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Updated: June 8, 2025
'Tis cowld outside th' dure, ye say, but 'tis war-rum in here; an' I'm gettin' in me ol' age to think that the diff'rence between hivin an' hell is no broader" Mr. Dooley's remarks were cut short by a cry from the back room. It was unmistakably a baby's cry. Mr. McKenna turned suddenly in amazement as Mr. Dooley bolted.
"Then it's up to ye na to make it impossible for me to stay," said Dannie. "After this, I'll try to be carefu'. I've had no guard on my lips. I've said whatever came into my heid." The supper bell clanged sharply a second time. "That manes more Hivin on the Wabash," said Jimmy. "Wish I had a bracer before I face it." "How long has it been, Jimmy?" asked Dannie. "Etarnity!" replied Jimmy briefly.
One of the Guards: "O, these is some Yanks that we've bin hivin' down at Camp Sumter." "Yes?" It will be seen that the old, gentleman's perceptive powers were much more highly developed than his politeness. "Well, they ain't what ye mout call purty, that's a fack," said the guard.
Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick himself ye're dodgin'." Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos. "Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be praised!
For the love of Hivin, it's only a poll-parrot sittin' there ferninst us, barrin' the appetite of him. Saints aloive! but Oi 'd love to paste the crature av it was n't a mortal sin to bate a dumb baste. An' he 's a Lutheran! God be marciful an' keep me from iver ketchin' that same dis'ase, av it wud lave me loike this wan. What's that? What was it the haythen said then, seeñorita?"
But a man gr-rows up in wan iv thim furrin counthries, an' he's thrained f'r to be a king. Hivin may've intinded him f'r a dooce or a jack, at th' most; but he has to follow th' same line as his father. 'Tis like pawn-brokin' that way. Ye niver heerd iv a pawnbroker's son doin' annything else. Wanst a king, always a king.
I'll sind a man shortly an' vag um! So long! Oh, hold on, Nick! . . . May th' divil niver know ye're dead till ye're tu hours in Hivin! Fwhat? Oh, thank yez! Same tu yez! Well! . . . so long!" "Hobo worryin' Nick Lee at Cow Run. Scared av fire in th' livery-shtable. Go yu', Yorkey!" He eyed George a moment in curious speculation. "Yu' had betther go along tu, Ridmond!
Across the hush that fell upon the room quavered a doleful wail from the Irish foreman: "Leave av hivin, Misther Griffith, can't ye broibe th' weather bur-r-reau? Me Schlovaks an' th' Eyetalians'll be afther a-knifin' wan another, give 'em wan wake more av this." "There are indications that the cold snap will break within a week," replied Griffith.
"Sherlock Holmes would better look out for his laurels." Meanwhile they had been walking back toward the college, and with the aid of a street car were not long in reaching it. As they were crossing the campus, they met Reddy. "For the love of Hivin," exclaimed the trainer, as he caught sight of their swollen faces, "what in the world have you been doin' anyway?
Quilty. "Hivin! Fine comp'ny ye'd be f'r the holy men and blessid saints an' martyrs an' pure, snow-white angels! Why, ye idolatrous, stick-burnin', kow-towin', joss-worshippin' pagan son iv a mat-sailed junk and a chopstick, they'd slam the pearly gates forninst yer face and stick their holy fingers to their blessid noses at yez. Hivin!
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