, price 75c per cluster. It seem
disrespectful to eat such valuation. Also precious cramberries, price
$1 for seldom quantities, added to $2.50 worth punkens for pie. I
promenade homewards, carrying this valuable butchery and hoping no
burglar would see me.
While I was thusly straggling along with burdened back, one assorted
dog, name of Hon. Fido, snux up behind of turkey and made smiling
sniff-nose.
“Shoo!” I report. Hon. Fido stood waggishly saying nothing, but looking
at Hon. Turkey with flirting eye. I was joyful to observe this, because
Hon. Shakespeare say, “Them what dogs loves must have many tender
qualities.”
Date of Thankful Thursday arrive up. By early a.m. of dawntime I arose
up and commenced. All a.m. that assorted dog, Hon. Fido, set outside
screen door. I permit him. I arrange Hon. Turkey to polite position and
stuff his surprised interior with decorated crumbs. I satisfy him with
salt & pepper.
About time of afternoon p.m., I could hear several thanksgivers
scraping their footprints on rug. Their feet sounded quite hungry,
yet I could not hear any words spoken more cheerful than Sunday. Hon.
Turkey now send forth smiling smell of bakery, and I was glad to assist
his importance.
Pretty soonly all take set-down to table.
“We got much to be thanksgiving for,” report Hon. Goober with sharp
knife. “Dinner is late as usual.”
“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.