“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.
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.