Chapter III: Part 3

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.

“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.

“How can we fill his vacant platter?” sobb Hon. Mrs. “I should be thankful for Hon. Turkey, however tough!”

Just while she say this—crashy!! Loud sound of approaching dog heard from kitchen window, and Hon. Fido with waggish tail trott into dining-room, carrying that enormalous bird in his careful teeth. He lay that absent fowel reverently a.m. feets.

“Hon. Fido do not care for this enlarged chicken, so he bring him back,” I report.

“Dinner are now spoilt!” decry Hon. Mrs.

“How could you speak it?” I research. “When turkey go, you say, ‘Dinner ruined!’ When he come back, you say, ‘Dinner spoilt!’ I am impossible to understand about American customs.

“You have Thanksgive dinner so you can set around making bewails. So foolish to do! Why you no choose this date for to kick out Misfortune?”

“I shall do so!” abrupt Hon. Goober, arising upwards. “First Misfortune to kick will be in your direction.”

Next he rejected me through window by force of Swedish jiu-jitsu. Hon. Fido arrive by next kick, and Hon. Turkey flew afterward, striking me on hair so earnestly he left me quite brainless.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XIV

Togo Seeks Tea and Finds Tango

_To Editor Good Housekeeping Magazine who must realize the extreme difficulty of keeping home dull,_

Dear Sir:—I have leaped so continuously from jobs to jobs since you last heard from me that I am becoming a very talented bounder. The nearly last place to which I was attached rejected me away because of my extreme industry in sweeping carpets while company was there to sneeze. Boss Lady at that place was kind but brutal, so she give me following letter of recomment to quit with:

TO WHO THIS MAY SUPPLY:—

This introduces our Mr. Togo (retired). If you want to see what a housemaid he is, try him. He is capable of anything. Please treat him like I did.

MARY L. MONTFUSSER.

Next place where I took this note were home of Hon. Mrs. & Mr. Wm. Vanderbitt Jones, residing in very swollen location located near Aspic Falls, N. J. That neighborhood was so formula that it make me feel quite English while approaching up to it. I was included into rear entrance amid buttlers, where Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones, crystalized lady of expensive beauty, arrive there and require, “You unstand how serve tea?”

“Tea are favorite drunk of Japan,” I exaggerate pridefully. “It are served there with ceremony——”

“It are served here with tango,” she snib stylishly. “Did you ever learn how?”

“Never yet,” I nudge, “yet I can quickly learn to include that amid cream & sugar.”

“How irritated!” she snib while making her fingers touch her fashionable hairs. “Howeverly, since it is too late already, you must remain staying.”

A English buttler without any H in his words took me to long room and show me how pile up furniture and remove off all explosive glassware from table.

“Why you make so much removal?” I ask to know.

“When tea-drink begin they commence dance,” he acknowledge.

“Tea never make persons dance in Japan,” I snagger.

“It are only commencing to have that effect in America,” he explain. “But in 1914 it are fashionable to have it go to feet when swallowed.”

I were chewing this education with my brain when confused varieties of Smart Setters arrive up with enlarged limousine hacks and make ha-ha handshake including Vernon Castle expression.

I notice great absence of that stiff-souled dignity peculiar to Japanese Ambassadors when thirsty for Oolong. Everybody acted like a divorce and some ladies appeared considerable Geisha.

Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones stand by rugs, with flirting expression and say, “Howdy, Freddy,” whenever Newport clothing arrive up. Musical orchestra from behind palm-bushes commence play “O You Gabble Gabble Glide” and nobody could prevent misbehavior of feet. Considerable gentlemen then obtain seizure of considerable ladies and commence circulating with stride away expression of knees.

“If this is tea where is it?” I require from my soul. No answer as yet.

My eyes equaled Sherlock’s in search of that beveridge which should be there. I could not detect. No appearance of steepage, cup-saucer, sammyvar, or other tools for making that hot sip. Yet somewheres I could hear dice-box sound peculiar to small icebergs clattering together. O yes! I saw. Coyly concealing behind palm-bushes I observe considerable buttler shaking up tea in silver jigglers to include ice.

Pretty soonly lady & gentleman arrive up full of fatigues from so much slouchy-slouchy dance-step.

“We will take slight tea,” they dement from Hon. Buttler.

“What variety, please?” he require servantly.

“Martini,” snuggest those couple. Hon. Buttler pour. More pairs of persons emerge up. More shakes with ice. More gobbles. More dances.

Hon. Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones, formerly very clam-eye and Buckingham in her appearance of silk clothing, abruptly seize one smallish dance-gentleman and become more Geisha than all others collapsed together.

“It are tango who put the tease into tea,” renounce one gentleman-boy twirkling by with lady-girl.

“You are very Bernard Shaw today, Edgerley,” she report back with eyes. “Of formerly it used to be deliciously difficult to compel men & husbands to come to tea. Now you cannot keep them away with weapons. Why is that swift change?”

“When the tea goes out the tango’s in,” he define, attempting to wear wit under his moustache.

It was very hard science to describe this tango-waltz when I saw it, Mr. Editor. It are similar to a minuet danced by eels. Angry elbows seem to be slipping around everywheres while each ladies and gentlemen seem to be walking sidewise without intending to go there. Such chuckly movements of ducking away from music amid bounces! Such clutch and jolt containing great poetry! I could not unstand how persons could do this American jiu-jitsu without injurious breakage of their personality. And yet no ambulance was called.

While I stood thusly composing thoughts, Hon. Buttler walk to me with side-face moustache similar to Hon. Chauncey Depew when not joking.

“While you are doing nothing you should not stand idly around,” he dib.

“You wish me dance also?” I snuggest.

“I wish you to go to royal reception door downside and permit entrance to all calling guests.” This he say with voice so expensive I feel entirely bankrup.

So I go downside to reception door where I set long-time for lonesome company by the knob. Occasionately that music play so flirtatious that my feet misbehave. Pretty soonly came ring-ring to door. I admit. In come lengthwise gentleman with Woodrow Wilson expression and black-front necktie peculiar to clergy.

“What name, if any?” I ask to know. I made my voice show insults peculiar to fashion.

“I am Rev. Mr. Scornaway, of St. Lucre parish,” he deliver. “I have came to tea as usual on Wedsday.”

“This is no place for a clergy,” I dictate warnfully. “You can save your reputation by taking it away with you.”

“What do you mean by your meaning?” he snagger. “Do not Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones’s cards say Tea on Wedsday?”

“This are not the kind of Wedsday you think it is,” I abrupt.

“Poor benightied heathen!” he narrate. “Have I not been arriving here for tea for the last twenty (20) years since date when Hon. Cyrus J. Jones was President of National Distrust Co.? Have I not been here to talk church-work with elderly ladies while setting down amidst famus statesmen and talk on topics? Have I not met most greatest dignity in America within this house?”

“You will not meet them now,” I clabber, “or if so they will be doing something else.”

“Pleasantly permit me to pass inside,” he snarrel clergetically.

“O not to do!” I holla with Samurai knockles preventing his forthstepping. “If I relate what horror that tea is now doing you will not dare to go inside with your profession.”

“Tell me the entire!” he commit bravely.

“They are making tango!” I whasper with ears full of frights.

Hon. Rev. Mr. express great sternness in his jaws like a reformer fighting Indians.

“Let me get at them!” he growell.

“O joyful!” I acknowledge. “Then you are determined to stop it?”

“No!!” he gargle. “I am determined to dance it!!!”

I collapse backwards to setty chair and permit him to advance to middle of music. For 13 1-8 minutes I remained stationary attempting to fan away my faint. Then considerable bashido filled my forehead and I leapt to my footwear. Upstairs to dance-hall parlor I go. There, surrounded by sidesteps, hand-clasps, whirligig promenades, eye-gaze, romp, Vienna tunes and acrobats I observed Hon. Rev. Mr. circulating in clutch with Mrs. Vanderbitt Jones. Determinely I advance to middle of and stand befront them.

“Hon. Mrs. Madam, if conveniently—” I commence to be interrupted.

“What is?” she require, continuing to circulate.

I am obliged to make delicious dance-motions so I can keep up, yet I pursue near her.

“If convenient I quit,” is reprove for me. I must now double three loops and whirl my arms bias to remain next.

“Why you don’t quit without application to me?” she ask it while 2-stepping.

“I wish tell you my feelings before departure,” I reject while gliding my feet onwards and twining my chest in stroggle to follow her closely. “I shall not be a servant in such a fidgetty home. I shock! What is becaming of America? Instead of sipping tea, as formerly, they dance it. Instead of enjoying sociability with brain they do it with feet. They act midnight at five o’clock. Preachers come to preach and stay to prance. Therefore, I remove myself to some other jobs.”

“Jeems!” Hon. Mrs. holla to Hon. Buttler, yet still continue fantango whirling, “here are Japanese schoolboy who should be discharged to music. Tango him down back steps.”

Nextly I knew I were embraced by that tense Englishman without any H in his voice. While music burst up into runaway tune, Hon. Buttler show me tango so rapidly I did not know my ears from my knuckles. O such musical scuttle-step, back-walk, elbow-jounce, and twist-vine movement towards outside side of house! And there I suddenly arrived followed by orchestra-sound including kick.

So I 1-step away with bursted gracefulness peculiar to lame duck.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XV

Are Turkey-Waltzing a Dance or a Convulsion?

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint, who must have many subscribers because he know that where there is Life there is Blood and where there is Blood there is Circulation (free joke)_

Dear Mr.:—The Japanese Patriotic and Educational Suicide Club, of which I are correspondent Secretary last night give a waltzing cotillion and lemonade (25c for extra ladies who drunk it) at Rising Sun Banzai Association Hall. Considerable fashion of yellow complexion was there with Sadikichi’s Brass Orchestra to play it whenever we danced it. Excitements.

Considerable Japanese schoolgirls was fetched there by that nationality and I was deliciously shocked to see how American they looked. They wore crippled skirts of considerable thinness and their shoulder blades seemed absolutely destitute. I fetch Miss Ruby Fujimuto, Japanese lady of aggrevated beauty, with me for escort. When she removed off her opera-house cloak, I look at her with my expression all braided up.

“Ladies should be praised for their economy,” I corrode while observing the cloth that was not there.

She curbed up with bridle expression.

“You no like the way my neck is cut?” she snagger, showing peevness by her soprano.

“Your neck is not cut,” I narrate. “I know because I can see it all.”

She seem less engaged to me than formerly and eloped away to make dance-step with J. Haro, Japanese photographer.

Hon. Sadakichi’s Brass Orchestra make music resembling roof gardens.

At that moment of time I could observe how everybody was dancing. They seemed to be jouncing in couples, making crowd-up walk with occasional slouchy-slouchy motion while their eyes said “How-do!” with Romeo expression peculiar to Shakespeare.

“It are nice for youngly persons to be affectionate,” I commute. “But when will dancing begin?”

“They are now Turkey-waltzing,” depose Arthur Kickahajama, missionary boy, with Tuxedo eyebrows.

My cousin Nogi, who arrive there with Miss Alice Sago (divorced) approach to me and wish I should Turkey-waltz with her because he was lame from when she kicked him. I told him I was a Methodist heathen, therefore my feet was too religious to dance.

“Turk-waltzing are denatured dancing,” arrange Miss Sago with alimony smiles. “Come, Mr. Togo, I show you how do it!” So I went and stroggled.

Mr. Editor, while I made gymnastix with that charmed lady, I wished send you several editorials. What are this Turkey-Waltz, I ask to know? Were it invented by Turks at Adrianople while wrastling with the Vulgarian army? Did Turkish soldiers think up that peculiarostous step while rolling barrels of powder at Greece? Why should persons blame Turks with this style of trotting if they never did it? Mohammedans has got sifficient bad habits of their own without accusing them of some more!

This Miss Sago shove me here & elsewhere with neglectful expression peculiar to roustabouts. When music play “All Persons Are Doing Something” she attemp to dissociate my spine by wig-wagging my elbows.

“Make your ankles more diagonal!” she declare with sweety schoolteacher face. I wish to ask her marry me, but wondered what might happen if I did. I make slight jiu jitsu to her wrist, but she got more stronger grippe while I jounce alternately like tables in earthquakes.

“My feet are filled with clumsies,” I narrate baffably.

“That are very valuable in Turk-trotting,” she say for sweetly smiling.

“So is?” I holla. “I always sipposed folks must be graceful to make dance step.”

“They ust to, but no more,” she expose. “All fashionable 400s today when dancing considers it great elegance to appear like drunken sailors wrestling with bears.”

I should have responded to her educational catalogue, but she was showing me new jag-step where I could elevate my knees to music while being choked.

“I will nextly show you how do the Jellyfish Crawl,” she pronounce with Tipsichore expression.

“If I learned any more dances I should become a Geisha, which are less proper,” I renig shyly while eloping away from her armful with talented dodges.

When I was hiding behind palum trees where she could not see me I watched considerable turkey-trottery, bunny-huggery, etc., with eyes full of science. Dignified home-made Japanese was making roof-garden loops with their legs in such a way their wife & children would feel siprised. Arthur Kickahajama, missionary boy, were doing sidewise catch-and-let-go dance with Miss Mamie Furaoki. After that actions I could not see how he ever could look a Y. M. C. A. in the face again. First they glid together with expression of happy crabs, then they made a twillup, two cross-legs & 3 bounces. This was followed by clutches.

“They are dancing Tango,” pronounce Sydney Katsu, Jr., who was floorwalking like a committee.

“What slum teaches persons dance like that?” I abject doggishly.

“Sometimes Bowery, sometimes Fifth Avenue,” he report for tone of high-social.

“Do Fifth Avenue permit the Bowery to teach them depravity?” I require.

“Ah no!” ollicute Sydney. “Fifth Avenue are teaching the Bowery. Vices are like other kinds of furniture. Rich folks uses them first and only pass them on to poor folks when they are second hand. Thusly the slums are seldom safe.”

“After Tango is finished what new dance will explode in the Smarty Set?” are next question for me.

“Not sure,” Sydney say so with Harry Leer eyebrows. “Last week I hear how some high-style Newporters had gone to Africa for try dancing with some cannibles what knew some deliciously low down steps. But after the first dance they had to quit because they was ashamed.”

“Who was ashamed—the Newporters?”

“No, the cannibles,” notate Sydney Katsu, Jr., looking like he was prepared to be raided by police.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XVI

When Will Lady-Fashions Get Ashamed of Themselves?

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint or whoever prints it_

Dear Sir:—Of lately I have been studying American style of fashions for ladies, so I shall know your civilization from both ends. It are a very hard science to chase and in doing so I annexed my acquaintance to Miss Alice Furaoki, to who I shall become engaged when divorced. This sweet-hearted Japanese schoolgirl dress so similar to American actresses you cannot tell her from white lady, except when you look at her.

Last Satday eve p.m., when I was accomplishing her down street for see emotion-picture show, price 10c, I felt very Vanderbiltish to walk so near to Newport dressmaking. My eye hooked itself to her clothing and remained there till—O sudden!—I observe what was. I blushed entirely yellow.

“Excuse, please, Hon. Miss Sweetheart,” I gollup. “Your dressmake has axidentally forgot to sew up the ankle of your skirt so I observe something deranged.”

“What derangement do you observe?” she require with Vassar eyebrows.

“Not sure,” I stotter. “It seems to resemble the biceps of your hosiery.”

“That biceps is situated where it usually is,” she otter clamly like an ice box.

“Should it be ashamed?” I ask shockly.

“It are style,” she decry, “and style are never ashamed. Togo, why should you stand there gasping like Queen Victoria seeing Paris? This garments I are wearing are called a gashed skirt and is now very favorite at Newport, and Jewport, on Fifth & Sixth Avenues. Queen Mary of London wore one (very slightly) while giving Ice Cream Social to Knights of the Garter. In Paris it were even more so, as usual. Two French countesses from Minneapolis appeared tired out in this costume at Long Chumps race-course and everybody was so asphyxiated by charm they forgot to lose their money.”

“Horses must feel very slow when racing against such style,” I report nervely. “I am alarmed to think to where fashions will jump to nextly.”

“More will soonly explode from Vienna where a gentleman-dressmake have invented a dress all of glass,” she narrate with smiling eyebrows. “It will be worn in beautiful green shades.”

“Green shades are necessary to pull down sometimes when you are living in glass clothing,” I say so for Elbert Hubbard smartness.

Miss Furaoki make no intellectual reply, so we arrive inside emotion-picture show to see that noiseless opera. I think I shall marry her sooner than ever.

Mr. Editor, Hon. Anthony Comestop and other celebrated purities is continuously complaining because female ladies is becoming too much seen in public places. Women is becoming too brave and their skirts too shrinking. Hon. Comestop, who are not so strong as he were before he took up modesty as a business, fainted 2½ times when he seen photos of Lady Bluff-Gorgon’s latest style-simpony entitled “Spring Twilight” and he have ordered entire U. S. Army to encamp at Custom House to stop it when she send over Fall-style walking-suit called “September Morn.”

Considerable ministers, judges and boss policemen has been talking like angry uncles to ladies because of the increasing decrease of their clothing. I read in news-print last week how Hon. Judge Killjoy of Salem, Mass., wish to burn all witches under 27 years of age for bewitching gentlemen by the clothes they don’t wear. Last week he order Hon. Police to grabb all ladies wearing dangerous skirts, but Hon. Police were too lazy to arrest entire female population, so he brought Village Belle into court, because she looked most so.

Hon. Judge observe that lady’s clingstone appearance and put on eye-spectacles, because must see careful.

“Mrs. Madam,” he report legally like Hon. Taft, “I are not astonished that there are such delicious quantities of Cubist artists in this generation. They are the only artists which can paint modern ladydress so it conceals them sifficiently.”

“Do you not like what I got on?” she require.

“I do not object to such smallish matters,” he negligee. “It is for the absent that I mourn.”

“I are dressed in style,” she dib feminitely.

“You are dressed in very little else,” he legalize. “I should die of shames if I should see my Wife promenading in street clad in such a lack.”

“I do not blame you,” she snagger snubbishly. “I once saw your Wife in bathing suit and can sympathize with you.”

Hon. Judge feel considable contempt of court for this remark, yet he could not hang her, because her style had not killed anybody yet.

“Who is it buys the purchase of your wardrobe, such as is?” he ask to know.

“My husband,” she pronounce.

“I shall arrest him for failure to provide,” he renig hashly. So he lock up court in time to go codfish.

Mr. Editor, numberous reformers is making weep-voice because ladies is coming out in worse & worse. Yet I are less alarmed. Styles is like other forms of advertisement—they are made to create look-at, and when this stop, they stop also. Ladyfashions is always worse than formerly, yet never so bad as they was. If you think 1913 is hideolous, look at 1880; if you think that ugliferous, observe 1870. Before the Uncivil War considerable preachers made considerable shock because ladies wore their lingeries next to their shoes. In reign of Gen. Arthur gentlemen enjoyed much sorrow because ladies wore their skirts in Psyche knots behind their backs. And now they create peev because ladies does not wear sifficiently enough anywheres.

At what periodical time of civilization have not mankind scolded ladykind for something she took on or put off? You would think from how they act that gentlemen must detest ladies for looking so homely. Yet suicide, divorce & population increases annually, which show that ladies can never dress too fashionable to be loved by someone.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XVII

The Drama of Sex

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint who knows how to go too far without arriving there._

Dearest Sir:—My Aunt Taki Kati, spinsterial suffragette from Kobe, Japan, arrived here of recently and say she should like see all the customs of America.

“What you wish see firstly?” I require for guide-bookish expression.

“Theater,” she say so.

“Had we not better begin with some other slum first?” I ask out. “There are some delicious gunmen in jail this week; Tammany Hall are still open to tourists and I could show you some splandid opium smokeries in Chinatown, price 25c.”

“Why should I not see theater first?” she require with Pankhurst eyebrows.

“Because so,” I report. “To enjoy theater you should a proach it gradually like any other bad habit. It are better to work up from mild to more strong. Otherwisely you might become ill without feeling intoxicated. Foreigners intending to see American theaters should first take lessons in blonde-slavery, debutchery, gun-manliness and o. u. kiddery. Then they can see dramatic arts without blushing too much.”

“My stumach has been strengthened by hunger strikes,” say that suffraging Japanese. “Therefore I can stand considerable endurance.”

“What variety play you wish observe?” I say it.

“Some simple domesticated drama,” she indicate. So we went forthly for see what was.

Mr. Editor, when we approach Broadway that street seem about like usual. Breathing get more difficulty there all time, because so many new theaters arise there each night, making fresh air umpossible.

“I smell the odor of some smell,” narrate my dear Aunt with chokes.

“There is several new Viennese plots in town,” I say so.

While we walked we could see following flashing signs winking with wicked electricity:

COUNTESS NYMPHIA
BY SWINEBURG
OPENLY VICIOUS!!

Next sign report:

THE GIRL AND THE LIBERTINE
A HORRIBLE HIT!!

Next theater divulge:

SLIGHTLY SOILED
THE DRAMA OF DISEASE!!

Nearby electricity say:

THE WHITE SLAVE’S FROLIC
MODERN MUSICAL COMEDY
100 SHOCKING SONGS!!

My Aunt Taki Kati wish see this opera, because she admire Gilbert & Sullivan for their tunes. So we go Box Office and ask buy sit-down inside.

“We do not sell tickets,” he reply peevly. “Ain’t you got sifficient brains in your mind to go to speculator when buying tickets?”

We find Hon. Speculator by sidewalk looking quite commercial.

“10$ each,” he report with tickets.

“Why should your price be so immodest?” I snagger.

“This are an immodest play,” he snudge. “Also we must charge extra for this performance because the author will be arrested after Act II.”

I knew we could see just a.m.ch wickedness for less cash money, so we walk onwards. On side-up street we see sign which say:

THE LIMIT!
ABUNDANTLY WORST!!

At this play we obtain sitting-room price 3$ each, which were deliciously cheap for so much sin. When we got inside there I obtain program, which was useless for my Aunt Taki, who do not understand American language, but can blush plenty in Japanese. Following words was on program:

_Evil Characters Represented_

J. W. Wineblower Vice-President of Vice Trust
Mrs. Lillian Lorelei A Temptation
Venus A poor shop girl

There was many others on that program which I did not have time to see because Hon. Curtain go uply amidst Rector music. The scenery was red like it was blushing for itself. And there sat Hon. Mrs. Lorelei removing shoes while smoking opium. Pretty soonly one of her husbands encroach in and complain that Hon. Janitor has been putting too much water in his morphine this week. Knock-knock by door. Hon. Police arrive in and accept bribery. Amidst considerable talk about purity Hon. Miss Venus arrive in and say she cannot obtain sifficient vice for 4$ weekly in department store where she work. Therefore she have come. I shall tell you the rest when I can whisper....

Mr. Editor, when Act I were finished up my Aunt Taki Kati smell a bottle of Japanese salts for take the taste out of her nose. She say that if America was like this Japan must annex it before it decayed. She say her oldmaidenhood were insulted by that sight and she was sure she must die dead from shocks.

“Maybe we better go outside for ventilated air,” I snuggest.

“Ah no!” she otter. “Let me faint where I am. If I went out I might lose my seat.”

But I feel otherwisely. I would rather drink my beer in some saloon where thoughts are more pure. So I elope outside, leaving Hon. Aunt to shock by herself. There was so many Presbyterian clergymans coming inward that I was nearly scrunshed in going outward. Yet I manage to get to lobbed door outside.

By Boxed Office I notice Hon. Moses Feldspar, the management, talking to Chief of Police and other press agents.

“You are less ashamed than formerly,” I narrate hashly.

“Why should I feel ashamed of employing Truth among my actresses?” he snagger.

“I never saw Truth behave so careless!” I dib.

“She are most truthful when naked,” he exclam.

“She are,” I renig for scorns. “But when Hon. Stage Manager dress her in X ray skirt she appear entirely dishonest.”

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XVIII

Grand Opera in English

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint who can be considerable comical without music_,

Dearest Sir:—Cousin Nogi report to me recently with Oscar Hammerstein eyebrows.

“Togo,” he say so, “cannot grand opera be equally grand when pronounced in English?”

“Frequent theaters is now doing so with help of talented soprano,” I say it.

“So glad to hear!” contuse my cousin. “Nextly they will be singing Salome in Japanese, which will be nice education for Japan who wish to be educated so quickly possible, yet like to know what they are talking about while doing so. Now they can’t do, thank you. Of recently famous sing-song play ‘Carmen’ were introduced in Yeddo. Considerable confusion enjoyed. When Hon. Bullfighter emerge forth from slaughterhouse yalling ‘Tor-ee-a-do-da!’ in elevator voice, all Japanese thinkers present imagine it was New York scenery describing Tammany Hall after election while Hon. Jno. P. Mitchel were congratulating himself on cruelty to tigers.”

“While grand opera is in English all persons can understand merely by ear,” I nudge gladly.

“Will not German language lose its health if translated?” require Cousin Nogi.

“Perhapsly,” I collapse. “American language have no beautiful words like ‘lustspiel’ and ‘Sauerbraten.’ Yet maybe they could use some baseball language so all could seem natural.”

“At any rates,” say Nogi, “it must be entirely enjoyous sensation to set in opera and know what they are talking.”

“Let us go and try one,” I snuggest with happy hat.

So we sonter forthly until we observe theater what say “Grand Opera—English Spoken here.” We encroach to door where bull-board pronounce, “Opera Longrin by Hans Wagner, Famus Cyclist.”

Annexed to door-entrance stood one stylish bell-boy who hold slight program in his thumbs.

“All words to opera 25c!” he pronounce distinctually.

“Why must we spent this ¼$ for words, please?” I ask to know.

“So understand what stage-singers say,” report boy containing buttons.

“Do they not say it in English?” I negotiate peevly.

“Not sure,” say Hon. Boy. “I have only been here a week.”

We step inwards and observe opera going ahead amid considerable crashes. I heard “Ouch!” while I set down, but was not sure whether it was orchestra or merely lady I stepped on.

Hon. Stage was filled with scenery, people & tragedy. I could not tell what that picture represent, but it were easy to see who was there. King Leopold of Belgium in antique bathrobe were surrounded by German Samurai on bright banks of Erie Canal where they go for fresh air while being cruel in music. Hon. King grumble some dishagreeable barytones to goldly-hair daughter who step forthly in rich nightgown & holla,

“O wat di spa!”

I turn to eye-glass gentleman next by me who were reading Book of Opera with piano-tuner expression.

“What she mean when she say, ‘O wat di spa!” I requesh.

“She say, ‘O what despair!” he pronounce distinctually.

“What language was that, please?” This from me.

“English,” he whisper peevly.

“I am glad to make its acquaintance,” I argue slightly.

Pretty soonly, after considerable choir-noise, Hon. Orchestra get into dispute with brass horners. And look, see! Down wet transportation of Erie Canal come flotting one enormalously swollen duck and on him stands riding one hansum circus man in tin clothes. Excitements. Hon. Tin Gentleman get off from that trained white chicken and throw hitching-rope around his stretched neck. Hon. Poultry bobb chin with peck-peck expression and steam away with promptness peculiar to commutation. Hon. Tin Hero wave muscles of fingers.

“Feh-wa! Feh-wa! Ma fayvu swa!” he warbule with sweet lung.

I turn to Hon. Eye-Glass next by me who still read Opera Book.

“What was he said it?” I require chivalrously.

“He say, ‘Farewell, farewell, my faithful swan!’” he snub maddishly.

“Are he still talking English?” I narrate.

“Hush it!” he snarrel. “Between your noise and the orchestra I cannot hear the opera.”

“If my absence will make this art easier for your mentality I shall cease to blockade,” are sharp report I make while withdrawing Cousin Nogi outside the theater.

Although Nagasaki by birth, I am Glasgow in my soul, Mr. Editor. It pangs me to spend money without some come-back for what I pay.

So I enrush up to box-office with money-back expression.

“I require get at leastly 35c return rebate on these stubbed tickets,” I say so to merely financial gentleman who was there.

“Why for?” dib Box Officer hashly.

“Because is!” I reject scornly. “I pay large wealth to hear English. What they sung was otherwise.”

“That were English!” say Money Box.

“I could not understand it.” Say me.

“Nobody expect understood Grand Opera in any language,” he snagger. “Be reasonable like Sherman Law.”

“What are grand opera for, if not?” I ask to know.

“Several things. To give folks wrong impression of history and confuse them about love while admiring Smart Setters in diamond horseshoe,” he define. “This has satisfied Art for 311 years—why should you require something else all of a sudden?”

“Then why would it not be just as good for Americans if sung in Chinese, Swedish or German?” I negotiate.

“Because of patriotism,” he define. “Every man prefer to be puzzled in his own language.”

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XIX

A Lesson in Eugenics

_To Editor N. Y. Newsprint, who will please be more careful about choosing his ancestors in the future_,

Dear Sir:—Last Wedsday night I got feeling of lonesome matrimony, so I put on Tuxedo slippers and necktie resembling Vogue. I was not sure which lady I intended for marry, but I go see Miss Tessie Matsuki because I could get there without carfare. This Matsuki lady live over store of her father, Hon. J. W. Matsuki, Japanese hay & grain. She got considerable Vassar intelligence and would make nice wife for librarian.

I found her by lamplight wearing goldly spectacles while reading enlarged volume entitle “Eugenic.”

She felt my biceps while shaking hands & seem to examine my hair for criminal traits. I ask her would she like go see emotion picture show with my accompaniment. She say no. She prefer set stationary and talk about Future Race. I explan that I did not keep up pretty well with sporty events, but my Cousin Nogi were entirely educated about racing & baseball. She give high-up laugh of culture.

“Future Race are not sporty event,” she define. “It are Eugenic.”

“I got no time to think foreign languages,” I say so while admiring her sweethearted expression with Garden of Allah sensation. “I come here to ask some big importance. Would it be convenient to get married?”

“It would be no trouble however,” she report for smiling.

“O then we shall!” I holla while attempting to hold her handclasp, but she snatch it to herself.

“If suitable I shall include you on waiting list,” she snuggest.

“I present you my heart,” I renig for poetry.

“Condition of lung are more important,” she renounce. “Let me hear your deep breathing.” I do so. She listen. “Ah!! I suspected what I supposed! Your left pulmonia has slight anachronism. How dare you love me?”

“Permit me to tell about myself!” I yall like Romeo.

“Tell me about your grandfather, instead,” she abrupt.

“I do not ask you marry my grandfather.” This from me while enjoying slight agonies.

“In Eugenic,” she report, “we are expected to marry entire family.”

“This Eugene must come from Utah,” I snib. “My grandfather would not permit such illegality. He were married once, which were too many. Also he are dead. It are immoral to marry dead folks.”

“What he die from?” she romp forth.

“Asthma of knees,” I pronounce.

“So ha! Then you got diseases in family!”

“You expect my ancestors to die from being too healthy?” I ask to know. “Perhapsly Hon. Eugene who wrote that book will teach us how to do so.”

“He expects to arrange everything,” she compose proudishly. “His speciality will be marriage. Youngly persons will be selected carefully like Luther Burbank choose best potatoes for crop.”

“Will this Hon. Eugene make some new marriage ceremony?” I otter.

“That have been arrange also,” she tell. “When 2 Eugeniuses wish get married following program will be enjoyed:

“Joy-bells will be jungled from tip-top of gymnasium where members of Board of Health will act as Ushers, admitting relatives after examining their tonsils. Talented vaudeville performers will play ‘Weddlesohn’s Mending March’ on Indian clubs while Bride & Bridebroom, wearing Annit Kellerman bathing suits to show no deception had been concealed, will walk up aisle hand-in-hand with parents wearing rubber gloves. Bride must not blush, because that are sign of weak heart and Bridebroom must not seem nervus, because that indicate tendency to allipeptic fits. After dumb-bell drill Rev. Preacher will step uply.”

“What Rev. Preacher will do this ceremony?” I inquest.

“Not sure,” she negotiate. “Perhaps Rev. Billy Sunday might do, because of muscular religion.”

“What shall this marriage service say?” is next question for me.

“It say following dialog:

Rev. Mr.——, Do you love this woman?

Bridebroom—No.

Rev. Mr.——, Woman, you love this man?

Bride—No.

Rev. Mr.—— Good. You have no inherited instinct. You swear there is no fits, insanity or general ability in family? (They swear.)

Then stick out tongues, please. That will do, thank you. I make you manandwife.”

Miss Tessie Matsuki look to me reproachly when saying this.

“What happen pretty soonly after marriage?” I snuggest.

“Baby,” she pronounce. “He are born perfect without a blamish or any other sign of humanity. He are gave perfectly balanced name like Sandow Socrates Shakespeare Scagg. In babyhood he are never kissed. In schoolday he are never spanked. In manhood he are never loved. And so he grow upward.”

“What do he become, after so much exercise—a Congressman, perhapsly?”

“How could he? Congressman are noted for imperfection.”

“Then perhapsly he would be novelist or play-right?”

“Ah never yet!” she snatch. “How could perfect Man be connected in trade with Jack London, Gus Thomas and other rough boys?”

“Yet there might be some jobs for him. He could be machinery engineer of prominent greatness.”

“Not possibly!” she reject. “Should we permit such model gentleman to build subways for political scandals?”

“But this Eugenics Baby must choose some activity of work. Shall he be too good for any profession when grown up?”

“Indeed will!” she holla. “He will be a Father.”

“Father of what?” I require with alarmed teeth.

“Of children similar to himself.”

“Miss Tessie Matsuki,” I denominate punctually while choosing my hat from table, “excuse my escape. I wish for search out some young lady who will prove her unfitness to marry by falling in love. Please excuse!”

“Uncivilized brain!” she snarrel. “Go forthly! Such depraved minds like yours drive tacks into the feet of Science when he try to progress. And yet the world do move, in spite of Tammany Hall.”

“Tammany Hall also move occasionally,” I corrode with Fusion expression.

So I elope away full of low character.

Hoping you are the same,

Yours truly,
HASHIMURA TOGO.

XX

Togo’s Christmas Day in the Morning

_To Editor Good Housekeep Magazine who realize how it must be more expensive to give than to receive._