Night approach. I notice by alarm clock that time have now relapsed for Hon. Paper Bag to be completely cooked. So I take him out on platter. He look somewhat quaint. Paper bags is like spinach; they seem most beautiful when raw. It was alarmed for to see how Hon. Bag had shrunk away. He seemed insufficient for healthful family of four persons. Next time I must cook two. Howeverly, it was necessary to make most of what was, so I rolled Hon. Bag out longwise like a omelet. Then I surround him with meat and vegetables in diagram of beautiful art. “Togo!” holla Mrs. S. W. Swingle exploding into kitchen suddenly like a gun, “Togo, what you been cooking to make my home smell like a fire-insurance?” She cough in soprano. “I have baked you a paper bag,” I report with words containing smiles. I point to plate where it was. “Paper _what_?” she howell. “Bag,” I repartee. She walk to platter and poke Hon. Bag irreverently with fork. She make scorn with her nose. Then she open kitchen door and urge me to it with enraged broomstick. “I give you your choice,” she say horesly. “Either you can go at once or depart immediately.” “I shall not wait that long!” I collapse with cruel expression peculiar to eagles. “If you discharge me, I shall obtain mean revenge. I shall quit.” Thusly speaking I promenade forth into unemployment. I am still there. Hoping you are the same, Yours truly, _Hashimura Togo_. VI HON. DISH RAG VS. THE HON. CHINA _To Editor Woman’s Page who can serve Truth to homes in cups & saucers._ Hon. Dear Sir: As nearly ago as last Wedsday I was connected to home of Mrs Jas Jones, Peru, Ind., where I am now not. My departure I shall relate. Though refined in her appearances, this Hon. Mrs Jones is known by the dishes she keeps. This Jones home are a continuous China closet entirely filled with it. Bloated blue bowls set in shelves amidst cups which look like History had drunk out of them. Stingy-size coffee cup to be taken after dinner are there to any extent. In presidential cabinets of mahogonish appearance she got considerable cut-up glasswear which make flashes resembling diamonds in show-case. “Togo,” she say so, “because you are intellectual Japanese, I are sure you can take care of my dishes.” “Japan are elegant chaperone for China,” I absorb with chivalry. “All my cubboards is filled with dear associates,” she acknowledge. “Yonderly plates is real Japanese curios what Aunt Martha bought while travelling abroad in Chicago. Yonderly cups was handed down to me by Mr Ancestor.” “2 of them was handed down pretty hard,” I say so, because handles was knock off. “Crack and bump are considered antique,” she dib, while showing me 65 soup platters containing photo of Massacheussets to show how they was once property of Henry Clay. All them dishes look at me with prides, like I should be ashamed of my cheapness.