That Swingle kitchen contain one gas-stove of 40 horse-power capacity and includes one oven which is easily het up to angry rage. I light this oven. Great heat arrive. Then I place Hon. Paper Bag carefully in one drip-pan, pour over it some slight water, so it wouldn’t burn, and poke inside oven. Then I set down thoughtful and await the future. Mrs. S. W. Swingle arrive to kitchen with question-mark expression in her blue eye. “What we shall have for dinner, Togo?” she ask out nervely. “Ah, Mrs. Madam! If I should tell you, you would cease to be surprised. Yet it is something exalted I shall offer you. So different from those monotonous foods previously experienced!” All this I spoke. That lady retreat away expectfully. I watch this cookery by alarm clock to see it shall not be too long. Hon. Book say “When bag are stuffed with meat, cook 25 minute. When stuffed with vegetables, cook 20 minute.” I figure this arithmatic with lead-pencil. That bag was stuffed with both meat and vegetables, therefore 20+25=45. That bag must cook 45 complete minutes to be sifficiently delicious. At end of 14 minutes I take slight peek to oven. O sakes! You would not know Hon. Bag for himself, he was so swole. He contain more uplift than one quart yeast. He was so baloonical in shape that I fear he might float upward containing meat and vegetables. Therefore I prick him slightly with fork. POPP!! Grand explode arrive. I am shot by out-rush of stewed steam which jump out amidst delicious flavour. Hon. Bag flop back completely exhausted. No more puff up for him. He droop amidst them meat and vegetables like a wet sail in a shipwreck. I close oven door deceptively. Hon. Book say nothing about this angry behaviour of food. Maybe that will improve its nourishing qualities. After it had been some time in baking condition I was enabled to enjoy the perfume of this aroma. Each food when it cook make some odor of smell. Apple pie smell like joyful hunger of schooldays. Roast beef smell like powerful appetite of athelete. But paper bag smell like fire among newspapers. I notice this. While this food was roasting I look out of window and observe Hon. Robert Jackson, near neighbour, approach and make knock to door. “Mrs. Madam,” he report when that Swingle lady come to door, “I announce your house is afire.” “How you know?” requesh she with pale voice. “Because I smelt burned wall-paper distinctually!” Loud screem by Mrs. S. W. Swingle. They rosh to cellar. Nothing was burning there--not even the furnace. They trot to roof. Nothing was smoking there--not even the chimbley. “It must be Uncle Oliver burning autumn leaves,” explan Hon. Jackson. How could he know it was my cooking he smelt? When nextly I peek into oven I observe Hon. Bag afire around edges. Otherwise he was cooking nicely. I put him out with slight splosh of water. He look quite contented swimming around in midst of juices containing vegetables. 17 more minutes remain to cook him.