fear. What does frighten him, then, about this Third Term business
affair? Because Hon. Geo. Washington said not do it? So ridicule for
great man to think! Hon. Roosevelt is not afraid of Hon. Washington.
Then go ahead, Mr. Roosevelt, please! Continue terming for several more
administrations.
Whenever I think of some private gentleman being public President of U.
S. I spill tear-drop from sadness. Mere human person like Hon. Taft is
large enough to entirely fill throne with himself but he can not fill it
with that marvellous activity of Roosevelt.
* * * * *
Hon. Jenny Bryan, so I read by news-prints, has went out for duck-shoot
and also hoping to slew some bears. This show how sadly he long for
President. But nothing to do! Mr. Jenny is too quiet Democrat for
election. He must murder something or make elopement with somebody’s
grandmother to get photo in newspaper any more. Then American persons
will remember he is alive and nominate him for another defeat.
In what administration was Hon. Bryan President of these Uniteds State?
I ask these ignorant question because Hon. Bryan happened before I
arrived here.
Time is passed, Mr. Editor, for American gentleman to be President by
merely being so. Prince Albert cutaway and sky-scrape eye-brow with
patriotic noise from stump are decomposed from modern politics, thank
you. Successful candidate for America must not only stand on stump for
speech—he must use stump for downside-up gymnasticks employing heels for
passionate gestures. If candidate can not do nothing else he must be
owner of Trust or some other respectable business.
Whenever I have look-at some American gentleman behaviour strange and
queer in publick, then I enjoy suspicion, “That person is expecting for
nomination to President!”
Because this. When gentleman require to be notice by Delegates of
Convention he must perform something queer in publicity. Sometime he
take too much cocktail, sometime too much buttermilk—drink depending on
religious training. Then all newspapers go to his doorway and ask for
photo, childhood and name of party by which he prefers to be runned.
Pretty soonly this candidate is celebrated name in all mouths. After this
he may be elected, which is too difficult to think about, thank you!
By last week I seen Yoni Sadekachi, wealthy and influential Japanese
greenhouse, enjoying phenomenal cataclyptic spasm of fits on street
corner. Large crowd was present including three American reporters. Next
morning following headline in all American newspaper:
JAPANESE SPASM OF FITS!!!
HON. YONI SADEKACHI ENJOYS ONE AND
GAINS LARGE MERIT OF JAPANESE
VOTERS PRESENT.
WILL HE BE NOMINATION FOR PRESIDENT?
WE ASK TO KNOW
Pretty soonly news-children scream announcement all over this America.
Political man see this and report. “Yes, please, this Hon. Yoni will
make very happy candidate for Republican party with fusion of Japanese
Socialists. It will be pleasant to mention him if everything else fails.”
This is to show, Mr. Editor, how dangerous it is to encourage talented
Japanese in this kingdom.
One Japanese poem, please, for your printer to practise on:
_SILENCE OF NEXT ADMINISTRATION_
Last night I dream this when heliotrope of despair breathe to
lily-flower,
When moonlight is there
And crane-bird stand with bill under its elbow:
One Angel arrive to my bedstead.
“Good morning,” I report, “what is your name?”
“How do you do,” she say. “My name is Silence.”
“Hon. Silence,” I exclaim, “how did you get into this country?”
“I got in,” she exclaim, “when Hon. Roosevelt got out.”
“Is Hon. Roosevelt got out?” I support.
“O yes,” say Angel, “can not you hear the sound of Silence all over
land?
Silence in Congress, in Nursery, in Pulpit, in Wall Street?
Can not you hear it?
You are blind in ears if not!”
“O yes,” I retort, “I hear it, Mr. Angel;
But it is not Perfect Silence.”
“No, not Perfect Silence—
But it is silent enough to be noticed.
Almost Anything
Sounds like Silence
By comparison
Of Hon. Roosevelt.
“Therefore sweet sleep,
Pull down blinds,
Blow out gas—
Good night!”
So speak Angel when heliotrope of despair droop to lily-flower,
When moonlight is there
And crane-bird stand with bill under its elbow.
Therefore, Mr. Editor, I leave it to you. Silence is not best sweetest
quality for energetic kingdom like this. Please fix Hon. Roosevelt to
stay on chair for remainder of generation. For if he is removed panick
of loneliness will assassinate Japanese Boy.
Hoping you will fix it by me,
Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.
S. P.—I have obtained legitimate job of table-waiting at Fujiyama
Restaurant where my mail will get to. H. Sunigawa, Prop., is one very
patriotic gentleman who works as Japanese Spy when not employed.
H. T.
IX
HON. MODESTY: IS IT A DISEASE?
SAN FRANCISCO, March 14th.
_To Editor New York Newspaper who is considerable careless
about answer to letters of poor Japanese Schoolboy, excuse him
for more of._
DEAR SIR—Sometime when Hon. Rudyard Kipling write, he begin each paragraf
with nice piece of poem. Therefore I must do it like him. Excuse
following:
_THE SONG OF OUCH_
In Tunk by the Tower of Tom
In the Land of the Living Joke
Lived a race of Sadds who were modest lads
And blushed when their names was spoke
They shrieked at the thought of Fame
And shaked like the infant pine,
While they turned all white when they seen the sight
Of an Advertising Sign.
So they lived in the fear of Boast
In the Age that Has Went Behind:
But if any of They still remain to-day
They is certainly Hard to find!
Hon. Mrs. Lusy Macdonald to whom I am now a greenhouse employed by her
geraniums at 10c each to relieve them of what bugs they got is very
nice-hearted. Her husband is a dead gentleman who took decease by asthma
in joints. So she approached to me yesterday with customary tear-drop & 1
pair pants to say:
“These property of past Macdonald I am give to you because they wake
bitter memories & are wore out around knees.” Slight sobs from her.
I observe them hon. pants which is very tall garments of dissipated
appearance.
“O thank you so many, Hon. Mrs. Madam!” I report with salvo. “I shall
took them home & rehearse wearing them.” I back off for respect and get
away with them hon. pants.
At Patriots of Japan Boarding & Lodging, where I hope to move from before
payment is necessary, I lock myself away with them garment, and try to
make it fit. So sorry can’t do! When I clasp it with dignified safety-pin
at waist each leg is too far beyond my foots—it give me reverent
appearance of kneeling. I try to deceive them pants to look briefer by
rolling them upwards. Also I coax them at stummick by fastening belt
around shoulders. By this way I am entirely inside of that tailorship
which is too plenty.
[Illustration: “‘Would they fit me perhaps?’ I ask for vanity”]
Then suddenly Cousin Nogi make in-come to my room, because he is a
relative and can do so without knocking. He look quite gast at me.
“You are clothed entirely,” he signify with smart expression.
“Would they fit me perhaps?” I ask for vanity.
“Maybe so they might,” dictate Nogi, “but they are too loose around neck.”
“What to do with such gifts from lady?” I inquire for reply.
“To wear it next to heart,” contuse Nogi with smiling. “If you wear it
on publick streetfare crowd will collect to indicate that you are one
very famous Japanese. Persons will proclaim: ‘There go them Hon. Pants!’
Maybe you will be escort by police wherever went. It is so easy to become
famous.”
“No can do, please!” I prefer.
“No to?” stagger Nogi for disappoint.
“Ah, no!” I relapse. “I should not desire to become famous for pants.
Hon. Modesty is a Japanese characteristick.”
“Hon. Modesty is a disease,” corrode that Nogi with scornful snip; so he
tell following myth of antique Japan which is a very favourite stories of
Grandmothers to illustrate the Hon. Modesty.
* * * * *
In some way-back period of B. C. there reside at Kioto one Emperor by
name of Motomatsu who was awful modest about it. When spoke of as Famous
he became a very ill person. He was shy about publick banzai. When he
depart out from Hon. Palace for auto-ride all loyal subjecks was lined
up by pave to decry: “Banzai! Banzai! Such nice Emperor Motomatsu!” They
then kneel upon their faces to signify it. But Hon. Motomatsu enjoy angry
rage for such publick demonstrictions and decry: “So conspickerous!”
while he kick loyal subjecks on skull. Because he was shy.
Pretty soonly he make sneek out of Palace by back door to avoid them
noyful mob of shoutings. But one Grocery Boy seen him and observe to
inquire: “Why do Kings go out by back doors when should not?” “Hush it!”
say Motomatsu. “I am doing it so as not to be too famous.” So when he
make pass-on them Grocery Boy go to all populus of Japan and decry: “Hon.
Emperor is departing by back door!” Then 1,000,000 of them loyal subjecks
assemblance to trademan entrance of Palace & peek to see—and sure of!
Hon. Emperor again is saw making sneek-in to Palace. “Permit us to hail!”
say peasantry, but Hon. Emperor relapse with peev: “Go hail somewheres
else!” And he throw brick-bat to them.
So them Hon. Emperor get worse modest all time. Pretty soonly he borrow
rag-clothing from beggerly man and wander forth in them disguise. But
Hon. Populus, when they seen him, decry: “O look-see what has arrive! Our
dear Emperor are ragged out to be a beggerly man! Is he not conspickerous
in such a clothing? Ah, yes!” And they surround him with a program of
dances, including exhibitions of jiu jitsu, resolutions of respeck,
geisha waltz, speek, fireworks & baloon-races. Pretty soonly Carnegie
Commission approach with brass medal of reward. “For what?” say Hon.
Emperor. “For extreme shyness in action,” say Hon. Commission. By this
Hon. Motomatsu is very disgust, so he cut off them Commission at neck,
then he chop 1,000 loyal subjecks with ax and go back Palace.
But when them loyal subjecks pick up their heads what was chopped they
say: “Sure is! Mr. Emperor must be modest about publick appearance. Quite
well! Then we will cease hailing him, if he is so disagree.”
Next day when Hon. Emperor go off for walk, what! Such vacancy of street!
He is queer to feel. He go back Palace with lonesome smile. “Maybe I am
dress too silently to be seen,” he-say. So he put on uniform of Field
Marshall & walk outside again. Nothing to do. Even little sparrow-birds
is absent with banzais. “O mania! Have I quit being famous?” subtract
that Motomatsu, losing some flesh for griefs. So by soon-time he make
début to street in drum-major uniform recruited by very large brass band.
But Hon. Publick is home reminding their own business. This are too much
worry for Hon. Emperor who go bed & is attended by appendicitis. Pretty
soonly he enjoy death and got a tomb near Kioto. In front of it are
following inscription:
“Motomatsu have got his bones here.
He were a Good Advertiser;
But he Worked it too Hard.”
Mr. Editor, Hon. Modesty were a disease very common among Great Mens in
antique Japan. In these here day modern insanitary methods of brushing
off microbes have got rid of such shy germs pretty good. Yet Great Mens
is still in some tiny danger of being bit by it. At White Palace of
Washington Dr. Rickey must be in constant attendance with microscope to
watch for it. Each President Message must be very careful fumigated—and
on some days this are pretty much of a job, thank you.
By each morning-time Hon. President must have corner of eye-glasses,
mustache & tooths examined for fearful that some Wyoming constituent
might maybe brought in bashful germs that will get into Hon. Policies &
spoil everything.
This Surgeon-Gen. Rickey must be a very worried person. Suppose he go
cod-fishing some Sunday off & become carelus about them hon. microbes?
Ah, fatal! Next morning he go to White Cabinet & discover Hon. President
enjoying high temperature of terrible blushes.
“Sec. Loeb,” he are saying, “please turn to Nineteenth Interstate
Proclamation, page 1102B, and attack it with blue pencil.”
“Quite good, Mr. Sire,” say them Hon. Loeb. “What to do with them words?”
“Scratch out all pronouns spelled with an ‘I’ and supply ‘American
People’ for it,” say Hon. President.
“Will do,” say Hon. Sec. with nervous glance.
“Next substitute considerable changes. Change ‘My Policies’ to ‘Mr.
Bryan’s Policies,’ change ‘My Navy’ to ‘Admiral Brownson’s Navy,’
change——”
Dr. Rickey stand at corner of room with horrors springing at knees. “It
are my carelus fault—some scarce disease have got in through window!” he
whisper to guilty self.
“Next turn attention to library of books,” say that Presidential Invalid.
“Change ‘My Works’ to ‘Works of Divine Providence.’ Every time ‘Grizzly
Bear’ are mention change it to ‘Grey Squirrel,’ change ‘Must Not’ to
‘Please Don’t,’ change——”
“Stop it, Mr. Sire!” say them Physician with alarms; “if you continue it
thus you will have ‘Malefactors’ changed to ‘Benefactors’!”
So White House Hospital Corps are ringed for and Hon. President took by
forceful quarantine to Federal Hospital where one porous plaster are put
on his Ego to draw it out. While enjoying relapse there he occupy cot
formerly layed in by Hons. Albert Beverage, Ben Tillman & other Egos
enjoying the same shy germ.
* * * * *
What would become of Hon. Literature, Mr. Editor, if them Literaries was
nibbled by Hon. Modesty? What would become of Publishing Business if Hon.
Mrs. Eleanor McGlynty, after wroting one book of title, “Three Months,”
should spend that period of time blushing over what ensue in it? What
would happen to Hon. Jack of London or Hon. Thomas of Boston if they
forgot to tell Hon. World how remarkably much they are? Would Hon. World
remember their praises if _they_ didn’t? I ask to know.
What would ensue if Hon. Bernard Shaw should took the habit of shrinkage?
Might he know how to stop before he had entirely shrunk away until
he was very little more than size of Homer, Shakespeare & any other
insignificate super-gentleman? I require no answer.
Mr. Editor, if I had died in old-fashion generation of water-power
reputation I would have got on my tombstone:
Here Lies Togo,
He was a good man.
But as I live in age of gas-power greatness, I must have on my door-plate:
Here Lives Togo.
He is a great man.
If you don’t believe it,
Step in and he will
Tell you so.
With love to your printer,
Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.
X
SPRING
SAN FRANCISCO, April 1st.
_To Editor of New York newspaper which rains supreme for
intelligence of editorial tipewriting._
DEAR SIR O! Spring have came!
Where did it arrive from? is question for Japanese Boy.
Do it arrive from Palm Beach of sunny climb, song-sing of
nightinglory-bird, hypnotism of tropick mooners where poets is whacking
musical liars in the middle of such nice weather? Do it arrive from ore
the sea blew along by Rory Bory Alice & other mythology ladies of awfully
gauze dressing which travel by zephyr to drop don’t-forget-me bud & other
garden seeds on top of happy farmer? Ah no! it do not.
Where _do_ this Spring arrive from then, if not?
By newspaper print I read how it arrive from Paris, thank you!
Flower of Spring do not come to America by them poetical way I said. They
are first noticed in New York by Hon. Custom Inspector who give American
eye-wink when he see such many trunks of French extraction. He notice
they are label “Handle by Care,” so he open them carefully with an axe.
From each divided trunk come explosion of rare beaty. Violet-colour
roses, rose-colour violets, blue-colour carnations, off-colour daisies,
lilies-of-valley in red, white, & blue and sunflowers of 27 delicious
varieties of sunset. That sad interior of Custom House, so oftenly
accustomed to shady gloom of dark & dingley Tariff, grow suddenly to
joyful fire-alarm by them race-riot of colour. All employees of them
Custom House forget murdering thought of their cruel hearts and is
instantly gentle by sight of such bouquets. They forget to do their duty
on sliding scale. Their eyes is overdone for tear drop with sweetheart
thought of childhood. Numberous sighs is enjoyed while looking to them
flowers, all hats is removed and for one noment of time that Custom House
forget to think of Eternal Revenue on cigars, the patness of Jo-uncle
Cannon and welcome to America by the Uncivil Service. Such is influence
of Nature on savage persons.
Then come Easter and I am not responsible for what happen. Hon. Solomon,
who was legally accustomed to 100 wifes, was very suspicious about Spring
when it come along from Paris, so he say with voice for all future layers
of Husbands, “Consider the lilies how they cost!” When one Christian
lady begin to consider the lilies in shop window it is important
for Christian Husband to consider something else with absent-minded
expression.
* * * * *
In Spring young American mind naturally turn to sport of baseballing.
Japanese Boy have found out how-do to get there to place where them
National Sport is done. Walk some distance to suburbs of trolley when,
all of a suddenly, you will notice a sound. It is a very congregational
lynch-law sound of numberous voices doing it all at once. Silence
punctuates this. Then more of.
“Why all this yall about, unless of mania?” I require to know from Hon.
Police.
“San Francisco is in it and Oakland is outside of it,” say Hon. Police
with moustache. “San Francisco have made bat-hit and three gentlemans
have arrive home.”
“So happy to welcome travellers!” I decry. “Have them gentlemans been
long absent for such publick banzai?”
“All over bean-farm,” say Hon. Police. “They was all on bags,” he say,
“and two mans had died on first basso——”
“I shall enjoy mourning for them heroes,” I retort.
“—then Hon. Murphy acquire one base by high finance.”
[Illustration: “‘Why all this yall about, unless of mania?’ I require to
know from Hon. Police”]
“How-so he possess this base?” is next question for me.
“He steal it,” say Hon. Police with cigar.
I admire talents of that Hon. Murphy who can steal things while all
publick make shout of applaud. With practice he would become very
delicious Senator.
More loud yall of shouts is heard. I am an enthusiasm. What fierce
harakiri of patriotism was going on to make them Americans so loud? Such
sound of hates! Port Arthur was took with less noise than that. Therefore
I must see about it.
I go to fence where ticket-hole demand 50c of price to see it.
“Why must Japanese Boy pay such price?” I renig.
“Because-so,” say Ticketer, “Baseballing is National Sport. Therefore
each patriot must pay them 50c for Campaign Fund to Hon. Cortelyou.”
I admit myself to gate.
In seats around gallery all-American persons is settled in state of very
hoarse condition. Downstairs on ground is 10 to 11 Baseballers engaged in
doing so. I am scientifick about this Game which is finished by following
rules:
One strong-arm gentleman called a Pitch is hired to throw. Another
gentleman called a Stop is responsible for whatever that Hon. Pitch
throw to him, so he protect himself from wounding by sofa-pillows which
he wear on hands. Another gentleman called a Striker stand in front to
that Stop and hold up club to fright off that Hon. Pitch from angry
rage of throwing things. But it is useless. Hon. Pitch in hand hold
one baseball of an unripe condition of hardness. He raise that arm
lofty—then twist—O sudden! He shoot them bullet-ball straight to breast
of Hon. Stop. Hon. Striker swing club for vain effort. It is a miss &
them deathly ball shoot Hon. Stop in gloves. “Struck once!” decry Hon.
Umperor, a person which is there to gossip about it in loud voice.
“Why do Hon. Umperor demand Hon. Striker to struck when he have already
did so?” I demand to know from one large German intelligence what set
next by me.
“He is fanning himself outside,” make that courteous foreigner for reply,
so I prefer to understand.
Once more-time that Hon. Pitch prepare to enjoy some deathly agony. He
hold that ball outside of twisted forearm, turn ½ beside himself, throw
elbows away, give whirling salute of head, caress ankle with calf of
leg, then up-air—quickly shoot! Ball journey to Hon. Stop with whizz,
but before arriving there Hon. Striker see it with club. There is
considerable knock-sound as club collide to ball which stops continuing
in that direction and bounds uply to air. Great excitement for all
America! All spectacles in grand-stand decry, “O make sliding, Hon. Sir!”
and many voices is seriously spoiled as Hon. Striker run with rapid heels
from each base to next & all other Baseballers present endeavour to pull
down that ball which is still in very high sky. But soonly that ball
return down and is bounded into hands of second basso sportsman who shoot
it to Hon. Stop just as Hon. Striker is sliding to fourth base by the
seat of his stummick.
“Out!” decry Hon. Umperor, so Hon. Striker go set himself on back bench,
which is deserving place for all heroes.
So many Strikers is brought up to do them clubbing acts during game that
it become a monotony to Japanese Boy in a very soon time. But not-so it
was to Americans who was fuller of Indiana yalls. Occasionally that large
German intelligence what set next to me would say with voice, “Kill that
Umperor!”
“Why should Hon. Umperor be executed?” I require for answer.
“I am not sure why-is,” extort that German. “But it is courteous to
demand his death occasionally.”
“Is this Umperor such a sinful citizen?” I make note; but that Hon.
German did not response because he was drownding his voice from one
bottle of pop-soda for value of 5c.
I wait for very large hour to see death of this Hon. Umperor, but it did
not occur as I seen. Too bad! I had very good seat to see from.
Baseballing is healthy game for Americans. It permits them to enjoy
sunstroke in middle of patriotick sounds, it teach them a entirely
courageous vocabulary and put 10,000,000,000,000 peanuts in circulation
by each annual year. Japan must learn to do it. If all Japanese wishing
to become heroes should go set in bleachers each afternoon-time it might
change them from Yellow Peril to yelling section in short generation.
But warfare is a more agreeable way.
Spring was discovered by Japanese several years before zero. Antique
Japanese noblemans, when they seen sweet Irish-flowers blooming and
acting fresh was suspicious that maybe it was sign of Spring, but they
did not say-so nothing about it, because laws was very just in them date.
Hon. Bashu, celebrated for Japanese poetry, say:
“O Spring, Spring,
Thou art such gentle thing!”
Hon. Japanese Emperor read this songsing and call Hon. Bashu to
court-house and give him one chop-off by axe. “You are too original for
to live,” he say by remark.
Hon. Onion Jo, Japanese ranch-boy of Contra Costa County, recently enjoy
one railway accident. His 2 feetprints has been missing since then. So
you will please forgive following Japanese sonnet he send me because he
is a very weak patience in hospital:
_CONVERSATION TALKED BY ONION JO WITH ONE FOOLISH-BIRD ON SPRINGTIME
TWIGS_
Told me in song-sing, tree-bird of April Foolish,
Why do America Fleet
Travel so low-down in water-tight Ocean?
Why-so
Is all symptoms of armour-belt missing
And why such cargo of weight?
“Twit! Twit!”
Response them animal in voice of Commander Sims,
“Them Pacific Fleet travel deep-down
For very good reason.
Admiral Reuterdahl is in command of it.”
After which remark them tree-bird make humoristick signals.
Told me in music, tree-bird of green ideas,
“Why do Hon. Forker of Ohio
Feel so just about Negro-race?
Are he Senator from Brownsville
That he is dutifully obliged
To make them hurt sounds
When chocolate citizenship is insult?”
“Tut! Tut!”
Abjurgate them thoughtless Fowl,
“Hon. Forker have very scholarly brain-thoughts;
He remind himself of poetry by Mother Geese,
‘Bah, bah, Black Vote,
Have you any pull?’
Hon. Forker is such Dark Horse now
That he enjoy complete eclipse, thank you.”
And them peculiar Chicken make knocking noise with bill.