Mr. Editor, driving ottomobiles are a warlike work unsuited to Gen. Housekeeping. How can I do hired girl tasks, yet expect myself to command those harsh cranks and greasy energy what makes gasolene go? To make a chauffeur out of a cook are like making bullets out of buscuits. It could be done, but can it?
Yet this Mrs. Seth Hopp, Hon. Lady of extreme brain, was determined I should be a chum to her car, although I were sure he did not like my looks. Each morning for ½-hour time she give me lesson in how to start ottomobiles. I learn this with all the fido qualities of my Japanese religion. Yet something told me different.
“This horsepower are full of mules,” I tell her one day while I set there pulling 13 handles expecting Hon. Car to go when he would not.
“Brace uply!” she say for courage. “Any child can start an ottomobile.”
“Why you not employ a child, then?” I require.
I could see by her silence that she did not admire my rudeness.
After practice I become more intellectual with that machinery. With kindly assistance from Hon. Mrs I could tease him to start from his barn and run dangerously around block amid loudy curses from gasolene. Pride filled me up. Folks often feels thusly before cyclones.
That p. m. Hon. Mrs arrive to kitchen where I was manufacturing pie with mushroom expression peculiar to cooks.
“Togo,” she denounce, “you sippose you can now start Hon. Ottomobile by your lonesome self?”